Taming Cross

I run a few steps back toward Evan’s room before I think to check—just see. Maybe David left the thing open. I run a few dozen yards down and SCORE. The door is cracked.

I’ve only seen the room once, and I don’t bother to see if it still looks the same, or what is in it. I fly into the massive, kingly bathroom, unlatch the door to Evan’s room, and burst inside like a marauder.

I don’t know what I was expecting, but what I see isn’t it. Evan is lying on the floor, curled over on his side, clawing his left hand with his right one and banging the back of his head into the three- or four-inch space between the floor and the bottom of the low-slung bed frame. His eyes are squeezed shut, his teeth are clenched, and he’s breathing like someone who’s in a lot of pain.

I close the space between us and drop down on my knees. I stare into his twisted face, realizing that the dark stuff on his lips isn’t a wine stain; it’s actual blood. He bites into the lip again, and I clamp my hand over my own mouth.

“Evan…” I whisper. “What happened?”

He doesn’t make a move to open his eyes, only lifts his face just a little and draws his left arm up to his chest. The fingers of his right hand claw at his forearm; it’s already lined with deep red scratches.

He moans again, and turns his head so the sweat on his forehead and face glistens in the low globe lights embedded in the ceiling. Another moan, one that sounds less human, followed by some more deep breathing. When he exhales, the sound seems like it’s coming from the bottom of his lungs.

“Evan?”

“Sorry,” he moans.

He curls over more tightly into himself and brings his right arm behind his head, pushing down against the back of his skull. He whimpers, and I’m pretty sure I’m going crazy watching this.

My hands are itching to touch him, itching to smooth his hair and find out where he’s hurting, but I’m scared to hurt him more.

I shut my eyes as low, hoarse sounds of anguish come from his throat. He’s tugging at his hair now, flexing the fingers of his left hand—the one he said he couldn’t move. He lets out a bunch of little moans, like someone’s hurting him and he just can’t get away. Then he pants some more, and I get on my knees and move around him, looking for something to explain this.

“Evan, can you talk to me? I want to help you.”

“Can’t,” he grits out.

“Was it the alcohol?”

He presses the palm of his right hand against his forehead, opening his mouth more so he can breathe more deeply. “It’s the…wreck.”

His eyes screw shut, and I’m astonished to see tears slip down his cheeks. He gathers his knees up near his chest and bites his lip again, and I’m positive I’ve never seen anything more painful-looking in my life.

I take my own deep breath, sitting up on my heels beside him. “You don’t mean this wreck, do you? You mean the one before. The one where you hurt your neck.”

He sucks back a half-sobbed breath. “It’s the nerves.”

He grits his teeth and his body trembles as both of his hands make fists. I shut my eyes and try to process what he’s saying. I’m not a doctor or a nurse, but I know the spine is made of vertebrae, the bones; discs; joints; and nerves. When you damage bones and discs and joints, the nerves can get pinched and damaged.

“Does this happen a lot?”

His breathing is faster now, like he’s building to something, and I wonder if he’s going to hyperventilate.

“Can I get you pain meds? I think there are some here.”

His eyes flip open. “No,” he growls.

His words sound almost slurred, but his eyes hold onto mine until I nod. “Okay. I won’t if you don’t want it.”

And it’s like while he was speaking to me, the pain caught up with him, because he’s covering his face and breathing really loudly again now.

“Evan, I want to help.”

“You…can’t.” He’s panting, and his face is so pale, I wonder if he might pass out.

“What do you do to help the pain?”

He swallows, and there’s a faint shake of his head, followed by an awful moan.

“How long does this last?”

He claws at his face, then starts to pull his hair again. “Day…or so.”

I almost fall over. A whole day. That…can’t be real.

“Can I do anything for you? Help you to the bed? Do you want me to rub your back? I do massage sometimes. On children who’ve been injured. I’ve helped with pain management before…” and one of the key components is to do a few different stimulating things at once.

“Will it hurt you if I touch you?”

“No…worse,” he pants. His eyes slide open just long enough to meet my own.

“I’ve got an idea,” I say.

I’m vaguely aware that I’m walking through a room and Merri is holding me around the waist. I’m shaking pretty bad and leaning heavily on her. We come into a bathroom and the black tile is cool on my feet. I’m leaning over, looking down my legs. My left hand burns like a billion needles from the gunshot wound. I spread my fingers wider because the pain of the gunshot is better than the agony coming from my neck.

Pretty soon I get a bolt of pain that makes my knees give out and I’m on the floor again, but she’s urging me toward this big room. It’s a shower. Big shower room. The tile is cold on my face. I think I like it. There’s water. Don’t like the water. Then her hands. Those hands on my neck. God, my back. Those hands know what the story is.

Cold water. Hot water.

“Jus’ keep rubbing.”

I work his back and alternate cold and hot water from different jets in Jesus’s mega-shower. I sometimes whack him on the butt with a back-scratcher and other times I scratch the bottom of his feet. I learned this from Sister Mary Carolina. When someone’s in severe pain, you can sometimes distract their brain from processing the pain signals by sending other signals. Signals for things that are only uncomfortable, like water that’s a little too hot or icy cold, or long nails scratching the soles of someone’s feet. I rub his back hard, like I’m trying to punish him. Most people get a lot of pleasure out of a borderline painful rub, but in Evan’s case, that’s not the point. I’m just trying to distract his brain from whatever’s going on with his nerves.

I remember from the time I caught a bullet near my knee, that when my bed was super comfy and someone was stroking my hair, that’s when my wound would hurt the most. I’d notice it less when a lot of things were going on. I would beg Jesus to take me out in his car with him, just to escape the pain.

I don’t want Evan to be comfortable enough to feel his pain. I want to throw a million things at him, at once.

I exhaust myself, changing his environment. Hot water, cold water, slapping him, kneading, scratching. At one point he moans, “Pull my hair,” so I go to work on that. The harder I pull, the happier he seems. “That’s good,” he moans, and I think I understand why his mouth was bleeding.