Emergent: Alison Rising: The Alison Hayes Journey, #4

Dedication

For my sister, Sandy.

For braiding my hair so

I could be Garfield in the school play, for

giving me guidance when I was floundering,

for believing that I had something special

inside of me, long before I did.

Special Thanks To

Alexandra Haynak, from St. Petersburg, Russia, for the use of her beautiful artwork on the cover of this book. Ms. Haynak's work was made available to me through her participation at Pixabay.com, a photo/art sharing site. Pixabay has amazing collections from very talented people all around the world.

DeAnne McNeil, who spent several days working with me on fine tuning the medical details at the beginning of the book and finally gave me permission to not be 100% accurate. Trust me,  we think it is better this way.

Kali Bhargave. Without her encouragement and near insistence, these words would have stayed in my computer, a series of never-ending project pieces.

Janet Fix, my first editor, and champion not only of my writing but of all my creative potential.

Prologue

When I was young and my life was full of chaos, before my mother died, before my life began, I loved a boy. I’ve tried to relegate what I felt for him to first crush, but all the days since the last time we met, my heart has longed for him. In my soul, I believe that he loved me once, but we could never seem to wait for each other. We left on bad terms the last time I saw him, and we’ve never found our way back. Dylan, the boy, is a married man now, with a son, and I am too broken to even consider going on a date. My best friend Charley thinks I should warm up to dating by going out with a woman, which might be less threatening. I’m barely capable of making friends—lovers seems a stretch.

Once, during that last horrible year, he came for me after my mother had been in a car wreck and brought me back to his family home. It was a frozen night with ice coating the road and the winds growling like some wild, rabid beast, I remember it like it was yesterday. I remember the spillage of his headlamps into the inky blackness and the cautious slippage that passed for driving on this night. When we had arrived at his home, his parents met us in the living room, lit only by the glow of the fireplace. Powerlines had given way under the weight of the ice, and we sat together, almost like a family. What do you want to be when you grow up? Dylan’s father, Jake, had asked, because that was the kind of man he was. How was I planning to support myself? How was I going to grow up and not be a burden on society? How was I going to grow up and not be my mother?

I’ve been trying to answer that question ever since the moment he asked it. At the time I gave the simple answer, I want to be an artist. I can almost hear the sound of my younger self saying the words. It was like whispering a dream or speaking a magic spell. I didn’t know the proper sounds, the right herbs to put in the boiling cauldron to make it a reality. There was no rhythm to my incantation. I had no concept of how I moved from that dirty little spot in my life to anything else. Nobody ever asked about who I wanted to be when I grew up. Who I wanted to be was a different answer, a more real answer. Who I wanted to be was someone who wasn’t hungry all the time, someone who didn’t eat peanut butter, ever. I wanted to be a person surrounded by peace and calm and quiet. I wanted to be able to sit from one day to the next and watch the light shift without any chaos. I wanted my life to be smooth and comfortable. I didn’t know then that peace and calm would turn out to be so lonely.

I still believed I could grow up to be normal.

I wanted to be anybody but myself, anybody but Alice Hayes’s daughter.

I’m in my art room, putting paint to canvas. The echo of Jake’s voice, the precise formation of words, rebounds again in my mind. There is something wrong in the memory, something missing, but I can’t figure out what I’ve lost, what I’ve misremembered. I messed up something in the spell, but what?

Remembering the girl I used to be is like picking at a dry scab, which never peels free. I thought that if I ever got free of my mother that I would never think of her again. Instead, I think of her always and try to understand, now that I’m an adult, what made her the way she was. It runs in the blood, maybe. Her dad was an alcoholic, too, and my grandparents have told me what they could about my mom. She was a victim of abuse, like I was. But she suffered from Stockholm syndrome, the victim who loved her abuser, and back then, nobody talked about what had happened. They just expected her to be okay once her dad was gone. She wasn’t. We never are. Abused children can grow up to function, to seem okay, but inside there is always some shattered place that we can never entirely rebuild. I finally understand that she was using the alcohol to be numb, to not have to look at all her parts. My mother was always the child she was. She never matured; she never grew up. She was stuck emotionally at her most traumatic point—when he left. It’s a real thing, arrested emotional development; I looked it up on the Internet, and when I found that information, it felt like the biggest piece of the puzzle clicked into place. It explained so much about the woman I remember. She was always an adolescent. It doesn’t make it better, understanding that. It makes it more tragic, because she never knew that what had happened wasn’t her fault, that she didn’t have to own it, and if she had been willing to work through some of her issues, maybe she could have grown up. Perhaps she would still be here, and we’d know each other in some real way.

I’ve analyzed my life and think I’ve got it all figured out; I understand why I am the way I am. Most of my adult choices have been fueled by doing the opposite of what my mother would have done. I didn’t want anybody ever to say that I repeated my mother’s mistakes. I didn’t want anybody ever to say that I was like her. I refused to be stuck, the way she was. The reality, I know, is that I’ve just painted myself into a different corner, and I’m every bit as stuck.

The only sounds in my apartment are from the open window, voices from the alley, cars moving down the street on either end of the block. It’s early afternoon, and the light cuts a stark elongated rectangle into the room, splashing across the canvas.

Haven’t I done just what I said I wanted to do? Didn’t it work? I must have said the right combination of words, the right incantation, all those years ago when Jake asked me those questions—because I am all of those things. I am an artist. I am not a burden on society. I can afford my bills and have some to put aside in the bank. I work as a nurse at the hospital, I am giving something back to society. On my days off, I paint. I do the circuit of summer festivals every year, and sometimes I get a commission to paint a family or a beloved pet. Two years ago, the hotel on Lincoln commissioned a piece for their lobby, and I’m in the running to do a series of line art for the Charleston Historical Society annual holiday cards and calendar. I’m still waiting to hear about that. I’ve already started work on them, sketches of the historic houses lining 7th Street and Old Main at the university.

I never eat peanut butter. My life is quiet. I have no chaos.

I am insanely bored.

A low hollow pit sits in my stomach, and I feel that something is wrong. Something is missing. It’s been riding there for days like an omen and feels like the beginning slide of depression. Since I started working on the town sketches, I’ve been dropping into the past more often, remembering the town as it used to be, thinking of the houses as they once were, remembering who lived where. It has made me ache for the past. It’s like picking that scab.

I miss my mother.

I am nobody’s daughter.

I will be older than she ever was on my next birthday, and I am nothing like her. She was passionate and always looking for love or her next fight. She was never bored. She is heavy on my mind, filling the edges of my thoughts. My mother. She has been gone as long as she was with me. I don’t know how to live the rest of my life without her as a barometer. She haunts me.

My brush touches the canvas, filling in the highlight for a rail on a sailboat, overlooking a vast and stormy sea. There is still space, left white, with only the shape of bodies yet to be painted. All the painting I do for me is from my memory and captures my regrets, in vivid color. I hope that I have left nobody worse for knowing me, but I know I have. I’ve hurt people along the way, I’ve lost people, and like an alcoholic, I’m stuck on the ninth step, making amends.

Along the walls, leaning, are paintings already mounted and ready to hang. They are finished, but they’ll never hang anywhere. They are just paintings I had to complete as part of my private therapy. There is Jenny, a little girl I knew when I was in California, with her wide-set eyes and wispy blond hair, sitting on the swing at her family’s Del Mar home. A book is open in her lap. She is smiling, happy.

There is my mother, standing on the back step of the trailer, her shirttail blowing in the breeze, laughing back at me. I had been so humiliated that day when she tottered across the yard offering lemonade to Dylan and me. The image sticks in my mind, like a photograph. She was trying to do the right thing, to be a mother. If I were to meet her now, I think I could help her. I understand so much more about what drives people now. But I was just a child, angry and hormonal, with my private side of issues.

Another painting is of Dylan, riding Pride in front of me, his face turning, caught in profile. Another is of Trey, his hair tousled and blowing, looking out toward the incoming wave from the top of his surfboard.

There is Cici, who I followed to California, pregnant, sitting on the sofa in the common room at Life House, smiling that radiant, intoxicating smile. There is another of her with black wings erupting from her shoulder blades. Cici was two different people.

There is Warren, smiling, the silver glint of his pierced eyebrow catching the light.

There are the girls from the Mexico modeling shoot, tall and lean and beautiful, hollowed out with chosen hunger.

There are Vicki and the twins, and Ina, with all the deep crags of her face. Ina gifted me an understanding of the life I could make; she made me see that it was my choice how I would live, as a river or a canyon.

There are several of the bird Cotton, who gave the most beautiful hugs. He was almost human, better than human. Sometimes I think what I need is a bird, a Cotton, to talk to me when I am home, but I work long hours and am gone more than I am here. No other bird would be Cotton.

There is my daughter, as I remember her, held in my arms that first and last day before I handed her over to another mother.

None of these will ever be displayed. These are therapy sessions, my regrets, my memories, the ones I can’t seem to let go. These are the people that are forever stuck with me in the ninth step, as I wait to make amends.

The rest, the festival pieces, are of scenery, animals, and children that I’ve compiled from my imagination; pictures people could put behind a sofa or in a hall or above a toilet. They are marketable. My memories are not.

The paint has dried, and I am still standing, staring at, but not seeing, the space where the people will be. I drop the brush into the water and step away. I’m not ready to finish it yet, and now I want to be away from all the memories. I have holes in the exhibit collection that I should be working on, but the mood to paint has passed. I clean my brushes and my palette, stacking everything to dry. I close the window, and the room gets quieter, tuning out the traffic, the wafting voices. I latch the door behind me.

The walls of my apartment are bare. There are no paintings, no images, not even a calendar hanging. On the refrigerator is a single sheet of paper with my schedule for the month, printed from work. As each day passes, I mark the date, another day down, another day put in the bottle and tossed to sea. I glance down at my watch; it’s just after three. My restless blood stirs.

Time moves at a snail’s pace when you are all alone.

The fridge is empty, and I let it fall shut, the condiments rattling in the door racks. I’m not hungry. I’m bored, or restless. Antsy is the word my mother would have used. I’m antsy. I feel expectant, like something is coming, something is going to happen, I am on the edge of something. My mother would have made herself a drink and forced the feeling to pass.

Part One: Spring

1

The little dark-haired girl is vomiting when I open the door, and her father looks up at me with pleading eyes. He doesn’t say anything, but I read his thoughts clear enough: Make my daughter well. I pass behind him and place a damp towel on the back of the child’s neck, up beneath the thick mane of her hair. She is sweating, her bony arms encased in a sheen. The heaves subside, and the mother wipes a different towel across the child’s mouth.

Darling? How is your head? I ask the sweating girl, and her lower lip trembles as she opens her eyes to look at me. She immediately drops them closed again, and that tells me plenty. Okay. I explain to the parents about the medicines I have for her: an anti-nausea and one for pain. We’ve already been through known allergies and a brief history. She fell from the top of the slide, and they think she hit the base of her skull on an exposed root, which explains the double vision she is experiencing. Dr. Kuhn wants to do an MRI, just to make sure what we are dealing with.

They said it’s a concussion, the father says, not remembering that it was me who said that to him.

Yes, sir, I say with a nod. We need to understand the severity. We want to make sure there isn’t a bleed.

The mother gasps, her hand coming to cover her mouth, and she melts around her daughter as if she can shield her baby with her own body. The father pats the child’s thin arm.

When I was seven, I tripped off the landing at the top of a slide, pushed backward by the boy in front of me who was swinging in preparation for his plunge forward. I should have seen it coming. We all did that, but I was unprepared, daydreaming, and when his rear pushed against me, I jerked back and careened to the ground. I landed with my arm outstretched, trying to break the fall. I got up from the dirt and brushed myself off and walked stoically away as if nothing had happened. I made it through the day, my forearm throbbing and aching, without giving myself away.

When I got home, I told Eddie, my mother’s then-boyfriend, I had fallen and hurt my arm. He grabbed my wrist. Shake it off, he said. I fainted, overwhelmed by the sudden, excruciating pain from his pull.

When I woke from the shock, Eddie was on one side of me, my mother on the other, patting my arm like it was a pet. Alice, get me one of your wooden spoons. My mother did as she was told. And something to wrap it, he added. She came back with a spoon and a pillowcase, and he set to work aligning the bone of my forearm, calling out again for duct tape, which my mother supplied. He wrapped it in a thick layer around the pillowcase covering my arm. He then fashioned me a sling while my mother sat and watched. I’m pretty sure it was broken, but we had no money to spend on a doctor. I stayed home from school for two days, and Mom gave me adult doses of ibuprofen. When I finally went to school again, I wore a jacket with my arm tucked inside, not wanting anybody to see my homemade cast.

I was embarrassed by her even then. Yes, my arm healed, but I was so humiliated that we couldn’t afford to go to a doctor for a proper sling. Cori Radcliffe had a broken leg at the same time, and everybody in class signed her purple cast. I just wanted a regular cast, like everybody else. But even then, I was different; I was standing outside the room looking in through the window. By the time Eddie cut the grimy tape and pillowcase from my arm, the muscle was withered and atrophied, but the bone had set and healed. It wasn’t maybe the best thing to have done, but he’d fixed it.

Beth and Cheryl, techs from the MRI lab, are at the door, and I turn my young patient over to them.

I want to go with her, the mother says to the new team, and I step through the door and out into the hallway, leaving Cheryl and Beth to work it out.

Chaos has erupted at the end of the hall, and I race to meet the incoming paramedics. They are wheeling the stretcher through the door, one of them counting compressions and the other squeezing the AMBU bag. Dr. Jerry Kuhn is already at the entrance, ready with the crash cart. He had received the call from the medics en route.

Cardiac arrests that happen outside the hospital are nearly always fatal. Very few survive. Of those saved, there is often some level of neurological dysfunction after the fact; the brain has gone too long without oxygen. The screen of the mobile monitor shows an irregular rhythm, a fluttering of the heart muscles. Without an organized beat, no blood flows.

I join the team at the stretcher, relieving the medic of the AMBU bag, taking up his count to keep the same rhythm. Lisa takes over compressions. I place two fingers on the flesh of the patient’s thin neck, feeling for movement in the black ink of a tattoo, although the screen tells the story. He is mid-forties, thin, gaunt—maybe older. Lisa’s eyes connect with mine, pausing her compressions. Her fingers lace together, and her forearms are ridged, waiting for the next count.

The crash cart hums.

I’ve got no rhythm, I say, answering her unspoken question.

Jerry steps closer, wielding the paddles, and Lisa steps back, giving him room for this last-ditch effort to reignite the electric impulses in the man’s heart to establish a pulse.

The man’s shirt is already tattered, exposing pale skin with a bright red area where Lisa, and before her, the medic, have pressed, forcing blood from the man’s heart through his body again and again.

His arms are thin; recent tracks of needles step over enlarged veins.

He’s a junkie. The whole of the Midwest is full of junkies. As the factories have closed and moved production overseas, the Midwestern middle class has devolved into the upper lower class. People who work at the university or the hospital make a decent wage, but beyond that, it’s minimum wage in retail shops and fast food. I would never have dreamed that Charleston could become more depressed than it was. We used to have family farms that ringed the edges of all the small towns outside of Charleston, but the farm crisis in the eighties destroyed them. Farmers sold out because the big guys could do it cheaper, and land that had been in the same family for generations was sold off for a winter’s worth of comfort. Kids growing up here used to have hope that they could stay in town and make a living wage, but now they don’t. If they have ambition, they pack up and leave. Those who lack purpose or direction stick around and stew in the soup of poverty and addiction.

Meth is an epidemic. It is cheap and made with everyday chemicals: battery acid, drain cleaner, acetone combined with a variety of different cold medicines. It’s a horrible drug. Once a month or so, some makeshift lab explodes, and another of the daughters or sons of the town goes to hell. You can see them, walking down the street with holes dug into their flesh, their teeth rotting from their skulls. Meth is so addicting, worse than any other street drug out there. Even if they get clean from it, they’re never the same. The detox alone is sixty to ninety days, and most people relapse. Meth gets into your body at a cellular level and destroys the dopamine receptors in your brain. Meth-heads are the walking dead, their jaws ratcheting, the skin melting from their faces.

This man is probably one of those, I think, taking a look at the tracks on his arms, where his veins had given out and he’d searched for another place to insert the needle. I’m sure his legs look the same. I don’t lift his lips to see his teeth, which would tell the whole story. I hope heroin was his mistress, which is almost as addicting but less toxic inside the body. I shake my head. It’s too late to matter for him, anyway. It’s all dangerous, heroin or meth or copious amounts of alcohol; it’s all suicide by different names.

Clear! Jerry yells. The paddles touch the man’s narrow rib cage, and his body arcs. I place my finger again on the inky neck, pressing, feeling the artery, like a snake beneath the skin. I press the bulb with my other hand, keeping the rhythm, keeping air moving in and out of his chest. I’ve got no pulse, I repeat.

The crash cart hums, regenerating, and Jerry readies the paddles.

Two more times the body arcs, two more times it settles, silent and pulseless. I look at Lisa, my fingers on the non-throbbing carotid, shaking my head. No pulse.

Jerry locks eyes with mine, then he looks at Lisa. We’re gonna call it. Lisa and I glance at the clock. 10:43, we say, almost in unison, although he died before the ambulance ever reached him. He was a DOA. I peel the bulb away, exposing the bottom half of his face. His eyes are closed, long lashes pressing a crescent above the bony ridge of his eye socket. Now that I’m no longer holding his head upright with the AMBU bag, his face falls to the side, exposed. My heart stutters in my chest, pausing rebounding.

He is older