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Yeah. We understood. After about twenty radio songs, going ninety miles per hour down the highway the whole time, we made it to Children’s. Inside, a waxed linoleum floor stretched before us, bright fluorescent overhead lights setting the stage. We sat in hard plastic chairs, coffee tables holding magazines such as Cosmopolitan and Vogue and Reader’s Digest. There were other occupants. I could only imagine why they were there. A lone woman was pouring coffee for herself. A bald man sat in front of a large flat screen TV watching football with his eyes closed. We waited for the next wave of news. While the clock subtracted time, my father and Kristen spoke with me. “Are you going to be okay?” Kristen asked. “We understand it must’ve been a traumatic experience for you, and we can hire a therapist and—” Snap. I was on the verge of snapping. “I’ll be fine,” I said, “as long as Easton makes it.” Which was, for the most part, true. Still, that single moment of Easton’s brain matter spraying into the snow played on repeat in my head. It wouldn’t leave me; it never would. Fine. A doctor came out after some time and walked over to us. The way he stood in the middle of our family with the light shining over him, he looked like he was going to start reciting the speech from Fight Club. Except instead of rules, there were conditions. The doctor told us, “He’s not in the green yet, but he’s stabilized.” He said, “There’s some cognitive issues…” He said, “Your son is in a comatose state.” Stable, but not in the green. Somewhere near it. Maybe. Three days passed before they let anyone in to see Easton. Visiting hours, we visited. My father and brother and step-everything and myself crowded around Easton’s bed, some of us seated, some standing. You can only fit so many chairs in a room. Distant aunts and uncles and cousins stood next to the doorway, lining the walls, a whole army of friends and family. Everyone acted the same way, as though more people and more support would be enough to save a life. We were all waiting for the outcome. My father and Kristen pushed through the crowd towards me. Hands and fingers brushed over their shoulders as they made their way past. My father said, “Are you sure you’re going to be okay?” Kristen said, “I really appreciate you staying.” And my father said, “Really, we can get you a therapist, or someone to talk to if you need it.” Snap. “I’m fine.” Fine. In his room, Easton laid on the hospital bed in a coma, tubes running through




Profile for Oakland Arts Review

Oakland Arts Review Volume 4  

Oakland Arts Review Volume 4