Visit. (A short Tale)

 

Visited my old friend at the hospital this afternoon. When she called yesterday morning, she sounded very alone, and only wanted to hear a friendly voice. 

We talked and as usual, on the phone the connection was sparse, in and out, leaving us with anything close to a proper conversation.  

The next day awoke in my living room in the dark. My first thought was to see the old girl. Called a taxi and arrived at her cold room just after 4pm.  

The woman has lost a significant amount of weight due to accidents, (falling) stress and that inedible hospital food.  

When I hear someone state that they “hate hospitals,” my response is “who doesn’t?” 

On that overcast afternoon walking through the front entrance felt different. The familiar smells of alcohol, cleaning fluid and hospital food was prevalent. However, her room looked dark. Maybe because the curtains had been drawn, the sky gray, and no sound, anywhere. A feeling of emptiness, no spirit, lacking soul.  

In the corner lay my friend under numerous blankets, her head, and shoulders above the covers, appearing to have shrunk in size from the last time we had met. There she lay, her body noticeably diminished, and alien-like. Once she opened her eyes the atmosphere in the whole room shifted from dullness to a spark of warmth...life.  

Sitting down in the chair beside her bed, a frantic scream erupted from across the hall. Alarm bells began to ring, nurses gathered, and the screams continued.  

My friend looked at me knowingly, as if she knew what the fuss was about.  

“Do not be worried, the woman gets a panic attack once a day which drives her blood pressure sky high. She wakes up and does not understand where she is. That would be enough to drive anyone crazy.” Her eyes sparkled.  

“Tell me what you have been doing with yourself, old friend?” 

I first hesitated to respond because I knew what she was going to ask next.  

“I’m still writing book and film reviews on my unpopular BLOG.” 

My friend noticeably sighed.  

“Meaning you have been ignoring your novel.” 

“I know but...” 

“There is no excuse, Grant. You have been on the project for years. She paused. I want to see at least a finished first draft before...” 

Now it was my turn to sigh. 

“Yes, you are right. I promise I will dive back into it soon.”  

What my friend did not know was my doctor ordered me to stop writing it because my blood pressure was out the roof. Including, he added, my overall mental health. The problem was the subject matter. The story centered around the intrigues of the Vatican. My research into the Church was exploding all my innocent inculcated notions about the Church, and Catholicism. 

 Lifting her head a little higher over the blanket, she asked, “Do you remember Charles?” 

“You mean Charles your first husband?” 

“Yes. Dear old Charles. Did he ever tell you about the first time he visited London as a young man?” 

“No, I don’t think so.” 

“He had just begun his graduate studies in Eastern philosophy. Because his mother was born in London, he felt compelled to visit. He travelled from Heathrow by bus to Sussex. After a few days staying with his cousin, both decided to take the train to London. Charles’ cousin, a young accounting student from a local college, was excited to show him all the typical tourist attractions. You know, Buckingham Palace, etc. Once they arrived at Charing Cross Station, a strange feeling struck Charles like a bolt out of the blue.”  

“What kind of feeling?” I asked. 

“He said it was a feeling of utter familiarity.”  

My friend turned to the window across the room, and a knowing glow entered her eyes. 

“Anyway, Charles’ cousin did not need to show where Piccadilly Circus was located nor Buckingham Palace. They walked through London, Charles leading the way, to sites he had never seen before. After a tour in the Tower of London, Charles left the building feeling sick to his stomach.  Dizzy, barely able to stand up, they sat on a wooden bench until his sickness subsided. He told his cousin he never wanted to go back to the tower again.  

“What do you think, Grant? Charles had never been to London before, yet he knew the city like he had lived there all his life.”  

I thought about it for a second, “Charles was a prolific reader of Dickens and Doyle, perhaps that was the reason he knew the city.” 

“Perhaps,” she said.  

Matching the light of the sun disappearing behind a cloud through the window, my friend’s eyes clouded too. It was time for me to go. As I stood up, her eyes closed, and she fell to sleep.  

I wanted to continue to discuss Charles’ interesting trip to London. Was his familiarity with the city merely a coincidence, a trick of memory due to his extensive reading? I could not help believing it was something much more.  

Picking up my backpack, I left her room and soon exited the hospital. I made a mental note: I must come back tomorrow for there seemed to be a growing feeling that my time with my friend was running out.  

 

Visit 2. 

The night after the first visit with my friend, my dreams were lucid about driving a horse-drawn carriage through a dense forest. Beside me sat a young woman wearing a flowery bonnet, her eyes staring straight ahead, looking as if she had been crying.  In the scene, I felt an overwhelming sadness for the woman. There was a general feeling of loss. Soon later, I pulled the carriage in front of a large house, where people in black and white uniforms were standing, awaiting our arrival. The older gentleman helped the young woman down from the carriage and escorted her through the grand entrance of the home. I dismounted as well and instructed a young lad to take the horses away to the stables. Once entering the home, I noticed the marble floors and large portraits on all the walls of distinguished men and women. It was then that overwhelming feeling of sadness entered my consciousness; then I awoke with a start in my apartment and on my bed to the sounds of the television blaring: something about advanced carpet cleaners, vacuums, and three-year guarantees. My watch read 1:00am. I waited until 8:00am. and caught the bus to her current place of residence, the local hospital.  

Entering her room, she was sitting up in bed eating her breakfast. Sitting down I asked, “How is your food?” 

A sardonic smile. “You would think the food would be better quality considering most of their clientele are here for a long stay. I am afraid what they serve doesn't taste like food but something else altogether.” 

My friend pushed the tray away and asked, “So tell me about your dream last night?” 

“How did you know...” 

Another smile.  

“I have known you for many years. We have always had a connection, a connection that goes beyond what can be considered the “normal.”  

“I don’t understand...” 

My friend reached for the glass of water on the side table. Sipping slowly, I could see her smiling above the top of the glass.  

“I know you have always been a good Catholic boy, Grant. Though I have come to understand that we get more than one shot at this life, and we have met before.”  

“What does that mean? Are you saying a past life?”  

She nodded her head. “Yesterday I told you about Charles. One of the major reasons he continued to pursue his PhD in Eastern philosophy was the experience he had in England so long ago. He knew London better than his hometown of Melbourne, and he had never stepped foot there before...this life, anyway.”  

“What does that have to do with the dream I had last night?”  I asked. 

“I had the same dream. "Don’t ask me how I know, I just do.”  

I was shocked. 

“I know we lived together in England sometime in the late 19th century. We were brother and sister, and our parents had just died. We were travelling back from the funeral to the estate. Can I ask, did you dream the same thing?”  

“Yes, I had the same dream. But why?” 

My friend shifted in her bed. “Because...” 

All at once, terrified screaming travelled through the halls of the hospital wing. Outside the room, nurses were pushing machinery in the direction of the mayhem.  I realized it was the same woman in my last visit. This time, however, the screams continued and continued. My friend’s face had turned a greenish white. She was reaching out to me with her mouth wide open, desperately, it seemed, trying to catch her breath. I ran outside the room. 

“Please, I need help in here! My friend needs help. Please...” 

Two nurses entered the room, pushing me aside, ordering me to leave. I was led out of the space and told to go down the hall to a waiting room. Time passed and I sat in that room the entire morning until a young doctor approached me.  

“I am sorry to say, that your friend has slipped into a comma. She is stable for the moment. We have moved her to the ICU under close observation. Is there anyone else you can call?” 

“No, she has a sister in Perth in a nursing home, and...”  

“We do not know how she will go over night. Can you give me your mobile number in case anything changes in the next 24 hours?” 

“Yes, of course.”  

The ride home on the bus felt to go on forever. I had missed my stop several times before the driver told me he was heading back to the depot. It was around 7:00pm before opening the front door of my apartment. Throwing my backpack aside, I flopped on the bed and fell instantly to sleep.  

 

Visit 3. 

 

To this day, so many years later, my mind continues to doubt the events surrounding my friend.  

I remember half the night in a restless sleep, waking up constantly reaching for a glass of water. The third time I awoke, I fell off the bed. I decided a good shot of Irish whiskey might do the trick. It did. Though my dreams became more vivid and more real than reality.  

My first impression is looking up at a canopy of silk and lace. My bed is large and sitting beside me on a wooden chair is the young woman from the carriage the night before. At the end of the bed is a serious looking man wearing a long, black beard. He is shaking his head with the emotion I can only describe as cautious despair. He begins to pack his little bag, and looking over at the young woman, he nods and exists the room.  

The woman reaches over and touches my hand. It was cool and felt gentle.  

“You know, John, she hesitated. That you are my only brother, and I will always love you.” 

I began the violently cough to the point of spitting blood across the bedsheets. The woman called out, and two girls entered the room, stripping the bed, and replacing all the linen. I wanted to apologize to the woman, and as if reading my mind she said, “John, you are sick. Please do not apologize. That is foolish and unnecessary.” She reached over and brushed the hair that had fallen over my eyes. Bowing her head, “Anyway, what am I going to do without you?”  

I wanted to respond, but she stopped me by placing her fingers across my lips.  

“I do not believe this will be the end. We are too close to allow something like death to keep us apart.” 

At that moment, the deep clang of a bell resounded in the room. To the right of my bed, a large blue and yellow bird, a Macaw, flew through the window, entering the room.  

“You see, my brother. I told you this would not be the end.” 

* 

The receptionist at the hospital at first told me I could not see my friend because I was not immediate family. As I was about to fly into a protesting rage, the young doctor from the day before approached the desk, informing the girl that everything was fine, and I could visit my friend. 

“She is still in a comma, but all her vitals remain normal.” he said. 

My friend lay in her bed face up, looking pale and saintly.   

As I sat beside her listening to her breathing, I noticed the window at the end of the room was wide open. The sun was shining, and a cool breeze flowed throughout the space. I only turned away for a second, when a large blue and yellow bird flew across my friend's bed, gently landing on a table next to the door. Startled. I stood up to hear the deep clang of a bell resounding everywhere. It was at that precise moment that my friend opened her eyes. 

“There you are, Grant. I had a gut feeling I would see you again.”  

I must have looked weird because she asked, “What’s wrong?”  

She followed my gaze across the room to the magnificent bird perched on the table.  

“My goodness, she said. I know that bird, a Macaw, and dreamed about her last night.”  

I must have appeared surprised because she asked, “I guess you had a similar dream as well?”  

The Macaw let out a loud squawk, lifted off the table and glided back outside the window.  

I had a strong feeling to kiss my friend on her forehead. After kissing her she said, “Do you ever get the feeling that we have done this before in another time and space?”  

Nodding my head, “Yes, all the time.”  

A few weeks later that my friend passed away from a sudden brain hemorrhage. The doctor told me that she felt no pain when she died. Because she had donated her body to science, there was no funeral but a festive memorial. People from around the planet came to Melbourne to pay their respects to my friend.  

As I write this so many years later, my gaze moves toward the open window of my study, and across the yard sitting on the lowest branch of the old gum tree, is that blue and yellow bird, intently looking at me as if saying,  

“You see, my brother. I told you this would not be the end.”