Chapter 11
1208words
"Mrs. Blackwood," he greeted me, still sounding strange to my ears. "What can I do for you?"
We sat in his office at the east wing of the mansion, a space that felt more like a medical facility than a home.
"I have some questions about Alexander's condition," I began, unsure how to express my suspicions without sounding desperate or delusional.
Dr. Morgan nodded encouragingly. "Of course."
"Is it possible..." I hesitated, then continued, "Is it possible that Alexander is more aware than we think? That he can hear us, understand us, even if he can't respond?"
The doctor's expression softened with sympathy. "It's natural to hope for signs of consciousness, Mrs. Blackwood. Many family members do."
"This isn't just hope," I insisted. "Yesterday, I was talking to him, and I thought I heard him sigh. And I've noticed his fingers move sometimes when I speak to him."
Dr. Morgan leaned forward, his expression serious but not dismissive. "Movement and sounds can occur as reflexes in patients with severe brain injuries. It doesn't necessarily indicate consciousness."
"But it could?"
He hesitated. "There have been rare cases where patients in persistent vegetative states showed minimal signs of awareness. But I must caution you against raising your hopes too high."
"What tests could we do?" I pressed. "To know for sure?"
"We've conducted extensive neurological examinations over the past two years," he explained. "EEGs, MRIs, PET scans. All indicated minimal brain activity consistent with a vegetative state."
I felt my hope deflating, but I wasn't ready to give up. "Could we try again? Maybe with newer technology?"
Dr. Morgan studied me for a moment, then nodded. "I can arrange for a functional MRI. It's more sensitive than traditional scans and might detect subtle brain activity in response to stimuli."
"Thank you," I said, relieved he was taking me seriously.
"Mrs. Blackwood," he added gently, "I understand your desire to connect with your husband. Many people talk to loved ones in Alexander's condition. It can be therapeutic—for you. But please prepare yourself for the possibility that what you experienced was simply wishful thinking."
I nodded, but inside, I wasn't convinced. I knew what I had heard, what I had felt.
***
That afternoon, I brought fresh flowers to Alexander's room. The space was clinical but comfortable, with large windows overlooking the garden. I replaced the wilting arrangement with vibrant blue hydrangeas, then sat in my usual chair beside his bed.
"The doctor thinks I'm imagining things," I told him, arranging the flowers. "Maybe I am. But I don't think so."
I studied his face—the strong jawline, the dark eyelashes, the slight furrow between his brows that never quite disappeared. In the two years since his accident, his muscles had atrophied somewhat, but regular physical therapy had prevented the worst deterioration.
"I've been reading about brain injuries," I continued. "Some patients can hear everything around them but can't respond. They call it locked-in syndrome."
I took his hand, a gesture that had become natural over the past weeks. His skin was warm, his fingers long and elegant—a pianist's hands, I thought absently.
"Alexander, if you can hear me, if you're in there somewhere..." I squeezed his hand gently. "Squeeze back. Just once."
I held my breath, waiting. Nothing happened.
Disappointment washed over me, but I pushed it aside. "That's okay. We'll try again tomorrow."
As I released his hand, I thought I felt the slightest pressure from his fingers. So faint I might have imagined it.
"Alexander?" I whispered, taking his hand again. "Was that you? Squeeze once for yes."
I waited, heart pounding. One second. Two. Three.
Then, unmistakably, his fingers tightened around mine. A weak squeeze, but deliberate.
My breath caught. "Oh my God. You can hear me."
Another squeeze.
Tears sprang to my eyes. "Alexander, you're in there. You're conscious."
Squeeze.
My mind raced with implications. He could hear me. He had been hearing me all along—my one-sided conversations, my confessions about Ethan, my doubts about our marriage.
"I need to tell your mother, the doctors—"
His fingers tightened again, more urgently this time.
I paused. "You... don't want me to tell them?"
Squeeze.
"Why not?" I asked, confused. Then I realized he couldn't explain with just squeezes. "Wait, let me ask differently. Are you afraid?"
No response.
"Do you need more time?"
Squeeze.
I considered this. Perhaps he wasn't ready for the barrage of tests and questions that would follow such a revelation. Perhaps he needed to regain more strength first.
"Okay," I said slowly. "This can be our secret, for now. But Alexander, I'm going to help you. We'll find a way for you to communicate better."
Squeeze.
A smile spread across my face, the first genuine one in weeks. "One squeeze for yes, two for no. How's that for a start?"
Squeeze.
I laughed, a sound of pure joy. "I can't believe this is happening. I have so many questions..."
For the next hour, I asked him simple yes/no questions. I learned that he was not in pain, that he was aware of day and night, that he recognized his mother's voice, and that he had been conscious for months.
"Have you been aware since I arrived?"
Squeeze.
"So you've heard everything I've said to you?"
Squeeze.
I blushed, remembering my candid confessions. "Well, that's embarrassing."
I thought I detected the slightest twitch at the corner of his mouth—almost a smile.
"Did you just try to smile at me?"
Squeeze.
My heart fluttered strangely. "Alexander Blackwood, are you flirting with me?"
Two squeezes. Then, after a pause, one squeeze.
I laughed again. "You're full of surprises."
Our conversation was interrupted by a knock at the door. I quickly released Alexander's hand as Victoria entered.
"I thought I heard laughter," she said, looking between us curiously.
"I was just telling Alexander about something funny that happened at the charity luncheon," I improvised.
Victoria raised an eyebrow but didn't comment. "Dr. Morgan tells me you've requested additional tests for Alexander."
"Yes," I confirmed. "I thought it might be worth trying newer technologies."
She studied me for a moment. "You've been spending a lot of time with him."
It wasn't a question, but I answered anyway. "Yes. I find it... peaceful here."
"Hmm." She glanced at her son, her expression softening almost imperceptibly. "The tests are scheduled for tomorrow morning. I've arranged for specialists from Johns Hopkins."
"Thank you," I said, surprised at her efficiency and willingness to accommodate my request.
"Don't thank me yet," she cautioned. "The results may not be what you're hoping for."
After she left, I turned back to Alexander. "Your mother moves quickly."
Squeeze.
"Are you nervous about tomorrow?"
Squeeze.
"Me too," I admitted. "But whatever happens, we know the truth now. You're in there, and I'm going to help you find your way back."
I squeezed his hand, and he returned the pressure. In that simple exchange, a bond formed between us—unexpected, unplanned, but undeniably real.
For the first time since our wedding, I felt like I truly had a husband.
***
