CHAPTER THIRTY ONE
Purely by chance, the moment Mitch first opened his eyes in hospital, an intern was standing at the foot of his bed reviewing his charts. Mitchell blinked to absorb the surroundings. Unfamiliar. Where was he? He tried sitting up but found it difficult to move his arms and legs, no less use his abdomen muscles. The sudden movement startled the intern causing him to drop the clipboard holding the charts to the floor. The young man instinctively grabbed Mitchell’s arm to help him.
“Where am I?” Mitch asked blearily.
“Mr Atherton. Welcome back. My name’s Josh and you are in hospital,” the interim said reassuring his patient. The room was stagnant. Typical of a hospital ward but filled with cationic patients despondent to the surrounds. Heavy curtains covered the windows but no light seeped through the edges. Night.
“What day is it?” Mitch asked rhetorically hurriedly scanning the room.
The intern though had disappeared. He was running off to seek advice from one higher up the medical chain. Mitch steadied himself, his arms screaming in pain struggling to hold his weight. His legs didn’t work on their own either. He pulled them out from under the sheets hanging them limply over the edge of the bed. He wanted to stand. He wanted to get out of bed and slid his legs toward the floor. But when putting weight on them they collapsed like a marionette having its strings severed. Mitch fell from the bed awkwardly, the IV ripping from his arm setting off an irritating alarm. It was loud enough to wake his bedside neighbours, but they didn’t. The sound of the distressed monitor was all that broke the midnight silence.
Mitchell lay sprawled on the cold hospital floor. His gown unfastened making it seem even colder. He collected his thoughts but remembered nothing. He saw his right leg heavily bandaged and sensed little feeling in his other limbs. He had no strength and his head pounded. What the hell happened?
Spotting the fallen clipboard at the end of the bed he crawled toward it dragging his lifeless limbs like an injured seal. Every inch moved shot pain to his shoulders and knees. Some pages were displaced by the fall and Mitch flipped them over finding a series of notations listed neatly in rows, often in different coloured ink and signed by numerous signatories in the last column. It was first column though drawing his interest. The list of dates. Mitch searched the most recent, March 7th 2013. Shit, it was 2013 already.
He leant on the leg of the bed and studied the entries in more detail. Ten weeks. Pages and pages of pulse rates, blood pressures and food supplements used to keep him alive. What the hell happened? Ten weeks !
Mitch recalled bright decorations and spending Christmas Eve with the Bartholomew’s but nothing more. He slumped to the floor again, this time through choice, frightened by the complete loss of memory. Footsteps raced through the corridors and a team of white and blue cloaked attendants came to his aid. They picked him up, reinserted the IV, and shone a bright light into his irises. They spoke in soft, measured words designed to calm him; and Mitchell let them. He gave in and let the professionals take control.
“Mitchell,” the word repeated until he responded. “Mitchell, are you all right?” An unknown voice finally added. “I need you to relax. We are here to help you.”
Mitch looked the doctor squarely in the eye and demanded,
“What the hell is going on?’
“There will be plenty of time for an explanation I promise. But right now, I need you to rest and let the nurses get you comfortable again.”
One of the said nurses handed him a glass of tepid water that he drank with ease. The softness of the liquid highlighting just how dry his throat actually was. The same nurse then repositioned him in bed while another resecured the intravenous needles to his arm. A third person, an orderly, appeared from nowhere to collect the monitor and other medical apparatus. He placed them on the sheets in the ‘V’ formed between Mitch’s legs before unlocking the wheels of the bed. Mitchell was being moved to a private room on another floor in another wing. Away from the ‘sleeping’ patients he’d shared ten weeks with. He wasn’t sure if that was for his or their benefit but thankful to be moving and given solitude to collect his thoughts. The nursing staff left as quickly as they’d arrived, instructing him to get some sleep and dimming the halogen lights on their way out. Sleep was the last thing Mitchell needed right now. He needed answers more than slumber however managed to fall asleep given he couldn’t remember anything of the past ten weeks to keep him awake.
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The morning sun breached the opened curtains brightening the otherwise sterile room. Mitchell welcomed the dawn as if his first, and in many ways it was. Last night was still a blur but he now understood where he was and happily in safe hands. He had no idea why his leg was so agonisingly painful and only imagined what the fresh bandage hid from him. Tempted to unwrap them, Mitch ran his hand over the thick layers of dressing but stopped by the entry of a female doctor to his room. She couldn’t have been much older than him and studied the folder she carried intently before introducing herself.
“Seems you’ve had quite the night Mr Atherton. How are you feeling this morning?”
“Doc I’m fine. What happened to me?” Mitchell asked genuinely concerned. He disliked not being in control.
“Mr Atherton, you’ve been in a coma the past ten weeks. You were brought to us on Christmas day,” the doctor calmly explained. “Your injuries are consistent with being struck by a car and we’ve been waiting for you to regain consciousness. To help us understand what happened.” Her tone worried Mitchell. He was hoping for an explanation, not to give one.
“I’m not sure I understand what you mean doctor”
“Mr Atherton, Mitchell. You were found wounded by the side of the road by a young boy. Police reports show no evidence of a car accident where you were found. And while you were covered in blood, bleeding profusely from your right leg, there was no trace of blood around the scene. Not even a trail if you’d managed to walk there. Only a pool collected around your body found lying on a metal manhole cover,” the doctor said clinically. “Do you know why that may have been the case?” she added accusingly.
Mitch had to admit it sounded suspicious. Was I kidnapped? Beaten? Left by the road to die? Were the police also looking for an explanation? His mind raced. What kind of trouble am I in?
“Honestly doctor, I can’t remember a thing,” he replied truthfully. “When do you think I might be able to go home?”
“We would like to keep you in for observation and help get your strength back. You’ve been idle for a very long time and your limbs need to regain muscle strength before we let you go. We’d also like to get you back onto solid foods. Oh, I would think maybe a week or two,” the doctor said with only thought of Mitchell’s wellbeing. She left to tend to other patients.
Mitch remained less informed than before the doctor came in. A car accident? Muscle strength? He touched his forehead to check if it was tender. It wasn’t, so he tapped it harder with his knuckles as if knocking some sense into it. Still nothing. Curiosity as always got the better of him and he lifted the sheets covering his heavily bandaged leg. Slowly unravelling the swaddling, he found it painful bending his knee, and his lower leg ached the more he touched the area. The bandage, resembling a snake sheading its skin, soon dangled to the floor as he removed the final layer. There was neither cut nor blood, they had healed. Twisting his leg to get a better look only increased the pain. How could it hurt so much after ten weeks? There was though a thick pinkish scar running the entire length of his shin. Ankle to knee. It would have looked pretty cool under different circumstances but without a story of origin, it was just an ugly scar.
He gave up and lay back on his bed not bothering to redress his leg nor cover it with sheets. Mitch wanted to look at it longer; to see if that triggered any memory. Closing his eyes he recounted what he could. Working backward, building images in his mind, searching for the last reliable point of memory. Mitch would find an answer from there. But apart from the hospital he remembered little. There was running, lots of running, and urgency in trying to reach something. Someone. His mind ached as much as his leg and Mitch soon drifted back to sleep from the overload.
The loud clang of a lunch trolley hitting the door jam of Mitchell’s room startled him awake. The careless attendant apologised for the disruption but Mitch was thankful for the clumsy gesture. The shock awaking from his deep sleep must have triggered something in Mitchell subconsciousness because he suddenly remembered the plate and going back to help Christina. His heart pounded with the realisation. It beat faster with anxiety if Christina was spared. His throbbing right leg suggested perhaps she had, but he needed to know for sure.
Mitchell was struck by the car that otherwise crippled Christina. He threw himself in front of the vehicle without thought of his own wellbeing attempting to save another’s. To change that life. And it happened over five years ago.
After the accident the school principal called an ambulance; the same ambulance meant for Christina, but before it arrived Mitch was transported back to 2012. On the plate he lay with his shinbone protruding from his lower leg until an unsuspecting boy rode his Christmas gift toward his withered body. That was Christmas Day and Mitchell had been in hospital with no family visitors and authorities unable to contact his next of kin.
Lyle and Ethel Bartholomew visited the hospital almost every other day. Mitch didn’t know that but they had. Peanut was also feed daily and walked as often as they could manage. Despite being tethered to her lead, she never disputed the hindrance. After a week she was moved next door and regularly found solace under the shade of the Bartholomew’s lemon tree. Peanut lay there diligently for her master’s return.
Albert on the other hand had no idea of Mitchell’s plight. Neither did Sarah. How could they? The only people knowing Mitch’s condition were Ethel and Lyle.
Mitchell’s recovery during the hospitalisation was without precedence with his determination astounding the medicos. As the days passed he ate regularly and did every exercise the physiotherapists asked of him. His focus was getting out of hospital and back home to check on Christina and Sarah. The doctors came and went, continued their daily observations, and on occasion asked Mitch if he recalled anything about the incident. Mitch was unsure of Christina fate but remembered everything else. But he kept that to himself. Feigning amnesia the ruse seemed to work. The doctors though were easy. Their main concern was Mitchell’s recovery; the police however would be harder to fool.
Officers Osborne and Reilly paid an unexpected visit one morning catching Mitch completely by surprise and questioned him over the events of Christmas Day. Judging by their tone Mitch sensed it a mundane part of their duties. They had bigger cases to investigate but he remained uneasy being less than truthful with them.
The Bartholomew’s visits continued as did their updates on Peanut. Ethel assured she was OK and Mitch should focus on his health and nothing else. But Mitch was otherwise preoccupied. After waking from his coma, Mitch remained in hospital another eight days. He wanted to leave earlier but according to the doctors it was paramount he rebuild his strength and they conduct final tests. His only victory was an astonishing recovery deeming him fit for release in eight days and not the expected two weeks.
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Returning home, via an ambulance trip he would remember, Mitch found the front yard preened to royal standards. His mail was also lined up chronologically on the foyer counter…God bless the Bartholomew’s he thought. Peanut was asleep on the back porch but woke suddenly with the sound of the door opening. Delighted to see her master, she jumped on Mitch almost knocking him off his feet; his right leg weaker than before. The two then spent nearly an hour reacquainting; nothing had changed.
Mitchell spotted his dead phone sitting on the kitchen bench and instinctively charged it. A fresh loaf of bread lay on the counter and a carton of today’s milk found in the fridge. Ethel’s motherly instincts clearly stronger than being an unimposing neighbour. Mitch made some toast and rested on the couch thankful to be home. But his leg ached. It always ached now.
It was only after settling did Mitch noticed his walking stick nestled in the corner of the living room. He knew the piece of wood very well but something about it was different. It had been cleaned and altered with the addition of a handle. He’d never changed the rustic limb; that was part of its character, but today it sparkled with a renewed polish. The length was smooth and gleamed with a professional finish. The minor burs sanded back and lacquered for protection. At the upper end, a handle spliced at ninety degrees was joined so incredibly well it was difficult telling the two pieces of wood apart. And at its lower tip, a black rubber stopper was added for stability. It was the work of a skilled craftsman and Mitchell immediately knew Lyle Bartholomew made it.
He held the stick in his hands, running his palm down the length of the shaft admiring the finish. Turned the piece over, Mitch he saw an inscription carved into the wood, highlighted by lighter shades under the outer bark. Words ran the length of the stick appearing to be in Latin, Faber est suae quisque fortunae. Mitch Googled their meaning:
Every man is the artisan of his own fortune
The cane reflected poignantly the doctors’ opinion Mitch would require a walking cane to aid his short-term mobility, if not permanently. But the newly crafted cane was far more impressive than the one issued by the hospital. And way more meaningful too. Mitchell was truly touched and held the cane for a long time. Running his fingers over the carved letters purposefully he considered their significance on many levels.
The phone sprung to life in a chorus of beeps signalling missed calls and messages. One after another. Beep. Beep. Beep. Albert had left dozens of messages. They were expected, but an unknown number stumped Mitchell. He could only assume it came from the police. There were though no messages from Sarah. He considered that a positive. Implying success. If he saved Christina from her accident, Sarah and Alessandro would never have split; and Sarah and Mitch would never grow close. It made perfect sense. He needed to to be certain.
Listening to Albert’s messages all were similar in content; he needed to talk urgently. He wanted to discuss his travel plans. He wondered where Mitch had been and why he wasn’t returning calls. One message went further to say he’d even visited Mitchell’s house. The car was in the driveway but Albert couldn’t hear peanut in the back yard. He was worried. Over time they grew less frequent before completely stopping in late February. Mitch wondered why Albert had given up on him.
He dialled Albert’s number but the phone didn’t answer. It didn’t even ring. It went straight to the telephone company’s recorded message saying the number had been disconnected. Mitch wondered if Albert had already left for Vietnam and cancelled his phone. That was unlikely; Albert would never leave without saying goodbye. Besides, if Mitch remembered correctly, he planned on returning to Kym Ho around late May or early June. The situation seemed very strange and Mitch decided to visit Albert the next day.
But only after seeing Sarah.