[stylist] The heart of it: chapter 3

[Alan]

Here's the last chapter I have written. Still waiting for any
feedback/critique.


The Heart of it
By: Alan Wheeler

Chapter 3
Coming to

Vague images came to Michael. Waking up seemed like swimming to the surface
after diving into deep water. Part of him wanted to sink back into
unconsciousness, but he kept silently floating to the surface of
wakefulness. Gradually, faces appeared as if in photographs held under the
rippling surface of a shallow pond. He struggled to make sense of it all but
was just too tired. So, for a while, he slept again. But, after what seemed
like a very short period of time, he tried to will himself to consciousness.
If for no other reason, than to stop the incessant dreams he was having
where all he heard was beeping noises that reminded him of heart monitors.

Oddly enough, when Michael did come to, he discovered the heart monitor
beeping was real. He struggled to remember, to figure out why he would be
hearing such a noise. At first, no memory came, and Michael panicked. Then,
slowly, he recalled losing consciousness on the plane, even vaguely recalled
Anna screaming something about punching a fuselage, and then it came clearer
to him. He'd had some sort of coronary event. He remembered the pain,
squeezing Anna's hand and her look of horror right before the blackness took
over completely.

He tried to look around for her. He couldn't make himself sit up, so all he
could do is sweep his gaze across the room from one side to the other. No
Anna. He tried not to panic at first. Maybe she was getting coffee or some
food.something like that.

Since he couldn't move hardly at all, Michael tried to call out to a nurse,
but his throat was too dry and he couldn't even really rasp out a whisper.
It was frustrating, but all he could do was wait. While he did so, his mind
wandered back to the last argument he had had with Anna. It was stupid,
really. Then again, a lot of their arguments were. So, it wasn't really what
they had fought about that was on his mind now. Rather, it was something
Anna had said to him.

Towards the end of the argument, she kept ranting about how she didn't feel
like she was being heard. Michael emphatically told her this was ridiculous.
He listened to her. He really did.

"No, Michael," Anna said, letting out an exasperated sigh, "You may listen,
but you don't really hear me. If you really heard me, you'd understand
better why I am so upset right now."

"Then explain it!" Michael had pleaded.

"That's just it. I've tried." Anna fumed. "I shouldn't have to spell it out
any more than I have."

They had gone round and round this topic until Michael started to feel like
a small child who wasn't grasping what he was told was a simple math
problem. The whole thing left him wondering if he was, somehow, dense in
this area of their relationship, and what he could do about it. He wanted to
understand that part of her, but some key element seemed missing from his
comprehension.

Feeling that desperate sadness he'd felt the night of that argument, Michael
slowly turned on to his side as best he could. As he did this, he became
aware of the IV tubes and other wires attached to his body. So, he moved
extra carefully. He looked and saw the wheeled table with the ubiquitous
water jug with the big plastic straw coming out of the top. He also saw the
bedside chair. He was still groggy, so it was slow to dawn on him, but he
realized that there was no sign that Anna was there or had even been there.
No purse with the paperback she was reading sticking out of it. No silly
balloon from the gift shop tied to the table. This didn't add up. If she had
been there and had, perhaps, gone to the cafeteria, there would have been
something there to indicate her presence and impending return. There was
nothing. As his eyes roamed, looking for any sign that Anna was around, his
view fell on the call button. It was within easy reach, even for someone
whose limbs felt like ten tons of granite. Slowly and cautiously, Michael
reached for the button and pressed it. It was asinine, but the fragments of
memory of their last fight made him worry just a little that Anna may not be
there at all.




Anna hated hospitals. The pungent antiseptic smell always set her nerves on
edge. Plus, she had seen the inside of them too many times. Either because
of the numerous visits she made as her father lay dying, cancer marauding
his body and leaving hellishly searing pain in its wake. Then there were her
own sojourns in the hospital. The appendectomy, the pneumonia that was
severe enough to leave her in the hospital for nearly a month. If it hadn't
been for fairly strong antibiotics, it would have killed her.

So, waking up with that all-too familiar aroma tickling her nostrils in its
annoying fashion immediately put Anna on edge. Coupled with no knowledge of
what had happened to Michael, she felt primed to take off the head of any
nurse who maybe slipped while taking a blood sample, or perhaps applied the
blood pressure cuff too tightly. She really hated hospitals.

Speaking of nurses, where was one? Anna was thirsty, and her hair needed
brushing. It was a jungle of wild tangles which was sort of a pet peeve of
Anna's. It made no sense in this setting, especially not knowing exactly why
she was there and not by Michael's bed, but nonetheless, she felt a
compulsion to have her hair brushed so she felt a bit more presentable.

That was one of the more trivial things that Michael had chided her about
during their marriage. He joked that she would want to be presentable for
the garbage man's weekly arrival, even though no sanitation workers ever
stepped foot in their house. He meant no harm with the teasing, but it was
just one more way, however insignificant, in which Michael didn't hear or
understand her. She was long past chalking it up to his being "a guy",
because it was more than that. When it came to the really deep listening, to
her deepest desires and thoughts truly being heard, Michael heard her about
as well as a radio station on an old radio where the dial wasn't quite on
the exact frequency and everything was distorted and muffled.

Yet, paradoxically, there wasn't much to hear coming from Michael at all.
His part in a conversation seemed to stay rather superficial. She tried to
coax him out of his shell. Sometimes it worked. He could actually express
some deep, intense feeling. But, then after his spleen had been vented, he'd
clam up again. It drove Anna nuts. She tried not to push the issue, but
there were times she lost it and tore into Michael, accusing him of hiding
his feelings from her.of not trusting her with the deepest part of himself.

All he could say by way of answer was that he was brought up in a home where
feelings simply were not talked about. This answer grew tiresome to Anna. It
was just an excuse as far as she was concerned.

Her patience wearing thin, Anna shut these thoughts out of her mind for the
time being, found the call button attached to her bed and pressed the
button. If a nurse didn't get here soon, Anna was going to chew through her
IV tubes.