THE MOTORCYCLE ACCIDENT By Walt Curtis week before Christmas, late at night, Stephen had a motorcycle accident. A car did a U-turn in front of him. He can’t remember what happened. Steve is Marjorie’s son. She’s the red- haired poet, friend of mine. The one woman whom I’ve loved in my entire life! Staying in Nepal, she’s unreachable. If he dies, I won’t be able to face her! Marjorie loves him more than any other person. She has been planning to come home for his 21st birthday, in early February. He’s in intensive care, in critical condition. The first time I see him—I can’t believe it! He has a broken pelvis, torn liver, loss of blood, and a ruptured diaphragm. A torn black eye is stitched and swollen. I tell the nurse, “ I am like his father. His mother’s best friend for the last ten years.” She allows me to go in for five minutes. I must see him so I can tell his mother I saw him, i f he dies. Looking almost dead in the bed, he is white and puffy on the machinery. The green light, connected to his heartbeat, oscillates. A respirator goes down his throat; a tube is in his nose. Needles and plastic bags are attached everywhere. I note the stitches and the linen. Steve is able only to nod his head, as we clasp fingers. His one eye tries to tell me the horror of the broken animal trapped inside of the machinery. Because of the pain—the shock—he receives morphine every three hours. With my eyes and by my presence, I try to tell him, Be calm. Don’t rip out the needles and the tubes, or you are dead. He hasn't the strength to do that. If the bleeding stops, if his lungs will clear up, he might make it. The doctors aren’t saying for certain. The next day when I visit, the bleeding has stopped. He’s still on the respirator, however. If he doesn’t get pneumonia, he’ ll make it! The gurgling of the machinery is like the sound a home aquarium makes. He can’t talk, yet his eye looks better. He seems better yet very uncomfortable, sweat on his face and chest. As we hold hands, he squirms, shaking his head so that I can know how bad it is. I touch his soft and youthful hair. The beautiful broken face and body in the bed is oddly romantic and infinitely sad. Youth shattered in an accident, inexplicably. The smell of the hospital is a strange odor. Perversely beguiling. Is there perfume coming from the bandages? I wince and turn away when the nurse sticks him with another needle. “ I love you,” I say to him. Looking at me sweetly and helplessly, he nods. is one eye tries to tell me the horror of the broken animal trapped inside of the machinery. W ith m y eyes I try to tell him, Be calm. Don't rip out the needles and the tubes, or you are dead. am praying for him. I am focusing my energy to help him. I beam strength from my eyes to his. ft drains me. Fortunately, his girlfriend is a nurse. Cheerful, hopeful, matter-of-fact, Mary is practical. She thinks he'll be okay because the surgeon did a good job. They were living together when it happened. She has to go away, as the Christmas holiday approaches, for a few days. I will be Steve’s mainstay until she returns. Can I do it? Illustration by Carel Moiseiwitsch Clinton St. Quarterly—Winter, 1987 27
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