Predominance (2 page)

“I don't know. But it's definitely a sign. I just… can't see what it says. You better take the right lane and slow down. If it is an exit, you don't want to miss it.”

“Right.” He did his best to check the mirrors before changing lanes, and managed to do so successfully.

“Crap!” we both exclaimed simultaneously, realizing the light we'd seen had been nothing but a shiny billboard. I knew this was only going to upset Xavier even more.

“Damn it!” he cursed, pounding on the steering wheel.

“Relax,” I said sharply, trying to calm him down. “We can't solve anything by losing our cool. Look, you've been driving for hours. Why don't you just pull over and let me drive for a while, all right?”

“Yeah...” He let out a defeated sigh. “Maybe you're right.” He flipped on his signal and began to pull over toward the shoulder of the road. His foot had barely touched the brake pedal when the car suddenly began to skid. “Crap!” he blurted, trying to regain control of the vehicle—which in spite of his efforts just kept veering off the road. The sudden halt caused my head to whiplash forward and smack against the dashboard. Through the stars that resulted, I saw Xavier slumped over the steering wheel. We had been left skewed almost perpendicular to the highway, half-buried on the side of the road, inside a gigantic snow bank left behind by passing cars and the snowplows. The rear of Xavier's wagon was the only part of the vehicle visible, and it was sticking out onto the rightmost lane of the highway.

Xavier lifted his head. “Are you all right?” he asked groggily, dazed and squinty-eyed.

“Yeah.” I hesitated. “…You?”

“Yeah,” he said, raising his eyes to the enormous mountain of snow covering the hood of his car. “What the f…” Xavier's lips barely parted as he cursed in astonishment. He tried immediately to back up, stepping furiously on the gas. But the poor old wagon only wailed in response, like a bizarre animal begging to be put out of its misery. The tires spun on their axles to absolutely no avail. “Great!” he said in dismay, turning off the engine, defeated. “What the hell are we gonna do now?”

We sat there for a few minutes, listening to the annoying sound of the wind whistling into the car. I opted to spare myself the aggravation of trying to open my door; the entire passenger side had been completely blanketed by the snow. There was no way I could get out that way. “Dude, can you open your door?” I asked Xavier.

“Yeah, I think so.” He took off his seat belt and bashed his shoulder against the door a few times, until it finally swung open. It was like cracking a window in a submarine, but instead of water, a wintry mix blew forcefully into the cab, hitting us like thousands of sharp needles in the face.

“Shut the door!” I shouted.

Xavier struggled for a few seconds against the forceful wind before finally getting the door closed. Once he did, we leaned back against our seats and breathed the same sigh of bleakness. Scowling, we turned to each other, realizing simultaneously that our heads were now all covered with snow. Xavier then broke out into his unforgettable high-pitched laughter. I guess he decided to give in to our lack of options, and just humor our misfortune. I always admired that about him—his ability to turn nuisance into humor whenever he felt at a loss. However, at that moment, I was so angry that I wanted to punch him in the face. But soon his hysterical laughter infected me, too, and I had no choice but to join in his moronic celebration.

A startling noise, however, made us stop. “What the hell was that?” I asked, spooked.

“It's the freaking wind, man!” Xavier resumed his cackling.

“No!” I disagreed, shushing Xavier. “Listen!” Xavier's smile disappeared as he saw the fear building in my eyes. “It sounds like a…” I trailed off in panic.

Yellow-white light suddenly shone bright behind us, illuminating the dark cab of the station wagon. Horror sank into my stomach as my eyes flew to the rear window and I realized that the approaching glare belonged to a pair of headlights, coming right at us at incredible speed.

We didn't even have time to blink. The inevitable collision took place in a fraction of a second. The brutal impact made me experience an immediate blackout; yet, just before the inescapable disaster sent me into the darkness, I was able to identify what hit us. The shiny and distinctive symbol included only one word: MACK.

The memories were incredibly sharp after all this time, preternaturally sharp, the psychological pain still fresh. I let them go, and they faded around the image of my own reflection. I felt as if I'd been transported from memories to reality in a dispersing cloud of smoke; once again I was staring at myself in the cracked window of the shack in which I had just awakened, frightened and lost. The relentless rattling on the tin roof had suddenly stopped, leaving me with nothing but the profound silence that now engulfed this place.

The cloak of fog had begun to disappear, too. Outside, majestic, building-tall pine trees began to unveil themselves before my eyes; within them, the first rays of dawn seeped from branch to branch, lingering raindrops shimmering like ornaments on their evergreen needles. The sight was almost too beautiful to be true... yet the fact that I was able to withstand the glare of the sun for the first time in three years seemed even more surreal. The light was shining straight into my eyes without inciting any pain at all. I couldn't remember the last time I was able to face direct sunlight without dark glasses and pain medications. The spectacle left me completely hypnotized, until the profound silence was finally broken by a soft voice speaking my name.

“Victor?” the mysterious young woman called. “Are you all right?”

I turn to regard her. “You know my name?” I asked, surprised.

Keeping a wary eye on me, she got up from the floor, somewhat disconcerted by my reply. Fear haunted her face, as if she were in the presence of some monster, yet her concern for me seemed genuine. After dusting herself off, she began to walk carefully toward me. The shafts of light now piercing the window intensified the natural red curls that bounced around her face, turning it an intense titian hue that was nearly blinding. Once in front of me, she deftly threw her hair back, unveiling the biggest, most fascinating green eyes I have ever seen in my life. Hesitantly, she brought her fingertips to my cheek, dabbing at a single tear that had escaped from the corner of my right eye. Her soft skin brushed like cotton on my face. “Are you all right?” she asked again in her velvet voice.

“Yeah.” I cleared my throat, rubbing at the tear with the heel of my hand. What a wuss, I thought, just because she's so incredible looking... “I'm fine,” I added, trying to regain my toughness in front of this beautiful woman—definitely a guy thing.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

“Um, okay,” I said, confused. “For what?”

“For saving my life,” she answered artlessly, timidly looking away.

I brought my fingers to my temples—a habit I developed after I acquired my tedious headaches—and tried to remember what she might be talking about. “I'm sorry,” I finally said, “But I can't… well, I can't remember that. I can't remember much of anything. For days, at least, maybe longer.”

She stood there in silence, scrutinizing my face.

“I'm sorry,” I said, “But who are you? And what happened here last night?”

Understanding dawned in those remarkable emerald eyes. “Of course you don't remember.” She shook her head in realization. “Selective memory loss is one of the major side effects of the serum.”

“Serum? I don't understand.”

Her eyes widened as she looked out the window and scanned the open field. “I'm sorry, Victor,” she said, “but I don't think there's enough time for me to explain.” She threw another glance at the window and moved swiftly towards the door. “We have to keep moving. Let's go!”

“Wait a second. I'm not going anywhere until you tell me what's going on!”

“We don't have time for this, Victor!” Her voice was like a whip-crack, urging me into motion.

But I was angry and confused, so I snapped back, my voice rising with anger, “Well, make time!”

She cringed, becoming almost defensive at my mood swing. “Easy, Victor… Look, your memory loss is temporary. You'll remember everything soon enough. But right now, I need you to trust me, all right? Can you do that?”

I considered for a second before yielding to her request. “All right,” I said.

“Oh! And whatever happens—please, try to remain calm.” She grabbed her jacket from the floor and rushed to the door.

“Can you at least tell me your name?” I called after her, feeling a bit more collected now.

“Sarah,” she replied, “With an h.” Opening the door, she beckoned me to follow.

Aftermath

IS DYING REALLY
so terrible?

Before the accident, I never gave it much thought. To me, it actually felt kind of peaceful, even soothing. Now, some people may consider death to be an escape from a dreadful life. But I never saw my life as dreadful. I always thought you could make your life whatever you wanted it to be, that life could be a dream. But what happens when your dream becomes a nightmare? What happens when nothing makes sense anymore, when you wake up to a reality that's no longer your own, and all you're left with is dread?

  I don't remember much about the impact. The two or three times I opened my eyes during and after the car accident weren't long enough for me to process the shocking images I saw. In my first sporadic eye flutter I saw Xavier already unconscious, free-falling inside the cab, his arms floating in the air along with an empty soda can and some loose change he kept in the cup-holder. Soon afterward I felt another hit, and then it was darkness again. The second time I opened my eyes I saw snow, blowing inside the cab through a huge hole in the middle of the windshield. Xavier was no longer inside the car. Finally, I remember seeing red-and-blue flashing lights whirling above me, while some guys leaning over me shouted, Can you hear me?

The next time I regained consciousness—if only for a few seconds—was at the hospital. All I could see were bright lights shining above me and men wearing blue scrubs and surgical masks, talking indistinctly. I did, however, make out one sentence before I closed my eyes again: We're losing him!

It's amazing how many things can go through your mind in a moment like that. First, you think it's impossible. You think it's nothing but a dream, or, in my case, a nightmare, in which the theme was an episode of ER and I was just another guest-star with no reprieve. But then you realize you're not dreaming, and that you might just have to stay there for a while. So you think of the most irrelevant things. In my case, I tried to remember if I'd turned off the coffeemaker before I left my dorm room. Or if someone was going to tell my dad I was going to be late.

Then you understand the truth of what's really happening. And only then do you think about the things that really matter: Like having one last chance to tell the people you love how much you really care. Or having one last chance to say, I'm sorry. This tumult in my mind soon quieted down as I began to fall into a very deep sleep, from which I thought I'd never wake again.

The agonizing aftermath began as soon as I tried to open my eyes again. Looking into the hospital room lights was like staring directly into the sun. I clenched my eyes shut and tried to speak, but my throat felt clogged. All I could hear coming out of my mouth were groans of pain and discomfort. It took just a second for my brain to sync with the rest of my body, only to realize that I was nothing but one giant wound. Every single part of my body hurt, as if an entire Little League team had taken turns beating me up with their favorite baseball bats. But nothing compared to the relentless pain I felt in my head. It hurt so bad I literally wanted to jump out of my skin.

My first reaction was to try to cover my eyes, but my arms wouldn't move; my whole body was unresponsive to my commands. I felt as I if had been glued to the bed. For me, that was the single most frightening moment of my life. But my heart resumed beating when a tingling sensation spread from the tips of my fingers through my hands and out to the rest of my body, letting me know that I wasn't paralyzed, just slow and uncoordinated. After some struggle, I finally managed to bring my hand to my face.

I stumbled upon some very thick bandages wrapped around my head, as well as some wires hooked to a strange machine. A long plastic tube emerged from my nose, which explained the discomfort in my throat. A natural instinct compelled me to yank all these things off, but before I could, a warm hand stopped me from hurting myself.

“Victor?” my dad called, “No, son, don't touch that. You could hurt yourself.”

I tried to open my eyes again, despite the painful sensitivity to the light. When I did, I saw Dad standing at the side of my bed. His fifty-three-year-old face looked wearier than usual. He had the huge, dark circles under his eyes that he only gets when he hasn't slept well for days. But despite his obvious fatigue and sadness, he gave me the biggest smile when he realized I was conscious.

“I knew you'd wake up, son,” he whispered, holding back some tears, “I knew you'd wake up—” His voice broke at the end. He pressed his head gently against my shoulder and let out a quiet sob. And though it hurt like hell to talk, I felt the need to comfort him, so I did the best I could.

“It's all right, Dad…” I croaked around the tube in my throat. “I'm okay.”

“I'm going to get the doctor.” My father smiled, wiping a tear off his face, and the next thing I knew he was running out the door.

The first person who came in with Dad was a nurse, who proceeded to check my vital signs, asking me how I was feeling. The first thing I mentioned was my sensitivity to the light, and how much it was worsening my headache. Even after dimming the lights it took some time for my eyes to adjust. When they did, I noticed Dr. White in the room, standing next to Dad.

It was such a relief to see him. He'd been our family doctor for as long as I could remember. He used to dress up as Santa Clause when I was a kid, and boy can he pull it off. I mean: tall, chubby, silver hair on the sides of his bald, shiny head, and of course a long white beard. I have to say that he had me fooled for the longest time. But more than that, he was a very good man.

He ordered the nurse to remove my breathing tube, which was a nauseating, painful process; thank God it took only a few moments. When I was ready, he said in a kind voice, “How are we feeling today?” while shining his penlight into my eyes.

My immediate wince, and the way I clenched my eyes shut, informed him of my extreme sensitivity to bright light. “I've been better, Doc,” I admitted in my creaky voice.

“I'd say,” he agreed, and continued his examination. “Look here, please.”

My eyes followed his finger. “Why does it hurt when I breathe, Doc?” I gasped.

“You have a couple of fractured ribs, Victor. But they should heal in a few weeks.”

“Great!” I jested. “What else did I break?”

“Your left leg is broken in two different places, and you received a severe blow to the head, which—”

“Oh!” I interjected, “That explains the headache.”

Dr. White paused for a second, exchanging uneasy looks with my dad. “Do you remember what happened?” he asked quietly.

“Vaguely… Xavier and I got stuck in the snow and, um… something hit us. Something big.”

“Yes,” Dr. White confirmed. “It was a semi, a huge tractor-trailer. Apparently you and your friend broke down between lanes. The blizzard made it impossible for the truck driver to see what was in front of him until it was too late. According to the report, the front of the truck impacted the left rear corner of your vehicle, making it spin a few times. But it was the final impact with the side of the trailer what made your car flip over. Twice.”

I laughed painfully. “That doesn't sound too good for Xavier's wagon. I'm sure he's pissed. How is he, by the way?”

Dr. White exchanged another look with my dad before lowering his eyes. “What is it?” I asked anxiously.

“Son…” My dad spoke as if there was a knot in his throat, “Xavier… didn't make it. I'm sorry.”

“What?” I countered, already in denial. “No! He was okay! We were laughing just a few minutes before it happened—Doctor?” I turned to the Santa of my youth, as if asking him for a miracle.

“Apparently he wasn't wearing his seatbelt at the moment of collision.” The old man sighed ruefully. “He was ejected from the vehicle and killed instantly. I'm sorry, Victor.”

I lay my head back down, trying to suppress my tears, my panicky grief edging toward anger. It was easy to blame myself for what had happened, and I did. If I hadn't asked Xavier to stop and switch places with me, he wouldn't have crashed into the snowbank, or taken his seatbelt off. I closed my eyes tightly, hoping that this was nothing but a bad dream. But it wasn't. I turned my head to the side with my jaw clenched tight, and swallowed hard. Dr. White was the first to understand that I needed to be left alone for a while. “Come on, Sal,” he said. “He's going to need a minute.”

I didn't turn my head until I heard the door close.

Once alone, I let go of the flood of tears that pained me so much to contain, weeping in huge, wracking sobs that seemed to go on for hours. I tried to process the shocking news, hoping to find a logical explanation for what had happened. After all, that's what I did, that's who I was—a problem solver, right? In this brief eternity of insanity, I looked for answers to impossible questions, like: Why had this happened? Was there anything I could've done to avoid it? Why him? Why did I survive? What variable was I missing that I needed in order to make sense out of this horrible nightmare?

My grief and guilt created an absurd list of questions, for which I had absolutely no answers. My frustration made my heart rate spike on the monitor next to my bed as I ran the numbers in my head. But then my logic kicked in, and the sanity that I'd tried to drown with all these inane questions finally re-emerged. I realized then that this wasn't a problem I could solve with formulas or equations. This nightmare couldn't be solved, no matter what branch of math I used.

The impossible equation I'd created in my mind had no solution. My friend, my best and only friend in the world, was gone, and there was nothing—no number, equation, or variable—that could bring him back. When this world took something away, it stayed gone, a lesson I'd already learned too many times.

And then something inside my chest began to hurt.

After a few minutes, Dr. White returned to the room with my dad to ask me a bunch of silly questions that almost seemed incoherent and irrelevant to me: like which president was on the one-dollar bill, how many strikes were allowed in baseball, the name of the national anthem, the details of my class schedule. But after a few moments, I realized he was probing for signs of brain damage, of which I apparently had none. That, however, didn't ease the frown of concern on the good doctor's face.

“Okay, Doc,” I prompted, annoyed and in a lot of pain. “What's wrong?”

A long moment of silence followed my question, along with another glance at my dad. A furious scowl creased my brows, and I burst like an over-inflated balloon. “Don't look at him!” I shouted. “I'm right here! And I'm asking you—what the hell is wrong with me?”

“Victor!” my dad scolded me.

“No, Dad!” I snapped. “I'm the one who's in pain here. And I want to know what's wrong!”

My father was startled by my shocking reaction, and so was Dr. White. I'd never behaved like that in my life. I'd never countered my father in anything before, let alone in front of other people. But there was a strange anger inside of me now that I couldn't explain or control. My dad stood there, silent and embarrassed, while I focused my impatient glare on Dr. White.

The doctor raised his hand towards my dad, as if telling him it was okay, and finally began to explain. “Victor,” he said, “You've suffered a traumatic brain injury, which caused you to develop a subdural hematoma on top of your brain. And though we removed the blood clot from the surface, an unexplained intracranial pressure remains. The problem is that we have absolutely no idea what's causing it.” He paused for a moment. “I don't know how to say this, Victor, but...well, we weren't expecting you to wake up. At least, not as yourself. The truth is that these types of injuries usually lead to severe brain damage, even death. You, however, in spite of your headache and sensitivity to light, seem to be in relatively good shape.”

“And isn't that a good thing, Doctor?” I asked, confused.

“Well, we don't know yet, Victor. There are no precedents. So far, your condition seems to be unique. But I'd be remiss if I don't tell you what we do know.” He sighed. “Your headache is a distinctive sign that the intracranial pressure is compressing your brain tissue. And if that is, indeed, the case, we have only a limited amount of time before you could suffer a massive stroke and…” He trailed off, pressing his lips into a thin line. “Do you understand what I'm trying to explain to you, Victor?”

“Yes, Doctor,” I nodded, my eyes lost into space. “How much time?” I asked.

“If the pressure becomes chronic… a week, maybe less.” I felt Dad's hand squeezing my shoulder as Dr. White uttered these words.

“Thank you, Doctor.” My gratitude was sincere. “The truth… that's all I wanted.”

“What do we do now?” my dad asked.

“We wait. The first twenty-four hours are going to be the most important. I've already ordered some diuretics to reduce the swelling, which in turn may help to reduce the intracranial pressure. I'm also going to put him on a very strong pain medication. We'll monitor his progress as we go along.” Dr. White turned to meet my blank stare. “Victor, it's my job to tell you the worst-case scenario. But that doesn't mean we're not going to fight this thing 'til the end, you understand?”

“I know.” I forced my lips into a smile. “Thank you, Doctor… and I'm sorry about my behavior earlier.”

He gave me a warm smile in response. “Don't you worry, son. We're going to win this thing.”