It's a rather large waiting room, lined with chairs and couches and TVs tucked in corners, littered with magazines- some outdated, some fairly recent. There are other visitors there, but Pam's family, and her coworkers, make up the largest groups.
Jim is standing with one of those groups, but trying to listen in on the conversation of the other. From across the room he can see Pam's mom, whom he has met, and her dad, whom he has not. There are other family members as well: perhaps a brother, a sister-in-law or maybe a sister, and perhaps an aunt. They are talking in the hushed tones of the worried and waiting while they are standing or sitting; they are grasping onto bottles of water or cups of tepid coffee poured from the corner machine, but are not drinking. They are periodically clutching at each other, sniffling; periodically clasping one another's hands. They are glancing often at the double doors right past their group, waiting for one of the doctors to come through with news.
"This is awful." Michael whispers. Jim is pulled back into his gathering by the words, the first that have been uttered in several long minutes. Of course it's Michael speaking, Jim thinks, and of course he's got nothing substantial to say. It bothers him that he thinks that; he's usually much more tolerant. He fidgets with his irritation, and then fidgets with his own annoyance at his irritation.
No one in their group responds. It's a rhetorical statement to which no one can add. Jim is standing next to Karen; he does not turn to look at her when she touches his sleeve from time to time, but he can see her off-white coat out of the corner of his eye. Phyllis is there too; strong, calm, even. She has called Bob Vance on his cell phone and he is on his way. Jim know that she and Bob will serve as anchor to their own little craft of uncertainty and worry.
He watches Angela in the corner, praying, and for once he is grateful for her faith. For once he doesn't feel inclined to dismiss or wonder, and he wishes to have the words to pray that he can see her mouthing at a continuous clip. He sends her a message from across this room: pray from me, too. Jim knows that if he had a single word to pray, it would be "please".
"I had that spray nearly in his face. If it had only fired correctly....I had just tested it on Tuesday, just like I do all of my security devices every week. And it seemed fine." Dwight had said this over and over, and Jim was finally finding himself able to respond.
"How do you test a nozzle on pepper spray without spraying it?"
Dwight didn't answer. He was looking over at Angela, a furrow between his brow. This is how they had been conversing for the last couple of hours; someone would start a thread of words, and someone else would either pick it up or not, but most often not. And when the thread was allowed to hang in the air and die, no one commented.
"Roy must be beside himself." It's Oscar who says this, of course. Oscar: diplomatic, analytical. Jim feels the irritation again and realizes that it's an easy cover for a whole lot of other things he could be feeling, so he goes with it.
Thinking about Roy does nothing to calm his stomach, which seems to have become the harbor for all that is this horrible experience. Although he hasn't eaten since lunch, it feels unbelievably full and roiling. He can almost hear it churning sickly and he fights the urge every few moment to lean over into that puny looking ficus in the corner and empty whatever it is that's in there onto the roots of it.
He looks over again at those perpetually closed double doors before speaking, steals another glance at Pam's mom. "Who the hell could know what goes through his head." He buries his hands deeply into his pockets, though he could tell that Karen was about to reach for one of them. "He should be beside himself. And I hope he's in jail."
No one in that group can counter that statement, though they all look up at Jim after he says it. Karen continues looking up at him long after her coworker's eyes have left his face. She recognizes the worry written on it, she recognizes the restlessness. There are things now that she doesn't recognize too, things that have nothing at all to do with her, or with them. It worries her, and she knows that she will be watching closely from now on.
Finally, finally, there is the sound of a hand hitting those doors, that door swinging open. A doctor comes through, he has lowered his face mask. Pam's family immediately is surrounding him, their eyes not leaving his face, ready to hear his words but also, read every shadow on it, every nuance. Though Jim's group doesn't move, they all turn toward that doctor, whose words hang the balance of so much.
Jim briefly wonders if doctors have any idea, as they go through their day, how often and how thoroughly their words are replayed and turned over, how often those words become the foundation of hope or the beginning of despair. He doubts it. The doctor is speaking, Jim is grateful that he is a large man with a deep bass. It carries even over to his group.
"She is stable." There's a muttering through the family. Jim can actually see them deflate a little with relief. "She's in ICU for now, but all of her vital signs are good. You can go and see her, if you like."
It seems that her family is still allowing that relief to wash over them. No one responds for a moment, until they can feel that the brusque doctor will recede through that door and leave them hanging, again.
"Is she awake?" Mrs. Beesly's voice is quiet, raspy, but Jim can hear it across the room, just as he can always hear Pam's. He furrows his brow with the realization, and immediately dismisses the thought. There are a lot of thoughts he's not allowing himself, and even in the few hours since this has occurred he realizes that he's getting really, really good at tamping down his thoughts, tamping down his reactions. He would wonder what it means, but the doctor answers.
"No, Mrs. Beesly."
"When......" she falters, leans on her husband's arm. Tries again, "when will she wake up, do you think?"
"Your daughter is in a coma right now." Jim watches her knees fold, watches her husband holding her up, murmuring reassuring words in her ears. Mercifully, the doctor actually picks up on this. "It's not uncommon in head trauma; in fact, it's a way for the brain to heal itself. To recover."
Jim watches the doctor looking at Mrs. Beesly, and Jim is grateful that she is such a kind, warm woman, like her daughter. He knows that in most cases, this efficient and slightly cool doctor would be turned on his heels already through those double doors again. But the doctor continues.
"Ms. Beesly is young, and healthy. Comas in cases like this rarely last more than a few days. I would expect, at her level of responsiveness, that she would begin to come out of it very soon. Maybe even as soon as tomorrow."
The group seems to re-inflate before Jim's eyes, to stand taller and inhale simultaneously. But the doctor, of course, has to add his disclaimer. "We'll just see how she does over the next few days, which are critical. Head injuries can be unpredictable." Jim is surprised to see this last statement seems to make the doctor uncomfortable, he is surprised to see the doctor become aware that he doesn't want to leave it this way.
"But for now, she is stable. You can go in two at a time."
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Two by two, Pam's family goes in to see her. Jim watches them disappear through those swinging doors, and reappear minutes later. Her mother and father first, of course. Then her sister or sister-in-law, and who he is sure is her brother. Then the other assorted family members who have trickled in; aunts and uncles probably, a cousin. They leave tentatively, and come back looking not much more reassured.
He is sitting now, and he puts a hand over his stomach. Still roiling, nothing in it. Karen is still next to him, in that white coat, isn't she getting warm? "Jim," she says, her voice quiet, "we should go for today, OK?" She is looking at him, he knows she is searching his face. He no longer has any clue what she is finding there and doesn't begin to know how to cover it from her, which he somehow feels he needs to do, but is unsure why.
"C'mon." She says. And she is standing up. She speaks to him in calm tones, in an even voice, and he's grateful for at least that much. "There's nothing more you can do here tonight. It's getting late, you haven't eaten, and she's stable. OK?"
Jim doesn't move or respond. So she continues,
"We'll come back tomorrow. We'll come back tomorrow, and maybe we can go in and see her." Karen has no intention of doing so at this point, but she is shamelessly cajoling him now, getting desperate to get out of here, to get him out of here. She recognizes that part of that reason is in his best interest, and part of it is in hers, and she's not proud of it so she continues before she can ponder it further "....Jim, you can't stay here all night."
Phyllis is prone to eavesdropping, and Jim finds himself grateful for that as well. She speaks evenly, "Karen, you go ahead and go home. Bob and I are going to stay a little longer. We'll drop Jim off at his place on our way."
Karen has no out, no recourse, as Jim doesn't protest that plan. She wants to say "no, I'll stay", and she knows she should say it. But she's exhausted and famished and vulnerable, and wants desperately to get out of here. She would rather go with Jim, but just needs to go.
"Oh.....alright then. Jim, is that OK?" She is furrowing her brow. This is an important answer.
"Yeah, I'll see you tomorrow." He looks up at her, she is starting not to recognize these new looks on his face, but she knows they have absolutely nothing to do with her. She recognizes the wrongness of that and even what it means, but tucks it away for later.
"OK." She leans over to peck him on the cheek. He doesn't respond, doesn't even move.
Bob and Phyllis sit with Jim for 30 minutes more, starting and stopping awkward conversations that they know Jim will have no part in. The Vance's try to talk Jim into coming home with them, but they know he won't. They play at convincing him, until finally they rise and say they'll be back tomorrow morning, and they'll give him a ride home so he can at least shower and change.
Jim thanks them, and they leave. And he's left alone with Pam's family and his roiling stomach, and a whole lot of thoughts he can't allow himself to think.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
It is very late, past midnight, and he is alternately slumping over in his chair or sitting forward with his elbows on his splayed knees, head in hands. He is not drinking water or watching the TV; not reading the paper or magazines. He is not sleeping, though he looks exhausted.
Now it's Pam's family's turn to sneak glances at him. Many have filed out, until finally only Pam's parents are left. They are still sitting by the double doors, standing watch, Jim thinks. And he is still in the opposite corner of the room.
Finally he can feel Mrs. Beesly watching him, and he can feel her crossing the room toward him.
"Jim," He is surprised, a little, that she jumps right in, but he doesn't respond. He's sitting over, staring at the floor, and he can feel his back start to cramp up. "She's OK. She's stable. Do you have your car here? Do you want my husband to give you a ride home?"
He knows this, even through his exhaustion and hunger and pain: he cannot, he must not, look up at her. So he continues to stare at the floor. "No. I'm....I'll just stay here."
She doesn't try to argue with him, she seems to understand. "OK, but listen. There's hardly anyone here, so why don't you go lie on that couch?" She looks over at his face and for just a moment, wants to smooth his hair back from his brow. She is a mother, and it's automatic.
He thinks about that, thinks about the effort it's going to take him to rise and cross the room. It's going to take a lot, but his back is cramping and his neck is sore. "Yeah, maybe I will."
He expects her to leave him now, reassured that he will lie down. She doesn't. She is still looking at him, and he hasn't moved. Her hand is warm on his arm, and it's urging him to get up, it's guiding him up. She stands, his hand under his forearm, and he does as well, and she walks him over to the couch. And because she is a mother, she keeps her hand on his forearm while he sits, swings his legs across the sofa and lays his head on the hard, uncomfortable armrest.
She stands and watches him as he slings that forearm over his eyes, as he swallows. He mutters "thank you", and they both know that neither one of them is going to sleep at all that night-- that first long night.
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© 2006-2023 More Than That | Skin created by Kali
© 2006-2023 More Than That | Skin created by Kali