Minutiae: A Short Story

 

I got the call just after I landed in London. It was Anna and her voice was shaking.

“Hank, there’s been an accident,” she told me quietly.

I could barely hear her. Putting my fingertips against my exposed ear to block out as much sound as possible, I asked, “Anna? Say that again. What’s wrong?”

“There was an accident,” she said. “Audrey’s been in an accident.”

I couldn’t take another step. I stopped dead in the middle of sitting area of the gate. Passengers filed around me, pulling their roller luggage and muttering under their breaths about the prig who’d clogged the exit in his shock.

“It was bad, Hank,” she said. “She lost her legs. They were just gone. And they could barely keep her alive. Just barely. They’re not sure they can work with anything.”

I couldn’t speak. “What, uh, what-”

“It was a car accident,” she said. “A pile up. She was crushed in her car.”

Sitting in the waiting room, after a thirteen hour return flight, leaning my elbows on my knees and staring down at the speckled white tile, the only prayer I said was, “I need her. Please, God, I need her.”

I’d arrived fifteen hours into a twenty-hour surgery. Still wearing my tailored suit and having forgotten to so much as loosen my tie, it didn’t even dawn on me to eat.

Over the phone as I boarded my plane, Anna told me that the doctors had an experimental option they could try, but it was risky. With no time for details, with no hope for her recovery otherwise, I told Anna to sign whatever she had to sign to get Audrey the treatment. Anything. The cost didn’t matter. I’d sell the house, get another job or five, and beg for money from anyone, everyone.

Of course, sitting there for hours, having no more information on the treatment or her condition, I allowed my mind to flip through the infinite possibilities of how our lives could change forever.

What if she were deformed? What if her face had been warped by fire or the impact of the steering wheel? What if she were no longer exquisitely beautiful or even at all familiar?

It didn’t matter. It couldn’t matter.

She’d lost her legs. So we’d have to change the house. I could have ramps built, get her a badass wheelchair, help train her when they gave her mechanical legs, because she’d want to jog again. It was her therapy, her connection to the world around her. She could get that back.

What if we couldn’t have kids? That was why we’d gotten married—to have children together.

But that wasn’t true. I married her because I loved her. It was a testament, a statement, an act that was proof of my devotion to her soul. There were no conditions on it. I had married her, not our future, not our potential, not our possibilities. Her.

And she was alive. Even if all of her hopes and dreams were crushed out of her, I would change my course and trod a new path with her. Just as long as she was with me.

But what if it failed? What if I lost her?

I couldn’t.

I’d have to call her parents, her siblings, her friends. I’d have to pick out a casket, pick out an outfit, give them a photo so they’d know how to paint her face. I’d have to say goodbye to a body, not to her. And not even her whole body. Parts of her.

I put my head in my hands, letting out a shaky but quiet sob.

Putting her in a hole in some strange park where there were only other strange, cold bodies.

I couldn’t.

I would go mad from having to drive away from her, all I’d known of her, all I’d felt from her, all I’d used to connect to that bright, warm soul of hers.

Our bed. I’d have to sleep alone in it. We’d bought it together. It had only been ours. And I couldn’t sleep without her in it.

Just the other night, I was having trouble sleeping—tossing and turning from the anxiety of my big trip to London—and she’d turned on her bedside lamp, climbed on top of me and pulled off her nightshirt.

Thirty minutes later, we were both sleeping soundly.

Never again? Was that it? Was that strong, responsive body of hers beginning its decay?

I wiped my face, looking  over at Anna as she stared ahead at nothing.

When a nurse came out, Anna was on her feet and jogging toward her.

We’d agreed on that—she would keep the doctors and nurses at a distance to get their updates on the surgery. Because I didn’t want to know. I didn’t want the blow-by-blow, the ups-and-downs of whatever procedures they were performing. I just wanted to know if she made it once it was all over.

Anna returned, her gait relaxed but swift.

I knew all I needed to know with that and Anna sat down silently, giving me no details.

Audrey wasn’t dead. She wasn’t dead.

I bowed my head again, trying not to think about the grief in our friends’ voices when I called them with the outcome—Audrey was gone, Audrey lost her legs, Audrey isn’t the same Audrey.

Regardless, all of that would be true in some way. Trauma like this, it changes people. But, in her core, she’d be Audrey and I’d find a way to reach that again. She’d need to be held—a lot. And she’d want to sleep on my chest or with a hand on my ribs. On any bad day, I could count on her needing me close. It would always soothe her hurting heart to sit in the cove of my arm and feel my random kisses on her scalp as we watched sitcoms.

I looked over at Anna, Audrey’s older sister, and I saw a brunette replica of my blonde wife. Would it always hurt for me to see Anna if Audrey’s face was horrifically warped? Would it always hurt Audrey to see her?

It didn’t matter. With the lights off, with Audrey in bed beside me laughing, it wouldn’t matter.

I needed Audrey. Her heart, her wisdom, her love for me. Unwavering. Unabashed. Unreal.

Shoes came squeaking toward us.

It wasn’t a nurse, but a doctor—a surgeon.

This time, I was on my feet and ready. But not. Not at all. Never ready.

“Mr. Webster,” he said, putting his hand out for me to shake.

“Yes, sir,” I said, looking into his wrinkled yet strangely youthful face and relaxing.

He seemed optimistic, even excited.

“It was a complete success,” he told me.

Anna slapped her hand over her mouth in her relief.

“What was?” I asked. “What does that mean? Can she walk? Is she whole? What does that mean for her?”

The doctor glanced at Anna with a bit of confusion.

“He didn’t want the details,” Anna informed him quietly, hesitantly.

Something was wrong. They were about to tell me something I wouldn’t be happy to hear.

“Well, Mr. Webster, we acted very, very quickly,” he said. “Audrey, she didn’t have time. Not even a minute to spare. The injuries were so extensive that she was bleeding everywhere and we couldn’t stop it. We had to act very, very quickly, and, fortunately, things aligned and we had an opportunity no one has ever seized before. We had a team of specialists, scientists and it was flawless. Truly an advancement that will help so many. So, so many. Starting with Audrey.”

I waited, glancing at Anna and then back at the doctor.

“Why does it seem like something bad has happened?” I asked. “She’s okay, right? You don’t think it would be a ‘success’ if she died, right?”

“No, not at all,” he said, glancing at Anna and giving her a bit of a scolding with his eyes.

Likely, he thought he’d be coming out to a celebration, not a difficult discussion, and our handling of the situation had dampened his triumph.

“Mr. Webster, your wife’s body had been broken beyond recovery,” he said. “There was absolutely no saving her without this particular procedure.”

“Just tell me,” I finally snapped.

“Your wife has been given an entirely new body,” he said.

I stared at him blankly, unable to process his words.

“Mr. Webster?”

“Hank?” Anna asked.

“So she’s fine,” I said. “She can walk and run and we can travel and maybe have kids, right? I mean, they wouldn’t genetically be Audrey’s, but they’d be ours. She’s okay.”

The doctor glanced at Anna again, pressing his lips together.

“What?” I asked. “Is it an older body? That’s fine. As long as she’s not a six year-old.”

“Mr. Webster, she was given the body of the genetic match for her heart and her brain.”

“You transplanted her heart and her brain?” I asked, my voice rising.

“Yes,” he said. “We were only concerned about finding a genetic match so that the new body wouldn’t reject her organs—the organs that make Audrey Audrey.”

“So, okay,” I said. “Why are you acting like I’m about to freak out?”

“It was the body of a twenty-nine year-old man,” he said.

I just stared at him.

“It’s just a body, Mr. Webster,” he said. “Her brain is female and it will regulate the hormones released, so the physique may become more feminized, but-”

“What about a sex change?” Anna asked.

“The physiology is very, very fragile and will be for some time,” he said. “Choosing any additional trauma would be reckless. Surgeries and hormone treatments would do more damage. This is a miracle. If she wakes up and knows who she is, with memories intact, with her relationships in her mental grasp, then she can go on to live a very healthy even rich life.”

But Anna went on. “Her relationship with Hank is the most important thing to her. That connection, that physical intimacy—it’s how she feels connected to him. It’s important.”

“She’ll have it,” I said quietly. “Whatever she wants. We’ll figure it out.”

Anna looked up at me, stunned.

“She’s alive,” I said. “The body is strong and healthy. She’s alive. It’s still her.”

“That’s what we’re hoping, yes,” he said.

She’d been in a car accident, been in excruciating pain, had likely been so close to death that her body giving out would have been a huge relief, yet she would awake in a strange body with my reassurance being the only thing that would comfort her.

It was just a body. He was right. It was only a body. It would still be her in there and she would need me.

“She’s going to have a hell of a lot to deal with when she wakes up,” I said.

“Yes,” the doctor said gently. “But we will be ready with physical therapists, emotional counselors, all kinds of specialists to make this adjustment with as much support as possible.”

“And when will she wake up?” I asked.

“We’re going to keep her isolated because her immune system has been repressed so that the body will better accept the new organs,” he said. “But she’ll be able to hear you. And there will be gloves in the curtains so you can hold her hand in a way.”

“Okay,” I said. “Where is she?”

She was on an upper floor of the hospital in her own large room with clear plastic curtains surrounding her bed, as if she had a communicable disease, when, actually, it was us. The mildest cold virus could kill her.

But was she a her anymore?

The form on the bed was male. He was young, he was thin but muscular, with dark brown, smooth skin, and strong hands. As I neared, I saw that he had a square jaw, full lips, a wide nose and perfectly curly eyelashes. It all fit together, though, and he wasn’t ugly.

She?

It wasn’t her. It couldn’t be.

With my hand over my mouth, I just stared at the form asleep on the bed with large bandages wrapped around the skull and more bandages taped to the chest.

Her mind and heart were in there.

And for days, as I sat at that bedside, staring at that young man’s body, I had time to imagine how badly she would need me when she woke to this. She would want my touch, my embrace, my kiss. She would need to believe I desired her—if not her body then her comfort from my closeness.

Could I? My God, could I?

And what would people think?

If I walked down the street, holding the hand of this man’s body—only my wife feeling it—would people think I was cheating on Audrey? That I was gay? That I was some kind of perverse reprobate?

What would my parents think? What would my parents’ friends think? What would people at church think? Would I have to wear some kind of explanatory t-shirt? And what would it say?

My Wife Had Her Brain Transplanted?

I’m Straight But My Wife’s A New Man?

Don’t Look at Us Like That or My Wife Will Kick Your Ass?

But after all of that, after all of that energy spent on hoping to make others understand, I realized it didn’t matter and the ideal t-shirt only required two words.

F*** Off.

They didn’t have to understand, they didn’t have to approve, they didn’t have a say. At the end of the day, we’d lock the doors on the world and have each other.

I didn’t marry her body. I married her soul. If that was in there, then that was where my heart was safe.

I chose her. I wanted her. I could have her.

We would figure out the details.

One day, when I arrived, they told me they had moved her to another room. I’d have to take a special shower and then put on the clothing they provided along with a mask before I could enter her room directly from that shower stall.

After days of watching the still, serene form in the bed, the doctors cut back on the sedation and her eyelids fluttered and opened, in search of something.

The search ended when her gaze settled on me.

I sat on the edge of the bed, already holding her hand.

“Hey, baby,” I said.

“Hank?” she asked weakly, startling herself with the strangeness of her voice.

“It’s okay,” I said, calming her. “Things will seem strange for a while, but it’s okay. We’ll be okay.”

She smiled weakly, the full lips parting slightly to show straight white teeth.

“I have a headache,” she said. “Am I hungover? Did I have fun? Did I finally beat you at drunk arm wrestling?”

I laughed. “No, but I’m sure you’ll beat at me arm wrestling no matter what from now on.”

She examined me for a moment and then looked around at all of the machines and tubes and then she looked over my weird outfit.

“What happened?” she asked.

“You were in an accident,” I told her.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

That was so her. Always checking on me first.

“You look tired,” she said. “Are you hungry?”

“I’m fine, Audrey,” I said, putting my gloved hand on her stubbled, warm cheek. “I’m good. I’m really, really good. Now. Finally.”

And I bowed my head to hide my tearful eyes.

It was her. She was in there. It was really her.

The rest was just details. Insignificant yet miraculous details.

She squeezed my hand, seeming instantly peaceful when I smoothed my thumb over her rough knuckles.

My touch could reach her heart and warm her soul. She’d want more and I’d give it.

She was her, and we were us, and I was lucky. Lucky as hell.  

 

KJeffries

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