Camp Damascus(33)

My eyes fly open.

I find myself laid out in a similar position, tucked into a hospital bed with various plastic tubes pumping me full of fluids and painkillers.

The chaos of roaring computers and flickering lights has bluntly ceased, leaving me to enjoy the quiet peace of a single, softly beeping monitor on my right.

“Dr. Smith,” I whisper aloud, the words barely slipping from between my cracked lips.

I’m smart enough to know these drug-induced walks down memory lane can be skewed and distorted, that an epinephrine-fueled trip into the depths of my psyche should be the last thing I count on while considering the surgical removal of faith from my life. After all, how can I turn away from the congregation’s wild leaps and unfounded teachings if I’m making wild leaps of my own?

I refuse to walk that path any longer, and hazy memories are not enough.

I need evidence.

Still, there’s nothing wrong with a little psychedelic imagery to point me in the right direction.

I settle into my hospital bed and gaze at the ceiling, anxious to heal. My body can barely move, but my mind is working overtime, plotting away.

Beware a curious person whose attention has been piqued.

11, 14, 15.

I remind myself of Dr. Smith’s private safe code, mentally repeating the digits over and over again.

The door flies open and my parents rush inside, overflowing with raw emotion.

“My baby!” Mom cries out, making her way to one side of the bed while my father moves to the other.

A nurse follows them in, making sure my folks don’t get too riled up and accidently yank out some important medical tube from its socket.

“How are you feeling, Rose?” the nurse asks.

“Tired.” I struggle to push the word out.

“Any pain?” she continues.

I slowly nod my head, prompting the nurse to offer an expression of sympathy. “We’ll bump up the morphine for you.”

The woman strolls over and makes some adjustments. My pain instantly dissolves.

“I’ll give you all a moment,” the nurse explains sweetly, “then I’ll come back to go over some technicalities. The important thing is that you’re here, and you’re stable.”

I consider replying with heartfelt thanks, but this would require far too much energy. Instead, I offer a long, slow blink, which the nurse seems to have no problem translating.

“She’s a fighter,” the nurse informs my parents, prompting them to exchange glances.

The nurse takes her leave and soon enough it’s just the three of us basking in the glow of my gentle heart monitor. I hadn’t realized it, but they’ve already started praying.

I don’t join them, thankful to have a decent excuse at the moment.

As soon as they finish, Luke and Lisa stand up and kiss me on the forehead, gazing into my weary eyes with profound love.

“I know you’re feeling really tired,” Mom whispers, “but there’s a few questions your dad needs to ask you. It’s very important for you to think hard about your answers before you give them, okay?”

“Okay,” I croak.

“I know you weren’t a part of that scene,” Lisa coos before stepping back.

As my mother says this I sense my heart quicken, and it takes every ounce of discipline I can muster to calm myself. The monitor next to me registers this petite spike, but my parents are too wrapped up in their questionnaire to notice.

“What happened out there, honey?” Dad asks.

A little broad for someone who can barely speak.

I rack my brain, struggling to connect the dots.

I know you weren’t a part of that scene, my mother said, but for the life of me I can’t imagine what scene she’s talking about.

The crash? Of course I was there. It was my car.

There’s a hidden layer of anxiety in my father’s voice, a hint at his intention with this particular line of questioning. After all, going through an interview checklist isn’t usually the first thing parents do when their daughter is in a horrible car wreck. Even the nurse had a better bedside manner.

I get the distinct feeling there’s something he wants me to say—needs me to say—and my job now is to parse exactly what that is. I tread carefully.

“I hit a tree,” I offer.

My father nods.

“Must’ve fallen asleep,” I continue. “Driving back.”

“That’s it?” Dad pushes. “Didn’t see anything else out there?”

“Bad dreams,” I reply, my heart rate leveling out again. I take a moment to focus up. “Gotta make some changes. Gotta get right with the Lord.”

My father’s gaze intensifies. “Some people say there’s a trick to ending your nightmares when you’re in them, did you hear? Folks would pay a lot of money for something like that. That’s a million-dollar secret, right there.”

Despite my best efforts, my heart monitor is speeding up.

“Imagine that,” Luke continues. “Nightmares have been around for a long time, and suddenly there’s a cure! You’d probably get some real trouble from the folks selling chamomile tea!”

My father forces a laugh, glancing back at my mother as if she might also find this hilarious, but Mom doesn’t react.

The key to making a good joke is subverting expectations, and the easiest way to do this is through the element of surprise. To spark that involuntary laugh, you’ve gotta tickle a part of someone’s nervous system that’s expecting one thing and is presented with another.