"I read about it myself," he said. "I intend to pursue a career in medicine."
"Oh, really. How old are you?"
"I'm sixteen," Ian said, which was another bold lie.
She looked at me and held her smile. "And this is your sister?"
"Jordan, yes. She knows she has to behave and we promise not to disturb anyone or anything you're doing. Is our mother in a vegetative state or is she still comatose?"
"Are you sure your sister understands all this?" she asked, showing her concern for me.
"She'll understand," Ian promised.
Mrs. Feinberg turned to me. "Your mother's eyes are open, honey, but she doesn't see yet. Don't be frightened or surprised about that, okay?"
"She won't be," Ian insisted. "She's seen her before, soon after the accident."
"It's always difficult to understand how someone can open and close his or her eyes, even move and make noises, but show no sign of awareness."
"We understand," he said. "I explained all that to her on the way here."
He hadn't, but I was afraid to say a word, even utter a sound.
She thought a moment and then she told us to follow her. We entered a room where Mama lay on the bed staring up at the ceiling. I saw her left hand open and close, open and close. She's moving, I thought. How wonderful. I wanted to shout for her, cry out immediately. I hurried to her side and put my hand into hers. She closed on it and then opened, closed and opened.
"Talk to her, honey," Mrs. Feinberg said. "Hi, Mama. It's me. Jordan. Ian is here, too.'
We watched her head, but she didn't turn toward me. Her eyes closed and then opened. "How long does it take to evaluate her?" Ian asked.
"It could be a while. She's in our
Responsiveness Program we can work on her response to stimuli. Just keep talking to her, honey. You never know when a patient will start to respond, but it's good they hear familiar voices."
"If they hear," Ian muttered.
"I'll be back in a little while," Mrs. Feinberg said. "Mama, please talk to us," I pleaded. I pressed my face against her shoulder and then I kissed her cheek. "We need you to come home."
She didn't respond. Her mouth didn't move. Her eyes didn't turn to me and her hand kept opening and closing on mine.
"When will she hear me, Ian? When? Why can't she hear me?"
"It's difficult to know, Jordan. She might hear you--the nurse is right. But she might not be able to respond yet. Don't cry," he warned me in a loud whisper. "They might get nervous about us being in here."
"I can't help it," I wailed.
"You've got to help it, Jordan. See. That's why I wasn't sure I should bring you with me."
"Okay, okay," I said, sucking hard on my breath and squeezing myself to smother my sobs. "I won't cry,"
"Just talk to her. Tell her whatever you want. Go on," he said, and then he wandered about the room, looking at all the medical equipment as though he really knew what everything was.
I started to tell Mama about Grandmother Emma bringing Miss Harper into the house to take care of us, to teach me during the summer. Then I thought if I told her the terrible things Miss Harper had done to me. Mama might make herself wake up. I saw even Ian considered that possibility because he watched Mama's face closely as I described Miss Harper washing out my mouth with soap, locking me in my room, slapping my face, and making me work on school stuff all day.
"She slapped you?" Ian asked. I hadn't told him about that.
"Yes."
"Tell me if she as much as threatens to do it again," he said with visible anger. Sometimes, when he got that angry, his whole body seemed to tremble like a mountain during an earthquake or something. I continued to talk to Mama, describing the schoolwork, and then I remembered to tell her about Grandmother Emma moving me to Daddy's old bedroom and moving Miss Harper into her and Daddy's bedroom. I thought that would surely get her upset enough to come back to us quicker.