Doctor Sleep (The Shining, #2)(135)

“Either he’ll convince her or he won’t,” Dan said. “We’ve got other business.”


3

Dan Torrance and John Dalton arrived at Massachusetts General Hospital shortly after ten thirty. It was slack tide on the intensive care floor. A deflating helium balloon with FEEL BETTER SOON printed on it in particolored letters drifted halfheartedly along the hallway ceiling, casting a jellyfish shadow. Dan approached the nurses’ station, identified himself as a staffer at the hospice to which Ms. Reynolds was scheduled to be moved, showed his Helen Rivington House ID, and introduced John Dalton as the family doctor (a stretch, but not an actual lie).

“We need to assess her condition prior to the transfer,” Dan said, “and two family members have asked to be present. They are Ms. Reynolds’s granddaughter and her granddaughter’s husband. I’m sorry about the lateness of the hour, but it was unavoidable. They’ll be here shortly.”

“I’ve met the Stones,” the head nurse said. “They’re lovely people. Lucy in particular has been very attentive to her gran. Concetta’s special. I’ve been reading her poems, and they’re wonderful. But if you’re expecting any input from her, gentlemen, you’re going to be disappointed. She’s slipped into a coma.”

We’ll see about that, Dan thought.

“And . . .” The nurse looked at John doubtfully. “Well . . . it’s really not my place to say . . .”

“Go on,” John said. “I’ve never met a head nurse who didn’t know what the score was.”

She smiled at him, then turned her attention back to Dan. “I’ve heard wonderful things about the Rivington hospice, but I doubt very much if Concetta will be going there. Even if she lasts until Monday, I’m not sure there’s any point in moving her. It might be kinder to let her finish her journey here. If I’m stepping out of line, I’m sorry.”

“You’re not,” Dan said, “and we’ll take that into consideration. John, would you go down to the lobby and escort the Stones up when they arrive? I can start without you.”

“Are you sure—”

“Yes,” Dan said, holding his eyes. “I am.”

“She’s in Room Nine,” the head nurse said. “It’s the single at the end of the hall. If you need me, ring her call bell.”


4

Concetta’s name was on the Room 9 door, but the slot for medical orders was empty and the vitals monitor overhead showed nothing hopeful. Dan stepped into aromas he knew well: air freshener, antiseptic, and mortal illness. The last was a high smell that sang in his head like a violin that knows only one note. The walls were covered with photographs, many featuring Abra at various ages. One showed a gapemouthed cluster of little folks watching a magician pull a white rabbit from a hat. Dan was sure it had been taken at the famous birthday party, the Day of the Spoons.

Surrounded by these pictures, a skeleton woman slept with her mouth open and a pearl rosary twined in her fingers. Her remaining hair was so fine it almost disappeared against the pillow. Her skin, once olive-toned, was now yellow. The rise and fall of her thin bosom was hardly there. One look was enough to tell Dan that the head nurse had indeed known what the score was. If Azzie were here, he would have been curled up next to the woman in this room, waiting for Doctor Sleep to arrive so he could resume his late-night patrol of corridors empty save for the things only cats could see.

Dan sat down on the side of the bed, noting that the single IV going into her was a saline drip. There was only one medicine that could help her now, and the hospital pharmacy didn’t stock it. Her cannula had come askew. He straightened it. Then he took her hand and looked into the sleeping face.

(Concetta)

There was a slight hitch in her breathing.

(Concetta come back)

Beneath the thin, bruised lids, the eyes moved. She might have been listening; she might have been dreaming her last dreams. Of Italy, perhaps. Bending over the household well and hauling up a bucket of cool water. Bending over in the hot summer sun.

(Abra needs you to come back and so do I)

It was all he could do, and he wasn’t sure it would be enough until, slowly, her eyes opened. They were vacant at first, but they gained perception. Dan had seen this before. The miracle of returning consciousness. Not for the first time he wondered where it came from, and where it went when it departed. Death was no less a miracle than birth.

The hand he was holding tightened. The eyes remained on Dan’s, and Concetta smiled. It was a timid smile, but it was there.

“Oh mio caro! Sei tu? Sei tu? Come e possibile? Sei morto? Sono morta anch’io? . . . Siamo fantasmi?”

Dan didn’t speak Italian, and he didn’t have to. He heard what she was saying with perfect clarity in his head.

Oh my dear one, is it you? How can it be you? Are you dead? Am I?

Then, after a pause:

Are we ghosts?

Dan leaned toward her until his cheek lay against hers.

In her ear, he whispered.

In time, she whispered back.


5

Their conversation was short but illuminating. Concetta spoke mostly in Italian. At last she lifted a hand—it took great effort, but she managed—and caressed his stubbly cheek. She smiled.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

“Sì. Ready.”