Dead of Winter

Chapter 15

"Again, I'd still prefer if you stayed here after the consolidation is complete." Carville, who'd ushered us into his spartan office after our arrival, regarded the snow with a disdainful expression. There'd been half-hearted flurries when we left home, but the moment we crossed the border into New York, the storm's fat wet flakes, as if sensing our presence, began falling with intention. "A hotel, if you'd be more comfortable. There are quite a few affordable ones nearby. Even with the shorter recovery time, given the size of the viable sample," he said, putting emphasis on the next-to-last word, "you shouldn't sit for long periods, and I'm concerned that the long drive back to Vermont in this storm could pose certain challenges." Turning, his gaze locked on me. "Hazards, detrimental to your health."

"I'll be fine and as I've said before, I'd rather recuperate at home," I replied, unwilling to endure another one of his diatribes about the instability and malleability of memory. "Rory here will take excellent care of me." I patted his knee.

Perhaps expecting my response, Carville was wearing green surgical scrubs. He smoothed his pristine lab coat and sighed. "As you wish. If there are no further questions?" He paused a moment, waiting for queries that never came. "This way."

We followed him down the near-empty hallway to a large rotunda. High, tinted glass windows in its spacious reception and waiting area looked out on the now-lamplit parking area. After instructing Rory to wait there—institutional protocols didn't allow family or friends to attend procedures—he unlocked a windowless door at one side of the space.

"Good luck." Rory planted a dry kiss on my forehead and gave me an awkward hug. "I'm sorry just part of the sample was usable," he whispered. "I know this meant a great deal to you."

"It'll be fine," I answered, grateful to have avoided getting a blood transfusion. Although I wasn't looking forward to being conscious for the intrathecal bit, both Rory and Carville swore I wouldn't remember the actual infusion. No, not infusion, consolidation, I corrected. No matter. In less than an hour, if everything went according to plan, Nisha's memories would merge with mine—two peas from the same pod, reunited at last—and I would have the answers which had eluded me for a decade.

Comforting myself that at least I wouldn't have to watch Carville induce that long needle, I gave Rory one last kiss, then followed him down a dim lit hall into a small dressing room.

So many shadows, crouching in corners or tinting those ecru walls with splashes of steel blue and grey! Maybe the blizzard was to blame, or maybe because it was late afternoon on Friday, but New Horizons Institute was almost empty. Every step against the tiled floor produced an echo. Every spoken word, amplified by the eerie stillness, lingered like a ghost in midair. Then again, with so much controversy still surrounding my upcoming procedure, maybe Carville "preferred" it to be this way.

After changing into a hospital gown, I joined Carville and his fresh-faced assistant, Heidi, in the procedural suite. "Gown" was a poor moniker for the thin piece of blue cloth emblazoned with the institutional logo. Backside hanging in the wind, I now regretted my earlier decision to wear a thong.

Echoing the institute's monochromatic theme, the suite walls and floor boasted the same eye-strain-inducing shades of ecru and pearl grey. A shell stripped of its abalone. n***d. Hollow. Spartan in its furnishings, the room contained a stretcher covered with a white sheet, two plastic chairs, and two metal tray tables. The materials necessary for the procedure—I liked to think of them as instruments of t*****e—lay secreted beneath a blue surgical drape on one of these.

Once Heidi started an intravenous line in my arm, Carville directed me to lie on one side on the stretcher with my knees pulled up to my chest.

"This will allow better visualization of the physical landmarks." After he murmured something to his assistant, I felt a rush of warmth travel up my arm. Leaving an aftertaste of ocean behind, it made my stomach rumble. 

Behind me, cloth rustled; metal clinked. Cold liquid slopped against my skin, making me flinch, and an acrid odor wrinkled my nostrils. Then the lights dimmed, taking on a feathery cast that blurred the room's too-sharp edges.

"I will induce the catheter now." Something butted against my spine. "You should feel a little pressure but no pain," Carville said.

When I tried to reply, I could no longer feel my mouth. Words, if they were actual words, tumbled over my tongue like clumsy stones, and sounded like a foreign language. Though I could hear Carville speaking to his assistant and feel movement—a slight pushing at my back and the shifting of the thin mattress beneath me—between these rare instances, I went somewhere else, a liminal space where I floated weightless on invisible waves. I closed my eyes, waiting for dreams that never came.

When I noticed more movement, I opened them again. No longer in the procedure room, I was back in my clothes and buckled beside Rory in the truck, although I had no recollection of leaving one for the other.

Or dressing myself.

I rubbed my face and moaned, noticing that the storm hadn't abated during my procedure. It'd gotten worse. Darkness and accumulating snow vied for dominance on the windshield, and the truck's feeble headlights were the sole source of illumination on what appeared to be an unlit stretch of highway.

"Ah, the sleeper has awakened!" Rory said, chuckling, but didn't take his eyes off the road. "I thought I would have to carry you into the house."

"Where are we?" I asked, my tongue still feeling as if someone encased it in wool. Behind my temples, a slight throbbing heralded a headache. An annoyance, the too-rhythmic, too-fast thwick-thwack of the wiper blades wasn't helping. Rubbing the sides of my head, I winced.

"Almost home." He reached down and fiddled with the wipers, decided they weren't moving fast enough to do a proper job, then switched them over to warp speed again.

"What time is it?"

"A little after seven. How's your stomach?"

"Fine, why?" Groaning, I leaned against the door. The window glass, cold against my cheek, helped ease the pain in my head. "Why's it so late? We should've been home by now?"

"We would have, if someone hadn't started puking up a storm." He glanced over. "Told you not to—"

Whump!

The unexpected jostle catapulted me straight against the cab's ceiling. The truck's rear fishtailed, then settled right, veering into a skid. While Rory attempted to counter it, swearing under his breath, I clutched at the door.

"What was that?"

"Tree limb, and not the first one I've had to dodge tonight, either." He pulled us out of the skid, stopping inches before we crashed into a tree. "The weight of this snow's bringing them down like crazy. Hold on." He threw the truck in reverse. After righting our course, he reached for me. "You okay? How's your back?"

A sore back was the least of my worries. Something about our stopping place nagged at me, tugging at the periphery of my thoughts with a tenacity that refused to release its hold. Its remoteness and wildness seemed familiar and frightening. Although if pressed, I doubted if I could explain my feelings with any clarity.

"I'll be fine," I said, chalking my case of the jitters up to our near-accident and aftereffects from the procedure.

But for the rest of our ride, I alternated glances from the window to the rearview mirror, unable to shake the sensation that something from that dark and lonely spot in the road was following us home.