Saving Elijah

parents," Jonas said, and the PICU residents nodded.
    When we talk to parents?
    So. Jonas seemed to think Moore was being overly optimistic about Elijah's prognosis. Sam was just standing there, looking like someone had just punched him. Didn't he catch these nuances? Why was I so sluggish yet so attuned to nuances?
    Dr. Jonas said something about different doctors having different approaches. Dr. Moore didn't respond with what he thought about Jonas or his approach. He just shrugged his shoulders and avoided looking us in the eyes.
    Dr. Jonas said, "Mr. and Mrs. Galligan, it's possible there may be a cellular process going on that won't show up in the tissue for some time."
    "Time always plays with loaded dice, babe."
    I blinked my eyes. The ghost had suddenly materialized next to Moore. Pink skin, black boots, white coat. Neurology resident No. 5.
    "What?"
    "Oh, time. Time, time," the ghost crooned. "Time always plays with loaded dice. That's Yeats, you know. 'The wrinkled squanderer of human wealth.' Old Willie was right."
    "What is wrong with you?" I asked him. What was wrong with me?
    "Tee, hee, hee. Just having a little fun."
    "We should have some results back in a few days," said Dr. Williston, a small, round-faced woman with Coke-bottle glasses. I called her the owl. She was the infectious disease specialist brought in because they thought Elijah might have a meningitis infection.
    The two nurses didn't get a vote. Of those who voted, the score stood at 4 to 4. My son's recovery was a draw.
    Meanwhile, the ghost's eyes were dart-darting—literally—all over the PICU, like a pair of crazed black bullets. Zig and zag. Ceiling. Floor. Desk. Floor. Bed in the corner. Floor. Back in his head.
    Had my pain walked me right off the edge? I closed my eyes, and when I opened them again, Sam had his arm around me. The ghost was still there.
    "You can't shut me out that way, silly Dinah," the ghost said. "Instead of trying to hide from me, a useless effort, why don't you get a look at your son's MRI? So much more productive. Then at least you'll know what they're talking about when things get hairy."
    Oh. They weren't hairy already? "I want to see the MRI," I said.
    All eyes turned to stare at me, as if I'd made a request they'd never before heard.
    "Well, I suppose you could see it," Dr. Moore said, slowly. "How about tomorrow morning? You come downstairs and we'll show it to you then."
    "I don't know how to read an MRI."
    Dart-dart. "I'm sure we can give you the short course." He laughed a little, amused for some reason known only to him. That made me hate him more, if possible, than I already hated him. I was beginning to hate everyone—the doctors, the nurses, Becky, Addie, everyone who came and everyone who didn't. I was beginning to hate God.
    "Tell him you need the long course." The ghost zipped up to the PICU ceiling, skeletal now and laughing.
    I felt cold, as if an icy wind had entered me. "You can't be real," I said.
    I saw pink flesh congeal in an instant on those bones, legs, torso, arms, face; then clothes appeared, boots, black leather jacket. "Ah, but what is reality, after all?"
    "A riddle?"
    He frowned. "Well. Not just any riddle. The ultimate riddle. Is it not?"
    I turned away. The doctors had dispersed now, leaving Sam and me standing there alone in the middle of the PICU.
    Sam leaned toward me. "Dinah, I don't want to see the MRI," he whispered.
    My throat was closing. I couldn't breathe. "Why?"
    "I don't know. I just don't want to."
    "You're saying because you don't want to, I shouldn't either?"
    "No, of course not. You can if you want. I just can't." He stared at me silently for a moment, then walked back into the NAR.
    The lights in the PICU flickered. What would happen if the power went out? That had happened on our wedding day. There was a huge storm. Charlotte went nuts, but I reveled in the romance of it, white lilies by candlelight. A guy in the band had an acoustic guitar, and the singer and the drummer just went ahead and sang and played together. Sam and I danced by candlelight, to the acoustic guitar and the sound of rain and thunder. If it rains on the day you marry, his mother told us later, it's a sign you'll have a long and happy life together.
    This wasn't part of our bargain, Sam. This wasn't anything close to the deal.
    "What a wimp."
    I looked up. The ghost was still hovering at the PICU ceiling. He gestured toward the NAR. "Milquetoast. Weakling. Milksop. Chicken shit.