Before I Wake by Robert J. Wiersema Read Free Book Online Page B

she should live or die. And I can’t. It’s all too fast. It’s all too—”
    â€œI’m not—”
    Simon glanced at the doctor.
    â€œThere’s still some time—”
    â€œShe’s not in any pain?” I asked again.
    The doctor shook his head.
    â€œThen I’d like to wait. I’d like to wait and I’d like to get a second opinion. Maybe the tests were wrong. Maybe he’s wrong, Simon.”
    â€œOf course,” Dr. McKinley said. “Of course. I’ll leave you alone.”
    Simon shuffled out of my way as I sat down in the chair at Sherry’s bedside. I took her hand and held it in mine, its warmth burning into me.
    Not feeling anything.
    SIMON
    It began to rain shortly after three that afternoon. At first, I only noticed because I was standing at the window, but the wind quickly picked up and started to drive the drops against the glass.
    Karen had not looked away from our daughter since the doctor left, rubbing her thumb in a slow circle on the back of Sherry’s hand as she held it.
    I had tried talking with her, but she hadn’t responded. I couldn’t tell if she hadn’t heard me, or if she was ignoring me.
    So I stood at the window, watching the water run in dirty rivulets down the glass, across my reflection.
    In the gray light, the room could have been a painting. Everything was still, shadowy, except where the bedside lamp cast a pool of golden light on Sherry’s face, a warm circle over my daughter and her mother in a world of cold darkness.
    I walked over to the bed.
    â€œI’m going for a walk,” I said in a whisper, not wanting to startle her. She didn’t move. “Do you want me to bring you anything?”
    I waited a moment for a response—a word, a gesture, something—but there was nothing. It was like I wasn’t even there.
    KAREN
    Will I ever have this moment, this time, again? Will I ever be able to sit with my daughter, just sit with her and watch her sleep? Watch the rise and fall of her breath, trace the curve of her cheeks?
    No. Never.
    The machine breathes for her, and when it stops…No amount of wishing will make her whole. No amount of watching will bring her back.
    How do you hold a moment, knowing that it is the last? How do you take in enough to endure a lifetime of absence? How do you remember enough to see you through?
    How do you know what will last?
    Will I be surprised someday to realize I’ve forgotten the color of her lips, barely pinker than her face? Or the way the corners of her mouth lift naturally to hint at a smile? Will I need photographs to remind me of the way her hair falls? The way her smile bursts open in pure joy?
    What of my daughter will I take with me from this room? Nothing. Nothing if I can help it. I don’t want to remember her like this—broken and bleeding, the sound of the machine that presses air into her tiny lungs, the IV line and the bag of urine collecting under the bedsheets, the way the edges of the bandages around her head are stained with blood.
    I don’t want to remember this room, the sound of the rain and the sight of her here. I want to remember yesterday, the way she laughed and ran, the way she looked at the flowers and rocks, the way she was so alive, so filled with joy. I want to hold the stones in my pocket—the three stones she picked up on the way to the mall—as a reminder of Sherry growing and learning, smiling and running.
    But I know that I can’t choose. I know that I’ll remember this room as much as those mornings with the three of us in the big bed, snuggling and tickling and refusing to face the day. I know that I’ll remember these bloodstained bandages as much as I’ll remember last Christmas, her look of wonder as Simon read her the note that Santa Claus left her, thanking her for the cookies and the carrots for the reindeer. I know that I’ll remember the moment I choose to