Adam Last October
Adam
Last October
“Why did I not die? More miserable than man ever was before, why did I not sink into forgetfulness and rest?… Of what materials was I made, that I could thus resist so many shocks, which, like the turning of the wheel, continually renewed the torture? But I was doomed to live.”
—Frankenstein by Mary Shelley
When Adam awoke at Central Springs Hospital, he learned he’d already been there for three days.
He was told that, during the hour-long ambulance ride, he’d gone in and out of consciousness.
The burns had penetrated enough layers of skin to put him past the point of pain, so that when his gurney was rolled through the hospital doors, he wasn’t crying or screaming.
He only stared up at the ceiling as the medical team swept him into surgery, putting him into an induced coma.
Adam also learned that while he was under, having managed to stave off infection for two days, the team led by Dr. Arnold Russo deemed him ready for skin grafting.
Apparently, his brothers had pushed back, wanting to wait for their parents to return from Paris before continuing with surgery; however, Dr. Russo warned them that the risk of mortality increased with every hour they put it off.
Healthy skin was taken from other parts of Adam’s body and grafted onto the right side of his face and right hand—the areas that had been most affected by the explosion that occurred as Adam opened the door to the burning car and attempted to pull Mariana out.
At least, that’s what everyone assumed those first couple of weeks.
But when Adam woke up, groggy and confused—the pain excruciating now—he had no memory of what had happened the day of the accident. And when his parents and brothers told him about Mariana, it was as though the flames had reached deep inside his chest to scorch his heart.
When his family left the room, Adam looked at his bandaged hand, imagining what lay beneath the gauze.
All he knew was that it hurt like hell, but he hadn’t wanted to bring up the pain in front of his parents.
His face, including the right eye, was also bandaged, leaving him to wonder if he’d even see out of it again.
His mother had cried when she saw him, her beautiful, active son, bandaged and immobile.
Adam still debated pressing that red button beside the bed when Dr. Russo himself came in to check on him.
“I heard you were awake,” the man said, sweeping into the room in a white lab coat like one of those cranes that settled on the banks of the creek.
Adam had been crying, the news of Mariana’s death raw. His voice was still scratchy and rough, but he grated out, “Yes, sir.”
“Good, good.” The doctor stood at Adam’s bedside and took his vitals. “Everything is looking good. No fever, which means there’s likely no infection. How are you feeling?”
“Like hell,” Adam said, sniffling. He wondered what his face looked like, but the doctor didn’t touch the bandages.
“Pain level, from one to ten?”
“Twelve.” Adam’s parents weren’t there, which meant he could finally answer truthfully.
The doctor gave him a tight-lipped smile. “I’ll have the nurse up your morphine levels.”
Adam thanked him, so grateful to have relief on the horizon. He expected the doctor to head out to find the nurse. Instead, the man sat down on the edge of his bed. “How are you feeling about…the accident?”
“The accident?” Adam didn’t quite understand the question.
“About Mariana. Can you tell me what happened?”
“Oh.” Adam’s heart sank, and he feared he might cry again in front of this man. “I only just heard about her.”
“The papers are saying you tried to save her. That you got your injuries by throwing yourself into the burning car to pull her out. That it exploded before you succeeded.”
Adam didn’t answer. He couldn’t, since in his mind, the incident never existed.
Dr. Russo’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t want to tell me?”
“No, it’s—it’s not that I don’t want to tell you. It’s that I can’t. I don’t remember.”
“Oh.” Dr. Russo’s face darkened. “I see.”
Adam thought he recognized the look. Disappointment? Disbelief? Perhaps some combination of the two.
“Well, there are some detectives here to speak with you, if you’re up to it.”
Adam nodded, and the doctor rose and strode through the room. “Though I guess,” the man added, pausing at the door, “if you can’t remember, it will be rather difficult for you.”
There was no mistaking the man’s sardonic tone then. Dr. Russo thought Adam was lying about his memory.
Mysteriously, the nurse never received the message about the morphine.
For a while, Adam had many visitors. Friends from school flooded the reception area, taking turns, a few at a time.
The entire team brought football-shaped balloons, repeating lines about how he needed to get better in time for next season.
Adam saw the looks in their eyes, though.
No one believed he could recover from such horrific injuries.
An entire team of doctors and nurses visited daily to change Adam’s dressings.
The process was excruciating and took over an hour.
One afternoon, about two weeks into Adam’s stay, Dr. Russo himself led the team primarily made up of interns.
They removed the old dressing on Adam’s hand.
“This is healing up nicely,” Dr. Russo said, squinting at the raw flesh.
Adam didn’t think there was anything nice about the way his hand looked, and when the doctor poked at it with his sharp metal instrument, Adam couldn’t feel a thing.
“Hmm,” the doctor said. “It may simply take more time. Can you move your fingers?”
Adam could, just barely. Panic started to set in, a little insect in the pit of his stomach that started to spawn until it became dozens of skittering bugs. He was hyperventilating.
“Calm down, boy,” the doctor snapped. “I’ve ordered a psychiatrist to come and speak with you about your memory issues.
Seems like it couldn’t come at a better time.
” He gave Adam another disdainful look and then removed the bandages from Adam’s face himself.
It was different than when the other doctors had performed the removal—lacking that careful, gentle touch.
Adam thought it odd, since surgeons are known for having steady hands.
The pain built, and Adam started to feel woozy until a nurse, apparently unable to keep quiet, offered to take over.
“Fine,” Dr. Russo said gruffly. “We’ll need to take some pictures for educational purposes as well as for our records.” He motioned for an intern with a digital camera to come closer.
The intern snapped a few photos of Adam’s hand, then moved the lens up to his face, the light blinding to Adam’s newly uncovered eye. When he blinked and squinted long enough, he felt dizzy, his focus and depth perception off.
But he could see.
This relief lasted only until Dr. Russo grabbed a small mirror from one of his interns and thrust it into Adam’s good hand. “Thought you’d want to see how nicely this was coming along.” The man sounded proud, and it sparked hope in Adam.
The feeling was immediately replaced by horror. A strangled sob emerged from Adam’s throat. The mirror shook in his hand so violently that the nurse took it from him.
In all of his thoughts and imaginings, Adam had never pictured anything as grotesque as what had appeared in the mirror. The red-and-brown melted skin. White oozing patches scattered like geysers. His entire right eyebrow gone.
“I feel sick,” Adam said, at which point an intern raced to grab an emesis basin.
The nurse helped him through it, placing a hand on his back as he emptied the meager contents of his stomach. Adam hadn’t had much of an appetite since his accident. “It’s still healing,” the nurse said, moving her hand to the top of his good one, as if to settle the shaking.
The team began to replace the dressings on Adam’s face, and Dr. Russo, looking even more disgusted than before, snatched the camera from the intern and removed himself from the room.
For another day or two, Adam’s visitors continued, though less frequently than before.
This was always the case with long hospital stays.
At least people came. A few football teammates after practice, the girls who’d had huge crushes on Adam.
They would cry, and Adam suspected it was because they knew he’d never look the same again.
But that day with Dr. Russo sparked a change.
Adam perceived it, albeit gradually. Then one day, he realized that only his family and Hayden had been to see him for a long stretch of time.
He wasn’t sure what exactly had shifted—neither his brothers nor his parents wanted to talk much, claiming he should focus on healing.
Not only were there physical injuries to overcome, but his mind needed to heal.
The psychiatrist had been in to “chat” with Adam a handful of times.
This woman, Dr. Wen, hadn’t seemed nearly as concerned about Adam’s memory of the accident as Dr. Russo had been.
She simply asked how he felt about his burns, how he felt about Mariana’s passing.
What worries he had regarding his future, and if he felt equipped to deal with them or hopeless.
Adam wasn’t sure how to answer. Everything felt hopeless, like he was plunging into a black abyss.
And then he witnessed Bram trying to sneak his iPad out of the room. “Hey!” Adam called before his brother could slip it into the emptied bag of snacks and books their mother had packed. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing,” Bram said, looking furious he’d been caught.
“I need that to watch movies. They’ve only got three channels on that damned thing, and they’re all about fixing up houses.” He gestured with his good hand at the mounted hospital room television.
“Okay, but…” Bram hesitated, still calm as ever but rubbing at the back of his neck. His tell.
“What’s going on?”
“Don’t go on social media, okay?”
Adam pressed his lips flat. “What is it?”