YOUR CHARACTERS. YOUR FRIENDS.

      It is a difficult thing, having all these characters running around in one’s mind –communicating with one another, arguing with one another, loving one another, hating one another. All there hidden agendas, sometimes even hidden from us, their creators. 

      I can tell you this much: it’s lucky for me that I’m a talker. I discuss my characters, there personalities and motives, with my friends. It is also lucky that I have friends who are willing to listen.

      I had one such conversation with my cousin just today. She is not a writer, not really much of a reader either. She is, however, a human with a personality, and friends, and relationships. Every person, be they an award winning novelist or an illiterate blue-collar worker, has the gift of life experience. We are all witness to the triumphs and failings of those around us. We all see the attributes and flaws of the people we know. And we all know of relationships, be they tense and filled with hate, or affectionate and understanding.

      I had a conversation with my cousin today. My cousin is one those people I spoke of, who is willing to listen. Not only that –she is willing to give my characters real consideration, as though they are as real to her as they are to me. This is an invaluable person to have in your corner as a writer.

      We talked like a pair of gossipy teens about my characters –what they are doing, how they are involved with one another, the same as we would do if they were real people with whom we had real relationships. I spoke of my lack of understanding of some of their motives, some of their actions.

      During my conversation with my beloved cousin, I uncovered an entirely new depth to my characters. There were motives and actions and personality traits that hadn’t been present to me because I was only seeing them from my own point of view. In discussing their relationships I uncovered connections that I had created but had not been conscious of.

      You see, we only see people the way we see them. Think about it… your sister/brother/mother/father will have a very different view of your best friend than you do. Therein lies the lesson. I’m all about lessons.

      So, I implore you. If you are unsure at all, even if you’re not unsure, find someone who is willing to gossip about your characters. You will find out many interesting things you didn’t know about them.

ILLUSIONS AND LIES: Chapter 3

I took a deep breath and pain clamped my ribs, spreading up and down my left side, shooting up through my shoulder and down into my pelvis.

“They are going to be fine,” Richard said. “They have to be… Because bad things only happen to good people you know? And we both know you’re the devil in a pretty dress.” A half-hearted grin spread across his face.

I grinned back. “And what does that make you?” The movement of smiling inflicted another array of acute aches in my face. The pain, that before had been insignificant, was making itself known.

Richard leaned in and whispered in my ear, “I’m Chamuel, the angel of love, here to return you to the arms of adulation. I’m your salvation, Charlie.” He quickly pulled back and glanced at the door, “The doctor is on her way.”

Within seconds Abigail, breezed in. “You’re looking a lot better. I can see a little colour in your cheeks. The company has obviously done you well.” She smiled first at me then at Richard. “And how are you holding up?”

“Not too bad,” Richard answered Abigail’s question without taking his eyes off me. “I’ll be better when Charlie is on her way home, of course.”

“There’s no reason why Charlie shouldn’t make a full recovery. She’s a fighter.” I’m pretty sure doctors say that about every patient, like they are somehow special, somehow stronger than any patient the doctor has seen before. Rubbish. I was not, am not, any different than the next guy.

“She sure is. Most amazing woman I’ve ever known.”        

I wanted to give up right then, to prove to them I was not special. I wanted my vitals to start failing, to show them I could be as easily broken as anyone. I don’t know why I do, but I have an inherent desire to prove others wrong, even if I hurt myself in the process. My mother always said, “Charlie, you’d cut off your nose just to spite your face.” As a child, I never understood her. Now I do.

“Hey. Don’t talk about me as if I’m not in the room.”

At once, both their heads snapped round to look at me. “Charlie, I’m sorry. Your eyes were closed. We thought you had fallen asleep.” I was curious about his use of we.

Abigail began fussing by my side, checking vitals and whatever else doctors do in this situation.

“Did I speak with a male doctor recently?”          

“Not that I know of. Abigail, did she?”

“Not since your arrival here yesterday morning.” She lifted my hand to check the IV insertion site.

“Hang on. The accident was almost two days ago?”

“You are somewhat of an anomaly, Charlie. There’s no rhyme nor reason for the crash your vitals suffered which had us rush you to theatre, or for you to have been unconscious for such a long time. You were out for more than twenty-four hours. We were afraid you may never wake up.”

“Okay. What about Bailey and Sarah? Are they okay? Can I see them?”

“They are pretty banged up, but they’ll recover. You can see them, soon enough.” Abigail gently set my arm down and started toward the door. “I’m going to write you up some different painkillers. Now that you are awake, you may need something a little stronger.”

A few minutes later Abigail returned, pushing a wheelchair.

“So, are you ready to see your kids?”

I wanted nothing more. Yet, those words carried with them a dread that I couldn’t mask. Notions of their psychical states, which I had previously staved off, arrested me. My hands shook vigorously, uncontrollably, and sweat beaded on my brow. I held my breath and reminded myself that they were alive. It didn’t matter how many cuts and bruises they had or how many tubes were sticking out of them. They were alive and they would recover. And that was all.

I let my breath out long and slow. More stabbing pain. “Ready as I’ll ever be,” I said, and tried desperately to ignore the pain as Richard and Abigail carefully helped me into the ancient brown, leather wheelchair.

“I need to warn you, though. They are in a pretty bad way and neither of them is conscious yet. They both sustained very serious injuries and have been placed into induced comas. We need to keep them that way until we are happy that their injuries are repairing, and so that they won’t be in too much pain.” –I winced at the idea of my children in so much pain that it was necessary for them to be in comas– “They are both stable and they made it through the night. In this business that’s a golden ticket right there. Shall we go then?”

When I didn’t respond Abigail pushed the wheelchair, and me, out into the corridor.

Richard held my hand while Abigail pushed me down the long corridor, past countless wards. Within them were men, women, and children, each with their own pain, their own story. I was moved along, into the elevator, up to the fourth floor and down another long, this time deserted, corridor. My body trembled and my head spun with fear, but my fingers ached to touch Bailey’s and Sarah’s soft hands. We stopped at the door to the Intensive Care Unit. I crushed Richard’s hand in mine. My eyes searched through the small pane of glass in the door for my children. The glass was too high and I was too low. I tried pulling myself up enough to see. The pain was excruciating. I buckled and fell back into the chair with a grunt. Abigail was at the door now. She swiped her access card and hauled the door open, holding it while Richard pushed me through.

The first thing I noticed was the smell –I don’t know if the bleach and disinfectant were stronger here or if my senses were sharper. I was more alert in that moment than I ever remember being in my life. The stench struck me with force and I gasped. It burnt my throat and singed my nostrils.

“What’s wrong? Are you ok?” Richard’s hand was on my shoulder.

“Mmm. Just the smell.”

Abigail patted my hand and gave it a quick squeeze. “Come on honey, I think your kids need a kiss from their mum,” She said, and took charge of my wheelchair again, pushing me past two rows of beds. I didn’t even notice if the other beds were occupied. I was only looking where I was being taken. I only wanted to see my children.

   Abigail stopped in the centre of the room. On either side of me was a bed pressed against opposing walls. A child lay sleeping in each. I studied the sleeping children. To my right a diminutive body lay, tubes across her face and attached to the top of her tiny hand. Machines beeped all around her. I looked to my left: another small child lay within the covers. The tubes and machines looked more or less the same, with one exception. The little girl had only a tube across her face, I assumed for oxygen. The other child had no such tube. Instead there was a large pipe down his throat, attached to a machine that was noisily forcing air into his lungs.

Above his bed was a label that read ‘Bailey Palmer. Dr: Patrick Neilson’. A shiver ran down my spine and I cringed. I looked back at the girl on my right and saw a similar label above her bed, ‘Sarah Palmer. Dr: Grace Masters’. I started hyperventilating uncontrollably.

Abigail swiftly pushed me back toward the door.

“No, take me back to them… NOW,” I cried as I grappled with my lungs.

She turned me around on the spot and lingered there. “Are you sure? This might have been a little premature.”

“No. I’m. Fine,” I managed between breaths.

Abigail was hesitant as she returned me to the centre of the room one slow step at a time.

I looked at Sarah and then at Bailey and back at Sarah. I was frozen, torn between them.

My children lay helpless, only metres apart. It might well have been a thousand miles. I didn’t know which one to go to. The tears started flowing again and I lifted a hand in each direction, as if to reach out to them both at once.

“We have to move them,” Richard blurted abruptly. He saw I wanted.

“Yes, you’re right,” Abigail said. “They are still in a very fragile state, but I’ll see what I can do.”

Abigail walked over to the nurses’ station, just inside the door, and spoke briefly to the two nurses on duty. She used her hands a lot when she spoke. Once beside me again, she leaned down, as if talking to a child. “The nurse is going to get Sarah’s doctor. We’ll see if we can move her next to Bailey, hey?” She smiled. “Doctor Neilson will be here soon as well, to talk to you about Bailey’s injuries.”

“Thanks.” My voice was barely audible, but she heard me.

Abigail offered to sit with Sarah while I sat with Bailey. “Then we can swap,” she said. “That way neither of them will be alone.”

“And I’ll stay with you, so you’re not alone,” Richard added, tucking my hair tenderly behind my right ear. They were all treating me with kit-gloves, like I was precious china that would shatter if handled roughly. Which was kind of how I felt.

Holding Bailey’s small hand was difficult. There was a cannula-needle in his hand with a tube taped up the length of his arm. He felt fragile and flimsy in my delicate grasp. I looked at his hand for an immeasurable amount of time –too afraid to look at his face– stroking with my thumb, down the side of it… where it was safe.

“Oh Bailey, sweetheart, I’m so sorry,” I whispered when I finally mustered the courage to glance at his stranger’s face. My stomach tightened, a lump rose in my throat and my entire body quivered with a sickness I didn’t recognise.

“I’m so sorry baby. I love you!”

His eyes were closed, of course, and very swollen, with a black-purple tinge. There was a small cut on his left cheek with three stitches and his head was bandaged. It looked to be twice its normal size –maybe that was just the bandages. His face was plumped and between the murky purple-brown bruising his skin was as pale as vanilla ice-cream. The covers were pulled up, concealing the rest of his body –I was grateful for that. I held his hand and stroked his right cheek –careful not to bump the tube in his mouth, or the tape that held it in place– while I whispered constant apologies. Richard stood behind me, silent. His hands never left my shoulders. After a while he looked over at Abigail and a wordless conversation appeared to take place between them.

“Would you like to see Sarah now?” Richard asked when they stopped gesturing one another.

I nodded and grudgingly released my son’s hand while Richard backed me away from the bedside. As we crossed the small space, from Bailey’s bed to Sarah’s, the ICU door opened noisily and Richard stopped. I looked up to see two doctors walk in chattering. Their cheerful demeanour as they approached irked me.

“Hi, I’m Patrick Neilson, I’m looking after Bailey. And this is Grace Masters,” he gestured to the woman on his left. “She’s looking after Sarah. You must be Charlotte?”

“Charlie, call me Charlie.” I shook his outstretched hand stiffly.

“I guess you’ll be anxious to know how they are going?” he asked. “But please, if you would like to sit with your daughter while we talk…” he directed me to continue toward Sarah.

“Yeah, thanks.” I replied, a little less annoyed now. 

Richard parked me beside Sarah and the doctors gave me a moment with her before they delved into the details.

Sarah’s face was peaceful, like she was dreaming. Her lips curved up slightly, almost smiling. She had a thin tube running across her face, with two short prongs feeding air into her nostrils. She was turned slightly to her left and the hair on the right side of her head had been shaved off, a large cut ran down the middle of the shaved area. I couldn’t look at it long enough to count all the stitches. Her right arm rested across her waist, wrapped in a plaster cast. Her left hand had the same tube sticking out as Bailey’s had. I touched my fingers underneath and caressed her dainty palm. I lifted it, trembling, and kissed her fingertips.

“I’m so sorry. I love you my little princess.” My voice quivered with remorse as I murmured.

Doctor Neilson rested his backside on the empty bed to my right, taking his ample weight off his insufficient legs. Doctor Masters sat, perched on the edge of the plastic visitor’s chair and leaned forward with her elbows propped on her knees.

“We have a lot of good news for you,” Dr. Masters spoke first. “The injuries your children sustained were very serious. Sarah lost a lot of blood, her arm is broken in two places and her leg is fractured. She also has three cracked ribs. She had some internal bleeding as well and she was having difficulty breathing on her own… But, that’s not the good news. The good news is, by the time we got her into surgery, all we had to do was repair the ruptures and give her a transfusion to replace the lost blood. The bleeding had stopped on its own and her breathing stabilised. To be completely honest, we can’t really explain it. I’ve never seen anything quite like it. She really is a fighter.” There it as again. “Either that or we have been witness to a real life miracle.” The doctor was reverent. “So far, it looks like she’ll make a full recovery. Do you have any questions?”

I couldn’t find the words. I couldn’t find my voice. I wanted to ask about the cut on her head, ask how long her recovery would be, ask how full a ‘full recovery’ is in my daughter’s case. Instead, I sat frozen. Every muscle in my body was locked in an unnatural paralysed state, including my tongue.

She turned to Dr. Neilson. “Do you want to take over?”

The portly doctor nodded. “As my colleague mentioned, it is a good news day.” He smiled. “Bailey’s injuries were much worse. He was haemorrhaging heavily and the pressure on his brain was building very quickly. Before we got him to theatre he had minimal signs of life. His heart was beating –just barely– but he had completely stopped breathing on his own. We had pediatric-cardio surgeons, trauma surgeons and my team of neurosurgeons, all ready to go. He had less than five percent chance of survival.” He looked over at Bailey and shook his head. “But here he is. Once we started his surgery he just… got better. I don’t know what else to tell you. His heartbeat regulated itself and became stronger, the bleeding stopped and he started breathing, only weakly though, and quite erratic, that’s why he is still on the ventilator. We relieved the pressure on his brain, we didn’t need to do much else. He still has a long road ahead, but his brain activity is normal and we expect him to make a full recovery also.

“His other injuries include a broken clavicle –or collar bone– several fractures to his skull, a broken ankle and a number of broken metatarsals –the bones in his feet.”

I felt sick, my stomach was somersaulting and I could feel the colour drain from my face.

Doctor Neilson looked at me, with empathy in his eyes. “I know this is a lot to take in. But, both of your children are going to be fine. I think they must have a guardian angel.” He shook his head again and patted my hand. “If you have any questions we will do our best to answer them.”

I tried to shake the images –the broken bones, the surgeons cutting into the fragile bodies of my babies– out of my whirling head. 

“How much pain will they be in when they wake up?” I finally managed a full sentence.

“I won’t lie to you,” Dr. Masters said, “they will be in pain. However, we have pretty good ways to manage that. Once they wake up they will both need to be on strong pain medication for a while. It will make them groggy though, and they will spend a lot of time sleeping.”

What’s the choice? They are groggy, or they are in pain? That’s a no brainer. I wish I could take their pain away… and their injuries.

I hadn’t realised Abigail was beside me until she whispered in my ear. “Be careful what you wish for.”

My brow pulled together and I shot her a suspicious stare. How could she have known what I was thinking? Perhaps she saw the pained expression on my face and it was just a lucky guess.

“What’s wrong, Charlie?” Richard picked up on my confusion. He followed my eyes to where my stare lead.

“Umm, it’s nothing. I’m… fine.” I shrugged.