As Luck Would Have It (32 page)

I stayed calm for a few minutes trying to collect my thoughts and figure out where I was.  I focused all my attention on a person to my left, standing beside the bed.  It was a woman; I was pretty certain of that.  As I stared I saw that her hand was moving back and forth.  What was she holding, was it a pen or pencil?  What could she be writing?  I tried to call out to her but I did not hear my voice.  Why couldn't I
talk
?  Wait, I could hear though.  The woman was speaking to someone but I could not understand any of the words.  There were others in the room barely visible through the haze that surrounded me.  I listened carefully to try to make out the sounds.  What were they saying?  I tried to sit up suddenly using every bit of energy I had.  I felt hands on my chest keeping me down.

He's awake again, vitals look good.  Check the morphine drip nurse.  He's fine for now doctor.
 
I was drifting again and I couldn't feel anything.  There was no movement like before and my legs and arms felt light, as if I was floating in water.  The fog seemed to thicken more and envelop me; and then it went silent again.

****

I
looked around
at what was clearly
a hospital room.  I felt very groggy and wondered how long I had been asleep, though I could see everything more or less clearly.  Still disoriented, I was relieved to discover that although I was partially strapped down, I was able to feel and move all of my extremities.  I blinked my eyes to clear them some and tried talking out loud to see if I could speak.  Clifford, what
did you do this time?

At least everything seemed to be working and I could talk again, even if my voice sounded faint and raspy.  My throat felt as dry and dusty as Saudi Arabia.  There was a TV across the room and I could just barely make out what was on. 

Miraculously, there were four survivors.  M
any
of the bodies have not
yet
been recovered. The search is continuing for a
third
day, but hope for finding any more survivors is fading.  One hundred and fifty-five are feared dead. 

Soon, the room began to fill up with people I did not know.  An investigator from the National Transportation Safety Board and a couple of reporters wanted to talk with me and the doctor gave them ten minutes.  The nurse would have to stay in the room as well.  Everyone was crowded around the bed, where I now sat up sipping ice water; the refreshing liquid beginning to course through me as the horror of what was happening was seeping into my consciousness.  They asked only basic questions about what I remembered; had there been anything unusual, any strange sounds, vibrations; anything that I could think of might be helpful. 
What about any strange or suspicious looking passengers; had I seen anyone like that? 
I wasn't going to be much help though considering the last thing I remembered occurred back on December
4
, now
nearly a week ago.

Where is my friend Joseph, is he OK?  He was on the plane with me.  We're not sure yet, Mr. Andrews.  His name is Joseph Klein; he must have been sitting next to me, what happened to him?  I'm afraid we haven't been able to identify anyone by that name, sir.  Oh my God, no.  We're sorry, but we don't have very much information yet.

The information they did have was almost too dreadful to imagine.  Only the copilot, one flight attendant and one other passenger had survived.  All three were now fighting for their lives with very critical injuries.  The plane had ascended to about 7,500 feet when the pilot signaled a problem and decided to turn back for O'Hare.  Communications with the flight tower were garbled but the crew likely realized they had no chance when for whatever reason, the plane began to break apart mid-air and fell rapidly, some twelve miles east of downtown Chicago.  One hundred and fifty-five innocent souls lost in an instant, most to a watery grave at the bottom of Lake Michigan.  Much of the plane
was submerged in water
, but a section of the front portion had remained relatively intact near the surface, where the four of us waited to be rescued by a freight ship that had been steaming towards a south Chicago port to deliver its cargo.  I remembered nothing;  the crash, the ship, the freezing water, every bit of it swept from my memory like the lives washed away in that awful moment.

With little to be gained from interviewing me, the people left and the room was now empty except for the nurse, who was fiddling with the IV while watching the news alerts about the crash.  The doctor says you'll be fine and can probably go home in just a few days.  You sure are one lucky man, I'll tell you that.

Was I, or would better luck have brought us both down together, to at least have each other to hold on to in our last precious moments on earth?  How lucky was I, now without him and having to go on alone, forever wondering of how he had suffered; had he died quickly or not, was it peaceful at the end or terrifying, had he just fallen away in the water or did he gasp and choke for minutes struggling in fear while he tried to find a way to draw a bit more of life into his lungs?  He was at peace now, but I would have no choice but to go on suffering and missing him; my God how can this be happening?

What curse is this luck of mine?  Oh, how I wish I could make it go away and bring back what it has taken from me.  The luck that disguises itself as a gift may demand its retribution, or is suffering beyond its providence, anguish out of its reach
?
  I, who walked away from the fiery crash that consumed my beautiful parents was lucky to survive, but that luck must consider the poor 14
-
year
-
old orphan boy that stood paralyzed in front of the flames, never to share their love again, with no one left to protect me or guide me through the thorny maze of this only life I had.   And now, Joseph is gone, swept away from me as I floated on by, oblivious to his pain and with no idea where he could possibly have fallen to.  I can go home in just a few more days; did you hear her say what a lucky man I am?  What is this luck that did not recognize the weight that would crush my spirit, even if my body was spared the pain that the others endured?   Is this luck of mine watching over me now as my soul is being tortured?

I was crying out of control by now with sadness so deep and painful inside me it seemed like it would tear my body apart trying to get out.  I thrashed around and pulled on the tubes that were still connected to me.  I tried to get out of bed and fought now with the two nurses that had suddenly appeared out of nowhere and were trying to restrain me.  I felt the jab of the needle in my hip and in a moment, my anguish began subside and my mind drifted again into a euphoric, cloud-like state, where it remained for the next few hours.

When I opened my eyes, Joseph was sitting on a chair beside me with his feet propped up on the bed reading his book.  When I looked at him he gave me his normal crooked smile and made a crack about me being like Sleeping Beauty or something.  He helped me to sit up in the bed and hugged me tightly, his tears running down onto my cheek and neck.  I just wanted to touch him and reassure myself that this was not yet another fitful dream or some drug induced hallucination.

I panicked when I heard about the crash; I was so sure you were dead.
 
I knew how that feeling went.  How could it be possible that he could be sitting there staring at me, both of us overcome by the outpouring of our tears of joy?  You had a pretty good knock on the head Clifford; the doctor told me it is amazing luck that you are still with us, all things considered.

Yes, as we have seen, amazing luck has rarely been a problem for me, but how to explain Joseph sitting there looking hearty and healthy without so much as a scratch, in fact looking quite handsome wearing the new Armani shirt that I gave him a few days before his birthday so that he could have it cleaned and pressed in time to be able to show it off on our cruise.  Yes, all things considered I was pretty damn lucky, but this was going to require a better explanation than that.  Let's consider all things then, or even just one thing; how can we both be alive, me feeling like a serious vodka hangover and Joseph all spiffy looking with his new cruise outfit not even wrinkled?

The
doctors had apparently done their job in preparing Joseph for what might happen when I finally decided it was time for me to open my eyes again and start asking difficult questions like the one I have just posed in the preceding paragraph.  Retrograde amnesia could, in some cases, obliterate more than just a few hours of events leading up to the unfortunate trauma.  It seems in my case, it wiped four complete days right off my cortex, like a disobedient student cleaning the chalk off the slate board after class.

You don't remember what happened before you left for Florida, do you Clifford?  Didn’t he mean before
we
left for Florida?  We, as it turns out did not go anywhere; I went alone.  My head was pounding now for real as I tried to remember the events leading up to the trip, but everything was a complete blank; I couldn’t even picture the airport or recall being in the water.  I closed my eyes in the hope that it might ease the throbbing sensation, grateful that Joseph sat with me and even held my hand until I fell asleep, the effects of the pain killers dripping from the IV bag in command
once
again.

When I woke up a couple of hours later I was alone; Joseph had returned to his office after taking an extended lunch break for the hospital visit.  It occurred to me then that I must have done or said something pretty terrible to cause Joseph to skip out on the vacation that we had been planning for weeks.  I wracked my brain trying to remember if we had some sort of fight; had I done anything really mean to him?  Sure, we’d had any number of arguments in the past, but none so awful that we weren’t ready to just laugh them off within a day or so.  He didn’t mention any quarrel or disagreement when he was sitting with me; maybe he figured it would be best not to say anything.  Why di
g
all that up now after everything else that happened, he probably reasoned.  What good could that possibly do; wasn’t this bad enough?  Let’s forget all about the fight and just be thankful the doctor says you’ll be
OK
, I’m sure is what he was thinking.

That was fine with me, because from my perspective, the fight or argument or whatever it was in a matter of speaking never occurred, since I had no knowledge or record of it, and if I didn’t find out the details of what happened, or more likely what I did to piss him off to such an extent, I wouldn’t have to acknowledge responsibility for it or apologize for screwing up and making the mess of things I’m fairly sure that I made.   Still, the thought of this was troublesome; what could have been said or done that would have caused things to escalate to the extent that they must have?  Had I done anything really mean to Joseph?

As I thought about it more, I was able to rationalize the whole thing away by realizing that if it ever were to come up later and I found myself having to justify my behavior in any way or to defend myself for being callous or unfeeling in my treatment of Joseph, I would immediately remind him, or anyone else that might raise such accusations, that I in fact should not be blamed for hurting Joseph, but rather I should be commended for saving his life.  For I learned soon afterwards that the conditions of the other survivors had become progressively more grave, and that one by one they passed on to join with the spirits of the other 155 who perished.  Joseph, had he been there, would certainly have gone with them.  The news reports would say that I, Clifford Andrews, was the lone survivor; but the truth is that on December 8, my luck had saved us both.

I was released from the hospital after just three days, but under strict orders from the doctors not to leave the house or do
much of
anything else.  No drinking, no smoking, and absolutely no driving until I was evaluated in two more weeks, at which time they would decide if I was recovered enough to go back to work. 
Joseph had l
eft the day before on an unplanned business trip, so it was Christian who drove me home from the hospital in his yellow Corvette.  He sat down on the couch with me for a few minutes while I got oriented; what the hell was I going to do with myself until it was time to go back to the doctor?  I was still taking some pain and anti-seizure medications, but I felt alright, certainly well enough to take a drive to a museum or something, or even go out with Christian to one of the pubs we liked to hang out in and have a couple of beers.  You'll be fine, was Christian's more or less useless advice; right, I'll just watch
Jeopardy
and
I love Lucy
reruns until I hear otherwise.  He said he'd call to check on me later; then I was alone. 
B
efore I had enough time to seriously consider immediately violating my parole restrictions, Michelle called to check in and said she would brin
g
dinner over after work.  She'd been busy cooking the last day or two and would help stock my freezer so I wouldn't need to walk to the grocery down the street or have to cook if I wasn't feeling well.

I couldn't quite figure it out, but the apartment was different somehow. 
A
bottle of Scotch was on the dining room table where I must have left it, but I had no recollection of doing so and wondered what had happened here the night before the crash.  There were dirty glasses in the sink and the place was more cluttered than I would have normally left it
before leaving on a trip
. 
I
f I had decided to get an early start on my vacation and gotten drunk the night before I left; I couldn't tell you if it was fun or not.  There was something else about the place though; the lighting or the paint or something was not exactly how I remembered it.  It was
a
s if someone had come in and made some changes
while I was away
, which I knew was impossible, but still I couldn't escape the feeling as if I was in someone else's apartment that closely resembled my own.  Was this my sofa I was sitting on?  It felt familiar enough, but the color was brighter, wasn't it?
  The floor needed vacuuming too; I was normally a meticulously clean person, so who messed up the apartment?