Saving Elijah

woman. "Mrs. Galligan?"
    I was crying. "Please go away," I said to her.
    She nodded and backed out the door.
    "No one there, Dinah," the ghost said. "Nothing behind the eyes. Even Moore will stop telling you Elijah's going to wake up anytime soon, but he still won't tell the truth."
    "Why not?"
    "Well, now that's a good question. Because he thinks he can fix anything. He is, after all, such a genius. He'll still come in every day, and every day he'll shout Elijah's name and pound at his chest. He'll act as if there's a point to doing this. And he'll pay a lot of attention to Elijah's heels and ankles, but he won't tell you why. But I'll tell you. Elijah's toes will already be starting to point downward. An early sign of brain damage."
    "He's going to be brain damaged?"
    The ghost nodded solemnly. "Afraid so. Remember when Angus came and told you it was hopeless, he was vegetative? There was nothing normal in there."
    "But that was just a dream."
    "Well. I see I shall have to spell it out for you. We're not talking a few little neuroglitches, like he had before. We're talking profound brain damage. I'm talking vegetable, babe. Do you know what that means?"
    I only knew from my visions. Tears were slipping down my cheeks. I held Elijah's hand to my cheek.
    "What about the Great Barrier Reef? Why this future, why not that one? Which future is the truth?"
    "You gone deaf or something? Or just dumb. Haven't you been listening to anything I'm saying?"
    I got myself to my feet and began walking away from him, I knew how to put one foot in front of the other. The ghost came along with me as I plodded out of the NAR. It was the middle of the night, a pall and the hush of darkness lay over the PICU. A resident-on-duty looked up from the desk as I passed but said nothing. Outside in the corridor by the Coke machine, I stopped. I could still hear the beat of the respirator in my head, a whoosh, click, pump, pump march, John Philip Sousa in my head, even though I'd left the room. I tried to get my bearings, then went into the bathroom, the ghost behind me, with his accusing, cooing tirade. I looked into the mirror and gasped. All I could see was the reflected doors of the stalls in the mirror and my own face, which was haggard beyond description, blotchy and bloated. I reeled around.
    He was there, of course. Leaning against the tiled wall. Black jacket, black eyes. He flapped his black lips like a whinnying horse. "What kind of mother doesn't set an alarm and go into her son's bedroom and check on him in the middle of the night when he's sick?"
    "He didn't seem that sick!"
    "Well, too bad. Now his brain has been oxygen-starved. He's never going to wake up."
    I clapped my hands over my ears and pivoted around to look into the ghostless reflection in the mirror, preferring that to him. I had to be going mad. Maybe I was, maybe I wanted to slide into oblivion, emptiness, delusion, pain. Not the pain I was feeling now, this fear and grief for my son. Any other pain. Would I trade my sanity for my son's life, then? Consent to go stark raving mad? Walk into it with both eyes open?
    "I don't know. Would you?"
    I pivoted around slowly, the earth turned on its axis. He was there, leaning back against the tiles, just as he had been before. "Would I what?"
    "Trade your sanity for your son? Consent to go mad to save your son's life? That was your question, was it not?" He seemed amused.
    Now I couldn't turn away.
    "Well. Finally, we're getting somewhere," the ghost said. "Of course you'd trade your sanity, what mother wouldn't? How about the famous sense of humor, or your career? What about your marriage, would you trade that? Your so-called morality? Let's be a little creative, shall we? How about your ability to love? Would you go through life without that? You'd have your living child, but you couldn't love him. Hmm."
    I took a breath from deep in my diaphragm. "You're finishing the Faust right here."
    The ghost clapped his hands together, but the sound was muffled, like a faraway slap of thunder, or a bluster of wind. "Maybe you're finishing it for him."
    I stared. "But it doesn't work this way. You can't bargain with God."
    "You see God here? You see anyone here but little ol' me?" He moved toward me, the air gurgled and boiled. "So what about it? Maybe we should try the negative formulation. What wouldn't you exchange for your son? What about your life?"
    The ghost tittered, snapped his fingers like a performing magician, and