Angels Weep

Chapter One

All stories are about wolves. Anything else is sentimental drivel.

~ Margaret Atwood

Morgan Ames had died. There was no arguing that. The only fact currently under debate was: exactly how many times?

One of the nurses helping to change Morgan’s bed insisted the chart said three: twice in the ER and once more in the OR. His breath smelled of chili peppers and onions as he rolled Morgan’s lifeless body toward him and hugged her close to allow the other aide to wad up the bottom sheet and shove it below Morgan’s hips.

The second nurse then rolled Morgan toward her, overtop the heap of soiled bedding. Her breath was minty toothpaste. Her arms were strong against Morgan’s limp limbs, but there was nothing affectionate in her embrace. Morgan was simply one more chore to be crossed off a list before end of her shift.

Four, she argued. Somewhere in the avalanche of memory that kept Morgan buried, she knew the woman was talking about her, but it was as if everyone—including Morgan, or the girl who had once been Morgan—was so far away, they could have been on the dark side of the moon. It had nothing to do with Morgan; certainly it wasn’t as important as clean sheets with no wrinkles to irritate and rub bedsores into her motionless, dead-weight body. You’re forgetting she had no vitals at the scene. Still can’t believe she flew an ATV off the side of a mountain to take out a serial killer. Must’ve been a brave kid once upon a time.

Or stupid, the man answered. Besides, that first time doesn’t count—she was hypothermic. You’re not dead until you’re warm and dead.

With brisk motions, they tucked the sheet below the mattress, turned on the air jets that made Morgan float and prevented bedsores, and moved on to the next bed in the ward with its own not-quite-dead, not-quite-alive occupant.

Morgan never did learn how many times she’d died before the avalanche buried her deep in a grave filled with white static and pain.

As Morgan drifted in a place where time was meaningless, she tried to create a list of what she knew for certain. Facts. Road signs to guide her back to her life.

1. Fact: She’d died. Get over it.

2. Fact: She was in a coma but the nurse was excited because she’d now moved into a minimally responsive state …words were weird… people were weird… why did they keep poking her and then clapping when she swatted them away?

G. There were numbers more than two but they floated out of reach.

Zelda. Her nose itched and she couldn’t scratch it. Was this hell?

% Given what little she remembered of her life, she definitely deserved to be in hell.

42. Her father was dead. And rotting in hell.

? So maybe she wasn’t in hell since he wasn’t here with her.

! No hell could be worse than an itch she couldn’t scratch.

R. There was a fly buzzing near her eyes. Sticky goop made her eyelids itchy, too.

> Micah brought sweet smells when he came to visit. Hmmm…so nice.

@ She more than liked Micah.

& Micah knew to swat the fly, wipe the goop, and scratch her nose for her.

Coda. Micah left and the world turned cold, the avalanche tumbling her back down into oblivion.

FACT. People dug themselves free of avalanches.

Fact + Secret & Fear - Powerless = Need: Someone was hurting the patients here.

# Query * Was she next?

Chapter Two

Micah Chase stood outside the Pittsburgh School for the Creative and Performing Arts and waited for his mom to pick him up. He was trying hard not to feel frustrated at losing his driving privileges, reminding himself that when he was younger and attended the middle school where Mom taught English, he’d actually enjoyed their daily commute, loved having her all to himself for a few minutes each day.

But he was seventeen now, a full-grown man who had faced more than most adults ever would. Watching the other students rush to their cars and drive off wherever the hell they wanted, he couldn’t help a surge of anger. All he’d done was help a friend—a girlfriend? The word was too small to describe his relationship with Morgan. Some days he felt as if he didn’t know her at all; other times she made him feel as if he were the only person on Earth she’d shared her secrets with, who she really was. Then there were the days he felt as if he wanted to spend the rest of his life getting to know her.

Anyway, they hadn’t done anything wrong. They’d stopped a serial killer and saved a bunch of people. That was a good thing, right?

Given his recent brushes with the law—defending a woman from her drunk boyfriend had cost Micah a year of his life in juvie, not to mention the scar from where the boyfriend had tried to slice Micah’s neck open with a broken bottle—his moms did not think so. Especially his Ma, who was definitely stricter than schoolteacher Mom, the result of running an underwater welding crew, where following the rules was what kept them alive every day.

Still… Mom’s cheerful yellow Prius pulled to the curb. Several of the kids chatting nearby stopped to watch as Micah folded his six-foot length into the passenger seat. I get my car back next week, right?

And how was your day, sweetheart? she replied, with an arched eyebrow. Mine was fine, thanks for asking. And you’re welcome for the ride home.

He slumped back, in no mood for what grownups considered witty banter. So lame. Why couldn’t they ever focus on what was important? Can you take me straight to the rehab center? I’ll take a bus home.

Her lips tightened enough they went pale, making her lipstick look like too-bright paint. Why not come home with me? We can cook dinner together. Ma texted she’ll be home early. We can all go to the movies or do something fun.

As if sitting at the bedside of his comatose girlfriend—friend—the girl who’d saved his life more than once—weren’t fun? No thanks. I want to get my homework done.

It’s Friday night. If you don’t want to hang out with your Ma and me, maybe some of your friends?

As if he had any friends left. After spending a year in juvie, they were all seniors, prepping for graduation, while he’d been taking double the class load just to finish junior year. Thankfully, Mom had pulled a few strings to enroll him in the Arts high school, where, with its flexible academic program, he could catch up. But all the kids he’d grown up with and known all his life had been left behind back at Schenley High.

Mom. He turned to face her, even though she had her eyes on the road. Morgan is my friend.

Her too-fake-sweet-voice spiked a nail in his hope she’d someday accept that fact. I know, sweetheart. But, your Ma and I, we don’t think it’s healthy for you to be spending all your free time cooped up in a hospital. She waved a hand toward the world outside the Prius. It’s April, the sun is shining, the flowers are blooming—I hear rumors of some kind of junior prom? She ended the last on a hopeful uptick. Bethany called the other day asking for your new cell number. Did you ever get back to her?

Bethany was cute—they’d been friends in grade school and middle school—but that was ages ago. Bethany sure as hell was no Morgan. Morgan needs me.

Morgan doesn’t even know you’re there.

You don’t know that. Dr. Lazarus said patients in her condition—

Honey, she’s been in a coma for almost three weeks.

No, she was in a coma. He rolled his eyes. Did no one ever listen to what he told them? She’s been upgraded. Minimally responsive state.

Which is medical jargon for may or may not ever wake up, and who knows what she’ll remember or be able to do if or when she does? They came to a red light. She glanced at him, her eyes creased with concern. I love that you care so much. Especially about a girl who has brought nothing but trouble into your life.

She saved my life!

She’s lied. To everyone. Did you even know she was only fifteen? Or who her father was? I mean, seriously, Micah, she’s the daughter of a serial killer. And she’s a killer herself—

He opened his mouth to protest, but she shushed him with a wave of her hand. I don’t care if it was self-defense. She’s violent. Dangerous. Your Ma and I have supported you because you’re a good person and have such a big heart and she did maybe save your life and we know you think you owe her your loyalty. But enough is enough. You need to move on with your life. You’re only seventeen. Much too young to be pining for a girl you’ll never have a future with.

He slumped back as far as the seat would allow and crossed his arms over his chest. She doesn’t have anyone else.

That wasn’t exactly true. Morgan’s employers, Jenna Galloway and Andre Stone, visited her almost daily. Well, Andre did. Jenna mainly sent flowers and was footing the bill of the private neurorehab clinic. And Micah had seen Dr. Callahan, Morgan’s psychologist, there along with his wife, who was some kind of hotshot FBI agent who’d sent Morgan’s dad to jail before he escaped. But when the authorities learned she was only fifteen, they had made Morgan a ward of the state. So Dr. Lazarus and some social worker, who as far as Micah could tell, never came to visit Morgan, were the ones in charge of what happened to her.

That was going to totally piss her off once she woke. Morgan did not like anyone interfering with how she ran her life or telling her what to do. As soon as she woke, she’d probably run away, and return to her life of lies and deception.

Which scared Micah more than her coma. He was certain she was going to wake up—when she wanted to. He wasn’t as certain if she’d let him stay in her life. Every time he walked in the door of the ward she shared with five other patients, he braced himself to see her empty bed, to be told that she’d woken and left him behind.

Mom misinterpreted his silence for sulking. I’ll take you there today. Give you a chance to say goodbye. Then we’re moving on with our lives.

Chapter Three

Andre Stone didn’t have much time. Not because the nurses would kick him out—once they got used to the sight of a bald, six-foot-two black man covered with burn scars hulking through their halls, they were fine with him coming to visit Morgan’s ward any time he wanted. The children, the ones conscious enough to see and hear him, didn’t mind either—his appearance hadn’t bothered them at all.

Their families had maybe looked twice at the battle-scarred former Marine sitting and reading out loud from a tattered book of fairytales, but once they saw how the children loved to listen to his rumbling voice, they soon welcomed his presence.

Even Dr. Lazarus didn’t mind Andre’s visits to Angels of Hope—he welcomed any intervention that might help his patients or at least soothe the passage of time. Because, as he often said, it was the interminable boredom of being trapped inside your own mind that led to decline. That was why he used unconventional therapies, such as housing similar patients in six-person wards and encouraging families to socialize—although Andre had noticed the doctor had failed there; it was simply too much strain having a child facing such overwhelming odds, and it didn’t leave families with spare energy for niceties.

It had taken Andre a surprising amount of courage to start reading out loud—the surgeons had rebuilt his mouth with muscle from his shoulder, and it didn’t work quite as well as his real one used to. Scar tissue was always threatening to twist and tighten his new mouth, leaving his speech a bit sibilant and with occasional spittle. But once he realized that the children didn’t mind, he quickly got over himself.

Morgan’s unit had four girls and two boys, all trapped in the same strange twilight that was minimally responsive. She and one of the other girls lay motionless, requiring special beds to prevent pressure sores—the same type of bed Andre had occupied during his burn rehab. He’d grown to despise the thing, with its mechanical noises rousing him from what little sleep he could find whenever the air pumps adjusted the mattress. But now he wished it were louder, more annoying—annoying enough for Morgan to sit up in frustration, reach for the nearest sharp object, and stab the mattress to death.

Of course that hadn’t happened. They’d hoped she would wake after her last surgery. Her vitals and brain waves had all improved dramatically, and the doctors said she was very close to waking…but…nothing. The doctors called it a plateau: said she might still improve gradually with time; or she might never improve, and this was the best she’d ever get; or she could deteriorate back into a full-fledged coma; or she could simply, one day, wake up.

Neurologists were difficult to pin down, Andre had learned once he accepted their inability to actually predict anything. Thankfully, Nick had translated for Andre and Jenna. That’s when Jenna had gone into her I’ll go crazy if I don’t have something to do other than sit and wait mode, researched all their options, and settled upon Angels for Morgan’s rehab. Jenna rarely visited—she didn’t do guilt well and had no patience for sitting helplessly—and when she did, it was usually late at night when she couldn’t sleep. Dr. Lazarus encouraged visitors at any hour, recognizing that his patients needed the human contact more than a regimented set of rules.

Andre glanced at the clock, gauging how much longer the story would take. He’d be cutting it close, but should be able to finish before it was too late. He was reading the children Donkeyskin from Perrault’s fairytales—one of the original Cinderella stories, much darker than the Disney version. Who knew the French could be so ghoulish?

Morgan, of course, lay perfectly still as he read. But the four children in the unit who hovered on the edge of awareness, the ones in almost constant frenzied motion, who required special padded beds resembling large cribs, complete with overhead zippered canopies to prevent their agitation spilling them out onto the floor, they also lay still, their faces all turned to the sound of Andre’s voice. As soon as he closed the book, they’d return to their nonstop purposeless flailing, but at least for now, they had a reprieve. It was what kept him coming back—the hope that if he could reach them, maybe he could