FRESH AIR
　

By Olga de Klein

To my son Adrian Gomez, who shared himself in life and beyond..."

01/06/1982 - 11/07/2002

“Oh my god, here it comes again.” Jennifer tightened her hands on the steering wheel. It always happened while she was in her car. She would hear a particular word on the radio, and it would catapult her straight into painful images of the past. First, her eyes would mist. Then the tears would come, and they would stream — endlessly — from her cheeks, down her neck into the unseen crevices of her heart. It did not matter what she was doing or where she was. The flashbacks relentlessly brought up the darkness that was hidden within the labyrinths of her memory bank. Lately, however, their erratic patterns had become more precise. They faithfully emerged around noon, while driving on her way to work. Jennifer taught art history at the Community College of Chattanooga. During the 15-minute drive from home she knew that they would appear — normally right after the turn onto Amnicola and before the stoplights at Hobbs. She would be listening to “Fresh Air” on NPR. That particular day, Terry Gross was interviewing Robin Williams about his new movie, “The Night Listener.” With Robin Williams, Terry had warned, you never knew how the conversation would go. “Kind of a metaphor for my life,” she thought and honked at a yellow truck that tried to get into her lane. The chauffeur promptly responded. He waved his arm and flipped her a bird. She laughed, hard and loud. “Get a life, buddy,” she thought and switched her focus back to the interview. They were now discussing “Good Will Hunting”. Jennifer vaguely remembered the movie. Robin, as if on cue, brought up the story. He played a psychiatrist, who had lost his wife two years before. A young janitor, Matt Damon, made him come alive again and move beyond his grief. Grief! The word immediately slashed the scar in her heart — it opened wide and started to bleed. The grief was not over her spouse, however. Three years ago, she had lost her youngest son.

********

She was painting in the studio when the call came. A paralyzing fear gripped her throat and stomach. She knew something was very wrong. Nobody would call her at school during class hours. When she picked up the phone, her husband's voice was flat and solemn. “There has been an accident. Andrew is in a hospital in Knoxville, they operated on him early this morning.” She did not ask what happened - she did not want to know and did not want to find out the truth. She wanted to delay whatever it was she did not want to hear. She drove home and was amazed that she could. “You need to pack some clothes,” her husband said, “you might have to stay for a while.” She packed a bag, in a daze, like a robot. She was silent while Peter was driving. “Do you want to know what happened?” he said. “No,” she answered. “God, please let him make it, please let him be alive.” She prayed and argued - with herself and with God. But there was an inner knowing. An inner knowing that only a mother can have. That morning she had woken up at 2:00 AM, and could not get back to sleep. She was tossing and turning. She promised herself that if she did not get a phone call by 7:00 AM, everything would be all right. She always made pacts with herself when she had these fears — fears of him not coming home, of losing him. Andrew had called the night before and shared his concern about having to drive his friends to Knoxville. She told him to please be careful, and to call her when he got back. He answered, “I love you mom, I will call you tomorrow.” It was the last time she heard his voice.

When they entered the hospital in Knoxville, the feelings of doom had ravaged her entire being. Peter, Andrew's step dad, still insisted on sharing the details of the crash. She had snapped and told him again that she did not want to hear. She wanted to delay the truth till the end. In the waiting room on the trauma floor Andrew's friends started to come in. They hugged her and sat down, not knowing what to say. She looked at the walls, at them, at the clock, and fought back her tears. At 2:00 PM they were allowed in the trauma unit. Andrew was hooked up on a respirator. She shook him, “Andrew, it's mom, Andrew, can you hear me?” Her husband looked at the nurse and raised his eyebrows. “Mrs. Francis,” her voice displayed more than a professional caring, “he cannot hear you.” The rest became a blur. The nurse asked for permission to put a device in his forehead to take the pressure off. She agreed. “Whatever it takes,” she said, “whatever it takes.” Her husband went home that same evening. He needed to cosign papers for his youngest son's new home. One by one, her friends arrived and they embraced, held hands, and gazed into nowhere.

The night nurse coldly asked, “You know what his condition is, don't you?”

She summed up all what she was told.

“Yes,” the nurse confirmed, “but have they told you about his brain?”

“Oh God, please,” she thought, “let her stop - I don't want to hear.”

“He has no reflexes.” The words came with no compassion at all.

Arthur, her oldest son, flew in from Chicago. He notified their biological father, who lived in Spain. She slowly became numb and started to act as if she was the observer of a nightmare that was not hers.

In between the visits, she would go down to the hospital's main floor. Dozens of Andrew's friends and their parents were camping out in the lobby, praying and hoping, encouraging her, encouraging each other. The second day, when she and Arthur were alone with Andrew, she sensed he was leaving his body. She whispered and begged in his ear: “Please get back in there, Andrew, please!” Twenty-four hours later, a male doctor with dyed blond hair, dispassionately informed that her 20-year old son, her beautiful child, was not going to make it. Andrew was still struggling for his life. She stroked his hair and caressed his face. When she and Arthur held his hands and told him, “It is okay to leave, Andrew,” tears were rolling from his eyes. She knew that he had heard them, even though the nurse on duty mentioned it was built up fluid. She asked if his friends could come to say goodbye to him. They all stood in line outside the trauma unit, entering in silent pairs, kissing Andrew goodbye and telling him how much they loved him. In the meantime Jennifer had decided to donate his organs.

********

She was crying now. Crying and driving - she really had gotten good at that.
She remembered how he smelled, how his soft, young skin felt beneath her fingers. How they wheeled him out of the room, to the operating room, to take his organs. His heart was still beating then. The next time she saw him, he was in his casket. It did not look like him. How could it! The Andrew she knew was full of life, was always laughing and was asking her what she would cook him for breakfast. She remembered how she drove back to her house, with Arthur and a friend. The windows of his bedroom were lit with candles. It was not true, she told herself, and this was all a big mistake. But it was not. At night she would go to his room and cry with her head on his pillow. She could not cry in the house. “What's wrong?” her husband would ask. And she would just look at him, with the eyes of a wounded bird that knows it will never fly again. So she learned to grieve in her car. She would sit and call his name, over and over again. Her body would shake from the violence of the pain - a physical pain, an emotional pain, and a desperate longing to be with him.

She did not even realize she had arrived in the parking lot at College. She sat for a moment and looked in the rearview mirror. Her eyes needed mascara, her cheeks fresh color. She slowly returned to the present time. She sighed, picked up her briefcase, and was ready to meet her students.

“Mrs. Francis!” The voice of the young man stopped her on the way to class.

“I saw the photo of Andrew on the back of the bus. That is so cool you did that. I wanted you to know that I signed the donor card on the back of my license. See you Mrs. Francis.”

“Thank you Thomas,” she said, “thanks for sharing that with me.”