Saving Elijah

tell you this. He's in a persistent vegetative state. He has no awareness of who he is or that you are here. He doesn't feel pain, not in the sense of consciously feeling it. All that's functioning is the brain stem, the most primitive part of the brain, the part that controls the autonomic functions, like heartbeat, respiration. But even that has been damaged severely, which is why we haven't been able to wean him from the respirator."
    "Is removing it legal?" Sam's eyes are fixed on Elijah, transfixed.
    "There is ample precedent. You would not be pioneers."
    "Would he die then, if we removed the respirator?"
    "He hasn't done well the times we tried to wean him from it." "But—no, stop," Sam says. "I can't talk about this anymore right now."

    *    *    *

    "Mr. and Mrs. Galligan?" I opened my eyes and was right back in the waiting room outside the MRI department. A doctor I had never met was standing over me, holding a thick sleeve of MRI photographs. He was tall, pale, his back sagged. "I'm Dr. Angus. I'll be on rotation for the next few days."
    My tongue felt as thick as a slab of putty.
    The doctor took me into a small room, where he placed several large sheets of film on the light boxes mounted on the wall. Each photograph showed an individual slice of my son's brain. I stood mute, while he explained about gray matter, and white matter, and light spaces, and dark.
    "It's a good sign that it looks normal, Mrs. Galligan," the doctor assured me.

    *    *    *

    When I got back upstairs, Dr. Jonas was in the room examining Elijah on his morning rounds. When he left, Sam left, too. For a run, Sam said. Every day he ran, even here, even now. How could he carry on as if nothing had happened? I almost expected him to announce that he was going to drive up to Westport to play in his usual weekly tennis game with Becky's husband. Wouldn't surprise me. He wouldn't want to miss a week, might lose his competitive edge, get out of shape.
    Half an hour later, I saw him come back into the PICU, sweating, holding a box of donuts. I knew him. He was going to leave it for the staff and other parents. How could he still be so friendly when I was marinating in bitterness? For me, Big Time Grief would be a total eclipse, opaque, blocking out everything but itself. I would only be able to see the inside of my own skin, which would be ugly, ugly, and oozing rancor. Grief support? Hah!
    I watched him pass by Dr. Jonas, who was standing with Jimmy's father and mother in a huddle near the other NAR. He walked right past them and placed the donuts next to the coffee machine, then stood there for a moment, his head bowed.
    He came to the NAR doorway and stopped, his face ashen. "Oh. My God," he said softly. "When I walked by Dr. Jonas, I heard him say to Jimmy's parents, 'I'm afraid there's nothing more we can do. I'm very sorry.'" He dropped into the chair next to Elijah's bed. Softer still: "Good thing I didn't interrupt for donuts."
    The next time I looked out I noticed that the door to the other NAR was open. The curtains were pulled back, the bed had been stripped, and the machines were resting comfortably.

    *    *    *

    "Did you see it? Did you see it?"
    The ghost was perched on top of the Coke machine, legs dangling over the edge, guitar on his lap. He seemed more substantial now, the edges of him more defined, more solid. His skin even seemed less pink, though it was still more the color of cotton candy than flesh. Gone were the bell-bottoms. Gone was the doctor garb. Now he was playing patient. Of course, the effect was marred somewhat by muddy boots and by the leather jacket he had on over his speckled hospital gown. Planted next to the Coke machine was a rolling IV pole with a tube that ran from a bottle of pink liquid into the sleeve of his jacket. I didn't look too closely at that pink liquid, which seemed to be moving, very fast.
    "Did I see what?"
    "The Angel of Death. The Dark One was here this morning. For Jimmy."
    "No," I said.
    The air bubbled like blisters, and he disappeared from the top of the soda machine. The air beside me percolated, and he reappeared with his guitar right there.
    I took a few steps back. Oh, the stink of him, the fetid stench of the grave. He should have looked worse for that smell. And the emanations of heat and cold that swirled around him, that issued from him, the disturbances of atmosphere. It was as if his presence altered the fundamental structure of air.
    He strummed a few