Predominance Read online

  My father was startled by my shocking reaction, and so was Dr. White. I'd never behaved like that in my life. I'd never countered my father in anything before, let alone in front of other people. But there was a strange anger inside of me now that I couldn't explain or control. My dad stood there, silent and embarrassed, while I focused my impatient glare on Dr. White.

  The doctor raised his hand towards my dad, as if telling him it was okay, and finally began to explain. “Victor,” he said, “You've suffered a traumatic brain injury, which caused you to develop a subdural hematoma on top of your brain. And though we removed the blood clot from the surface, an unexplained intracranial pressure remains. The problem is that we have absolutely no idea what's causing it.” He paused for a moment. “I don't know how to say this, Victor, but...well, we weren't expecting you to wake up. At least, not as yourself. The truth is that these types of injuries usually lead to severe brain damage, even death. You, however, in spite of your headache and sensitivity to light, seem to be in relatively good shape.”

  “And isn't that a good thing, Doctor?” I asked, confused.

  “Well, we don't know yet, Victor. There are no precedents. So far, your condition seems to be unique. But I'd be remiss if I don't tell you what we do know.” He sighed. “Your headache is a distinctive sign that the intracranial pressure is compressing your brain tissue. And if that is, indeed, the case, we have only a limited amount of time before you could suffer a massive stroke and…” He trailed off, pressing his lips into a thin line. “Do you understand what I'm trying to explain to you, Victor?”

  “Yes, Doctor,” I nodded, my eyes lost into space. “How much time?” I asked.

  “If the pressure becomes chronic… a week, maybe less.” I felt Dad's hand squeezing my shoulder as Dr. White uttered these words.

  “Thank you, Doctor.” My gratitude was sincere. “The truth… that's all I wanted.”

  “What do we do now?” my dad asked.

  “We wait. The first twenty-four hours are going to be the most important. I've already ordered some diuretics to reduce the swelling, which in turn may help to reduce the intracranial pressure. I'm also going to put him on a very strong pain medication. We'll monitor his progress as we go along.” Dr. White turned to meet my blank stare. “Victor, it's my job to tell you the worst-case scenario. But that doesn't mean we're not going to fight this thing 'til the end, you understand?”

  “I know.” I forced my lips into a smile. “Thank you, Doctor… and I'm sorry about my behavior earlier.”

  He gave me a warm smile in response. “Don't you worry, son. We're going to win this thing.”

  “Thank you, Doctor.” Dad shook his hand.

  “Sal.” Dr. White patted him on the shoulder and left the room.

  I looked up at my father. “I'll need to dictate my last will and testament, Dad. Just in case.”

  He took a deep, shuddering breath. “Are you...are you sure?”

  I didn't dare nod just then—the pain felt like it was splitting my head open—so I just said, “Yes. Just in case.”

  ***

  The next morning I woke up feeling strangely better, my headache gone. It stayed gone as the days passed, and I started feeling like myself again. My fast and inexplicable recovery baffled the doctors, who despite my progress kept me under observation for the better part of two weeks. But after I was able to move around by myself with the help of a wheelchair, I demanded to be discharged. Dr. White complied, albeit reluctantly.

  After spending the entire holiday season in the hospital, I was finally able to go home with Dad. I never thought I'd be so happy to be back in our tiny two-bedroom house in Jersey. There, I was to spend most of the next three months healing.

  My rehabilitation therapy was no easy task, but my dad was there to help me—and so was Mrs. Montgomery, or Mrs. M, as I used to call her. She was a sweet lady who'd been a friend of the family for as long as I could remember. She used to babysit in our old neighborhood, and I became one of her charges right after my mother left. When she learned about my accident, she came over and offered to help. She cleaned, cooked, and did laundry; she even distracted Dad long enough to keep him from drinking. I always thought she had feelings for him, but I guess Dad was too blind to see it.

  But then again, who was I to talk about love? I was twenty years old, and my only real relationship had been during my pre-teen years with Mrs. M's cute little niece Yvee, a blue-eyed angel with whom I used to play hide-and-seek until I left the neighborhood. And though I never saw her again, I often thought of her as my first and only love. Pathetic, I know... but what can I say? Sometimes you can't rule your own heart.

  Mrs. M stayed with us for the length of my recovery, and it was great seeing her again. The truth is that she was the closest thing I ever had to a mother. I loved her, and I know my dad did, too—in his own way, of course.

  After three long months of physical therapy, Mrs. M's healthy soups, and dozens of chess games with my dad, it was time for me to go back to school, and try to put this horrible nightmare behind me. But it was easier said than done. At school, everything I saw reminded me of Xavier... not to mention the fact that I found myself dealing with hundreds of condolences from people I didn't really know. This was definitely not how I've dreamed of becoming popular at school. But all of a sudden, everyone knew my name and story.

  Worse, what had happened in the accident had become open debate. Everybody had their own version, which was really upsetting. One guy even had the gall to ask me if it was true that Xavier's car had exploded in midair, and that Xavier had been burnt beyond recognition. Comments like that really ticked me off... But it was more than that. I knew that something was wrong with me. For the first time in my life, I was unable to control my temper. I literally wanted to punch someone in the face, which was completely out of character for me.

  Late on that first day, I walked around campus trying to clear my head, but something odd soon occurred. My hands started to shake uncontrollably, and my face began to burn, as if on fire. I didn't know what to do. I picked up my pace until I found myself running. Somehow, I ended up in the empty gymnasium, on my knees, screaming. This was the first time I pressed the heels of my hands against my temples in response to the pain—the awful pain that had returned to haunt me.

  That was my first and last day back at school, and the beginning of the end of my life as I'd known it.

  Dr. White gave me the same diagnosis as before, and begged me to go back to the hospital. But I decided to go back home instead. If I was going to die, it sure as hell wasn't going to be in a hospital bed. I wanted it to be in the house where I grew up, with the one person I loved.

  But to everyone's surprise, including mine, I didn't die in a few days, as most doctors predicted; or in a few weeks, or even in a few months. No, soon my headaches became part of my life, along with the sudden outbursts of anger that completely changed my personality. They would come and go, but never for good. After six months of countless tests, the doctors still couldn't figure out what was keeping me alive. But they all agreed on one thing: the now-sporadic intracranial pressure would eventually produce a massive stroke that would kill me. The question was how and when.

  I became pretty emotional about that at first, not wanting to die, and all. But after a few months, I grew depressed, tired, and bitter, to the point that I just wanted to get it over with. I sulked in bed for days. I didn't want to eat, drink, or even shower. I didn't even want to take my meds anymore. I shut down completely, wanting to die. My dad, however, begged to differ—and he didn't hesitate to let me know it the day he kicked my bedroom door wide open.

  “Enough, Victor!” he shouted. “Get up!”

  “What the…” I cursed, poking my head out of the covers. “Dad? What do you want?”

  “I want you to get out of this stinking bed and start doing something productive with your life!”

  “What?—No! I'm dying! Just leave me alone, okay?” I tossed the cover
s back over my head.

  “Get up!” he insisted, this time yanking the covers off me and throwing them on the floor.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” I shouted back. “Why can't you just leave me alone?”

  “Because I love you, that's why!” His voice filled with emotion. “And I can't believe that my son is giving up! A real man isn't always the one who wins, Victor. A real man is the one who doesn't go down without a fight—you understand? Perseverance achieves what good fortune does not reach. Haven't I taught you that? Even when your strength abandons you, you should never lose hope! Because one day, when you least expect it, the solution to all of your problems might just come knocking on your door—a sign that will lead you to your happiness!”

  I started to snap back that he hadn't done such a good job of following his own philosophy, but the words died in my throat when I saw his expression. He glared at me, eyed bright. “Now, you can be skeptical about this and reject it—or you can take a leap of faith and embrace it. But whatever you do, you never—never give up!”

  A knot formed in my throat, and my eyes began to tear. “I'm scared, Dad.” I fought unsuccessfully to stop my voice from breaking.

  He reached for my head and pressed it against his chest. “I know, son… I know. But you're not alone. I'm always going to be with you, even after I'm gone. I promise. You just wait for your sign.”

  I hugged Dad tightly and cried. I decided that from that day on, I was going to stop feeling sorry for myself, and that I was going to try to live the remainder of my uncertain life as normally as possible. I never went back to school, but I continued my studies from home. That made Dad very happy. Between books and endless chess games, we built a routine that lasted almost a year. And although my condition never improved, I began to hope that if I just stayed alive long enough, the cure for my condition would eventually be discovered.

  But it's funny how when you try to climb out of a hole, life will sneak up on you, bash you in the head, and push you back in. That's how I felt the night I received an unexpected phone call from Dr. White, asking me to meet him at his office. I was certain he was going to give me more bad news about my condition... but I was ready. Honestly, I was more concerned about breaking the news to Dad. But to my surprise, my condition was not the subject of discussion that night. I wish it had been.

  “Your Dad came to see me a few days ago, Victor,” Dr. White said without preamble.

  “And?” I replied, watching him as sat at his desk.

  “And we ran some tests.” His eyes scanned the open folder in front of him, unwilling to meet mine.

  “Doctor!” I shook my head. “Please don't do that. Just give it to me straight, all right?”

  His eyes rose to meet my stare, a dreadful expression of sadness overwhelming his face. “His tests came back positive for cirrhosis,” he said, “and I'm afraid the damage is irreversible. I'm sorry.”

  I sprung up from the chair and walked aimlessly around the room, trying to put my thoughts together. But it was useless. “How long?” I asked, finally, stopping in front of the office window.

  “Not long.”

  “Does he know?”

  “Of course. And he asked me not to tell you. Legally, I shouldn't have. But I know how much you care for your father, and I thought it was wrong to keep you in the dark. He doesn't have much time left. I'm truly sorry, Victor.”

  I wanted to thank him, but I was afraid to try to utter the words or even to move from that window. My throat was clogged with an impossible, painful knot, and my eyes were blurred with my tears. All I could do was nod in response to his kindness.

  “I'll give you a minute,” the good doctor said, before leaving the room.

  I saw the reflection of him closing the door in the shiny office window. The bright city lights made me switch focus, and I found myself staring blankly over the New York City skyline, a sight that always used to fill me with joy and optimism. But that night it was a background for misery and gloom. Those were the only feelings that I could fit into my heart.

  I knew some people thought I idolized my father too much, and that my filial love wouldn't allow me to see him for who he really was. But that wasn't the case at all. I knew exactly who my father was: He was an obstinate man who never let go of the pain of my mother leaving us; he was very impulsive; and he chose to drown his sorrows in alcohol almost every day. My father was far from perfect, but he was my Dad. He was the man who taught me everything significant I know—the only person who never gave up on me. And yes, maybe he was never the best friend or the best husband. But who am I to judge?

  One thing I know for certain. He sure as hell was a great father.

  He died one rainy summer morning, and a part of me died with him. But I vowed to keep his memory alive by always remembering his teachings: To never give up, to never go down without a fight, and to know when to take a leap of faith and just believe.

  Chapter Three

  Run!

  I FOLLOWED SARAH-WITH-AN-H out of the shack. By now the fog had completely dissipated, and the sun was rising in its full glory behind a range of beautiful green mountains. I stopped to take a second look of the majestic view. I figured I should take advantage of the fact that, for whatever reason, my eyes were now able to withstand the brilliance.

  Suddenly, the same sense of hyper-awareness that I'd experienced back in the shack overwhelmed me again, as my brain began to connect to my surroundings in the most extraordinary manner. My nerve cells felt like a raw wound being caressed by sandpaper. The acuity of my senses was so intense that it hurt. I could feel every leaf on the surrounding trees rustling in the wind, and the roaring of rushing waters in a nearby river. The light I perceived in the subtlest shades, knowing exactly which combination of colors had produced them—right down to their Angstrom wavelengths. I could hear 37 birds within earshot, and feel the presence of hundreds more, kilometers away, chirping in the trees and gliding through the sky. But the biggest mind-boggle of all was being able to feel the rhythm of Sarah's heartbeat. It was like a soft drum playing inside my head.

  Overwhelmed by the otherworldliness of it all, I reached for my head in an absurd attempt to stop it, to turn it off. But this wasn't something I could just turn down the volume on. Frightened out of my wits, I pressed the heels of my hands against my eyes and began to moan. My sense of balance and coordination betrayed me then, and I collapsed abruptly onto my knees, the rest of my body following. I writhed in pain over a moist patch of dark green grass (Poa alpina, a.k.a. alpine bluegrass; 5,112 Angstroms; 1.17 microliters of water per cubic centimeter) as my eyes took in the immense forest I finally realized that I was in.

  “Victor?” Sarah ran to my aid. “What's wrong?”

  “I don't know!” I bellowed, my voice echoing like thunder in my head. “Help!”

  Sarah kneeled behind me and tried to comfort me. But the closer she got, the more I could sense from her: her heartbeat, the subtle harmonics of her voice, the smell of her sweat, the scent blood on her shirt, even her breathing was now sandblasting the insides of my head.

  I just couldn't handle it.

  “Step away!” I demanded, pushing her aside. But no matter how far away she was, the uproar continued inside my head. “What's happening to me?” I whispered or cried aloud; pain and confusion overwhelmed me.

  “Breathe, Victor! Breathe!” Sarah urged, and added, “Your mind is wandering! Try to focus your thoughts on only one thing.”

  I did as she said, directing my attention on the farthest thing I could sense, the river. The natural soothing sound of the rushing waters, which were merely unbearable at this distance, began to calm me down. Finally it all faded. I waited a few seconds before I found the courage to open my eyes again. When I did, I saw Sarah sitting on the ground, her chest bending at the rhythm of her frantic heartbeat.

  She propped herself up on her elbows and waited. “Better?” she asked cautiously.

  “What's happening to me?” I dem
anded, my voice quaking with fear.

  Sarah's lips parted, as if she was ready to tell me something, finally—but a sudden sharp crack in the distance made us cringe and turn towards the startling sound.

  “Was that a gunshot?” I asked in shock.

  “Oh, no!” she exclaimed. “They found us! Come on, Victor! We have to hide!”

  Taking ahold of my arm, she helped me back to my feet, and led the way back toward the shack. But an unnatural, over-amplified foreboding warned me to turn back. The feeling was so overwhelming that I felt compelled to trust it. “Wait!” I stopped, pulling on Sarah's arm. “We can't go back! We have to hide in the woods.”

  “But, Victor—”

  “Just trust me, okay?”

  I took Sarah's hand and ran into the woods, acting purely out of instinct. The vibrations of dozens of footsteps shaped my foreboding into a realistic danger. I couldn't have known for sure who or how far away they were, not when I was running myself and confusing the vibrations, but what I sensed made me certain of two things: first, they were coming our way. And second, whoever they were, they were hostile.

  Sarah and I dodged deep into the woods and hid behind enormous old-growth trees, trying not to breathe too loudly as we heard them approaching. I was afraid they'd be able to hear us anyway, our hearts were beating so loudly.

  My eyes bulged in surprise the moment I saw them stride down the field. They looked like military personnel, yet their camouflage uniforms lacked branch identifiers. My heightened vision, however, was able to pick out a clear insignia: the letters “R.C.” on their arm patches. Although I didn't know what the letters stood for, I couldn't help but think that I'd seen this acronym before...somewhere. There must've been at least thirty of the men scanning the field, and they were all packing heavy artillery: AK-47s, to be precise. I recognized the equipment from a summer I'd spent with Xavier at a shooting range a couple of years ago.

  American soldiers didn't carry the Russian-made AKs. The clunky but tough and accurate machine guns were the go-to guns for terrorists and militias the world over.