Free Life From Scratch by Sasha Martin Page B

clearly spent a significant time without oxygen.
    The police wanted to know why there was a woman’s shoe next to Michael. As it happened, Patricia’s had come off as she cut him down. Eventually the misunderstanding was cleared up; Patricia was assured that the questions were just standard procedure. But for hours after the inquisition, her face was redder than her hair.

    We stood in the dingy hospital waiting room while the doctor gave us the news: Michael was trapped in a coma. He was brain-dead.
    Brain-dead. Brain-dead. Brain-dead: The words clattered around in my head.
    “What does that mean?” I finally managed. There was a pause while the doctor looked from me to Patricia. In the silence, my heartbeat hammered in my ears. Patricia stared blankly at the doctor.
    It turned out that Michael had been deprived of oxygen too long, which had starved his brain. The doctor said Michael wouldn’t be able to think or even walk again. When he compared him to a vegetable, I pictured a giant carrot in a hospital bed. It would have been funny if I weren’t so hopping mad.
    When the doctor walked away, I asked Heather for her professional opinion as a first-year medical student.
    “Do you think he’ll wake up?”
    Heather opened her mouth to speak, but crinkled up like a paper bag, dropping her head onto my shoulder. Even as she squeezed me tight, her shoulders started to shake. I wondered if maybe I should cry, too; it seemed strange that I hadn’t since finding him. But I felt empty, all dried up. The only thing I could feel was a twisty sort of feeling in the pit of my stomach, as if I’d swallowed an octopus.
    I ran to the bathroom and threw up.

    Though Pierre cut his work trip short, it still took him another day to get a flight home from Paris. The first person Patricia contacted was Mom. Mom later told me that Patricia was crying so hard Mom could hardly understand her.
    Over and over again Patricia apologized: “I’m so, so sorry. Michael had a terrible accident.”
    The more she apologized, the more alarmed Mom grew. Before Patricia could tell her what happened, Mom hung up. She was about to leave for her new job at the Boston Trial Court, where she did data entry. She could tell that the news, whatever it was, was going to be bad—really bad. She says now that she couldn’t face hearing it because once she did, she could never unhear it.
    Patricia didn’t call her back.
    When Pierre got home from his trip, he called Mom a second time and told her she had to come to Atlanta to see Michael. He was matter-of-fact. Still, he wanted to wait until she arrived to reveal the details of what had happened—until they could speak face-to-face. But when Mom insisted he tell her right away, he gave in. She made flight arrangements immediately.
    Pierre was good at handling tough situations. But as the day unfolded, his presence failed to calm Patricia, who continued to walk through the house in a fog. Though she fulfilled her parental obligations, something wild settled into her green eyes.
    Although the neighbors brought casseroles over, Patricia continued to cook, almost out of nervous habit. She turned the radio on louder, laughed harder, and made more food than ever before. Sometimes she piled dozens of boiled potatoes on the table. Other times she made a five-eggplant ratatouille so big that we had to hold our plates on our laps to make room for the casserole. No one had much of an appetite, so most of her creations were left untouched. Still, she cooked.
    I split those first shattered days between home, school, and the hospital. Every time I passed Michael’s room, I held my breath, straining as if I might hear his footsteps again. School days started late: Patricia brought me in later after homeroom. She never explained why, but my friend Alyona confided that the principal was giving updates about Michael over the intercom during morning announcements.
    Anger bubbled under my skin. If they were going to be talking