Saving Elijah

stop, I saw it was nothing like that. This flat red brick structure with its multitude of huge windows was so new that the construction trailer was still on the property. A stand of laurel surrounded a small monument in the center of the driveway.
    I got out of the car, walked past a receptionist, followed the arrows to
    pediatrics. There were two sides to the common area, each with a row of beds, and in each of the beds some mother's nightmare. Most of the children seemed to be at least somewhat conscious. About half had tubes running into their stomachs or noses. Some were sitting up.
    "But I thought if Elijah didn't get the tube in his stomach they wouldn't take him."
    "Too bad, someone made a mistake," the ghost said.
    I walked through, heard their stories from the ghost: Suzie had been hit by a car, her eyes followed as we passed; Chris had a degenerative disorder, he gave us a weak smile. And in the corner, we came to TJ, who had drowned, and Louisa, who had seizures. It was hard to tell how old they were, propped up in their wheelchairs, limbs twisted inward, eyes bulging, rotating tick tick tick, bodies puffy and bloated. Immobile as rocks. Stone children.
    "This is what happens after a very long time when people are in a true vegetative state, Dinah. They all start to look the same."
    I looked from one to the other, TJ to Louisa. He was right, they did look the same.
    "In the morning the staff moves TJ and Louisa from the bed to the bean bag in front of the television. This is called playtime. At noon they have a bath. Then they move them into the sunlight, not that they can feel the sun on their faces. Oh yes. The staff takes very good care of them. Exercises their limbs and creams their skin and massages their muscles, so they won't be too atrophied, so they won't get sores. They look pretty good, too. They look more alive than me, don't you think?" He puffed himself out, imitating them. "Pretty lifelike, wouldn't you say? Considering TJ's been here for six years, and Louisa's been here for eight. You say I'm cruel."
    A small picture of a toddler was tacked on a bulletin board in back of TJ. "But why don't they turn off the machines?"
    "Watch that loose talk, Dinah. Will you? Summer will turn into fall and winter and spring and then fall will come again. And again. And again."
    "How long?" I whispered.
    "Eight years," he said.
    I recoiled in the definitive wake of this. A sound came from my mouth, half moan, half gasp, as I tried to make myself comprehend it. No. I could not listen for another moment to my future laid out like this. I retreated back toward the entrance.
    On the way out, I passed by a bed where a tiny woman in a white hospital coat, with dark hair cut boyishly short, was tending a young Down syndrome boy with a breathing problem. I froze in mid-stride, unable to turn away as she adjusted his breathing machine, stroked his forehead, touched that boy with those tiny hands, as tenderly as if he were her own child. After a few moments, he began breathing more easily, and she stood up. She saw me then, an anonymous voyeur in the place where they send you when there's nothing left to do with you.
    "I'm Dr. Jane. Can I help you?" Her voice was high-pitched, like a child's voice. "That's what everyone calls me, anyway. You're not one of our parents, are you?"
    "No, I—"
    "Do I know you?" She looked at me as if she thought she should.
    I shook my head and fled.

seventeen
    From then on, the ghost was in the NAR with me every minute, night and day, lounging, strumming, taunting. "You're running out of time," he kept saying. "The Angel is coming. Can't you hear it, Dinah?"
    Once, out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw something hovering over another child's bed, but when I looked directly at it there was nothing to see but air.
    Becky had come faithfully almost every afternoon, but her husband, Mark, had visited only once, and stayed for only a few minutes. He wouldn't look at Elijah, his eyes dart-darted, just the way Dr. Moore's did. I wondered about some of our other friends, the Magills, the Stuarts. They'd called, sent food over to the house, but they hadn't come. By the twentieth day, Becky, Addie, and a friend and colleague named Grace Atkinson were the only friends of mine who'd actually shown up in person. I'd missed a lunch date with Grace, which prompted her to call. During her visit, she said things therapists say, words meant to be empathetic and validating. I was glad when she