WESLEY
I heard muffled voices all around me. My brain was in a fog and I felt as if my mind was stuck somewhere between sleep and reality. I wasn’t exactly sure where I was or who was around me because I had a difficult time getting my eyes to open. I tried to raise my right arm to get the attention of whoever was in the room, but my limb was stiff and immobile. I raised my left arm and cleared away the sleep debris between the bridge of my nose and the corner of my eyes. That simple act felt unusually difficult and I knew I’d been sleeping for a very long time. I finally opened my eyes, but couldn’t focus on anything. Everything was hazy, cloudy and indistinguishable. I became very nervous and feared that somehow I’d become blind and paralyzed. I immediately did a quick body check. I wiggled my toes, moved my left arm, then craned my neck from right to left. Feeling confident I wasn’t powerless, I opened my mouth and attempted to speak. It was then I realized my tongue and throat were as dry as desert sand. I tried to say something, but it was too painful.
“Wesley?” I heard a voice call to me from what seemed like a great distance away. “Wesley, if you can hear me, squeeze my hand.” I felt the warmth of my father’s hand in my own.
“Wesley,” he spoke again. “Squeeze my hand.” It seemed to take every bit of strength I had to grip him. What’s going on? I thought as I willed myself to focus on the blurry silhouette of my father.
“Are you awake?” I squeezed my dad’s hand again to signal I was conscious.
“The nurse is about to give you some pain medicine,” my dad said. Pain medicine? I can’t feel a thing as it is. Why do I need pain medicine? I wondered.
Then without warning, I felt myself slipping away from reality and drifting back into a very deep sleep.
I opened my eyes again. This time I knew I was fully awake because I was able to focus on objects like the bed curtain, the nightstand and the telephone. I slowly craned my neck to the left and saw the blinds on the window were drawn shut. I glanced over to my right and saw my father slumped down in a chair. I attempted to say something, but my lips, tongue and throat were so devoid of natural moisture, I felt as if dry sand had been poured down my throat. I raised my head and glanced down at my body and tried to recall what happened to me. My right arm was in a sling and strapped to my body. My shoulder was burning, as if my skin was ablaze with searing heat. I reached up to touch my shoulder, but it was covered with a bandage. I glanced out the door and noticed a nurse wearing blue scrubs rushing past my bedroom door.
“I’m in a hospital,” I mumbled as I tried to recall how I’d gotten there.
“Hey, champ. I see that you’re awake now.” My dad had risen to his feet and was now hovering above me. I tried to speak.
“No, no, no. Don’t try to talk yet.” Dad waved his hand as he tried to stop me from communicating, but I wouldn’t. I needed water very badly. “Wesley.” He caught my gaze and I tried as hard as I could to speak.
“Water,” I strained my voice to say the word. My father held up his finger, which I interpreted as “wait a moment.”
“Let me get something for you to write on.” Dad stepped away and returned a brief period later with a pen and a pad.
“I know it’s going to be difficult for you to write with your left hand, but write as best as you can.” He placed the writing pad beneath my hand and gave me a pen to scribble with. I tried to write the letter W with my left hand, but it wasn’t going so well.
“It’s okay. Keep going. I think that’s the letter U.” My dad tried to decode my squiggle. I moved my hand back and forth vigorously across the page to scratch out the letter and tried writing again. When I was finished, my dad held up the piece of paper and tried to decipher my scrabbling.
“Let’s see…that’s a W and that’s a T. I’m having a hard time making out the other letters, Wesley.”
Come on, Dad, I thought to myself. Work with me here. Don’t get stupid on me now.
“Wait a minute. I think that’s the letter A.” Dad paused in thought and then repeated the letters.
“WTA.” He looked at the page very perplexed as if he was trying to figure out a puzzle on Wheel of Fortune. “Water! You want some water, Wesley?” he asked.
I nodded my head. I almost wanted to say, “Duh!” But I didn’t.
“Oh, no problem. I’ll get some for you.” He rushed out of the room, calling for the nurse. A short time later a doctor entered.
“Wesley, I’m Dr. Murphy, the surgeon who worked on you.” Dr. Murphy appeared to be in his mid-fifties. He had a mixture of salt-and-pepper hair and eyelids that sloped downward, as if weather-beaten into saggy folds of skin by one too many hours of suntanning.
“I’ve asked your dad to sit outside in the waiting room with your grandmother while I examine your wound.” Wound? I thought. Jesus, what happened to me?
“Now, Wesley, you may feel a burning or stinging sensation.” I nodded as I braced myself for the pain.
“Okay, here we go.”
“Aguuuh!” I tried to howl, but my voice couldn’t produce the kind of painful moan I needed it to.
“You’re one lucky guy, Wesley,” Dr. Murphy explained as he continued examining me. I tried to speak again, but it hurt like hell.
“Don’t talk just yet. I’ll give you some water in a moment. When I do, you need to sip it—don’t gulp because that’s not going to feel good at all if you guzzle it.” After he was done, a nurse came in and sat a plastic pitcher of water and cups by my nightstand. I was glad to see her. I did as the doctor suggested and sipped the water slowly. My first sip was like pouring water on cracked, dry soil.
“I’m going to go get your family. I’ll be right back,” Dr. Murphy said before exiting the room. I drank more water, which caused my stomach to grumble. I suddenly felt as if I was going to puke. I did my best to control the urge, but it wasn’t easy.
Before long, Dr. Murphy returned with my dad and Grandmother Lorraine.
“Oh, I’m so happy to see you.” My grandmother rushed over and kissed me on the forehead. Her lips felt like rose petals. I hugged her with my left arm and held on to her for a moment. When she finally pulled away, I noticed she was wearing a brown blouse with a matching headband. Grandmother Lorraine had blond dreadlocks that cascaded down her back. She was wearing her glasses, which had slid down to the tip of her nose. The brown freckles sprinkled beneath her eyes and on her cheeks stood out against her extremely light complexion.
“I was just telling Wesley just how lucky he is.” Dr. Murphy stood beside my bed, placed his hands inside the pockets of his white lab coat and looked directly at me. “The bullet went straight through your shoulder. The projectile severed your clavicle bone and exited through your back. The bullet could’ve easily deviated and punctured a lung or broken a rib.”
“I’ve been shot?” I asked for clarification.
“Yes, you have. It may take a little more time for everything to come back to you,” explained Dr. Murphy. “Certain types of trauma can cause a repression of short-term memory. You also suffered a concussion when your head slammed against the concrete. The force of the impact to the brain may cause blurred vision, vomiting and sometimes the loss of your short-term memory.”
“He is going to remember everything, isn’t he? Charges are going to have to be filed,” my dad interrupted Dr. Murphy.
“It’s hard to tell. Sometimes in cases like this a person can be told what occurred, but they can’t remember the incident. In other cases, patients have temporary memory loss and experience flashbacks.”
“Is this similar to what soldiers go through?” my dad asked.
“That’s called post-traumatic stress disorder and happens when there is prolonged exposure to mental or emotional events. That’s a little more severe. Overall, I believe that Wesley will recover physically and go on with his life. This particular episode may remain repressed or he could have full recall. Either way, I’ll provide you with information to help him through that part of his recovery.”
“Oh, thank You, Jesus,” my grandmother blurted out as if a great anchor of uncertainty had been lifted from her heart.
“I had his name added to the prayer list at our church. There are a lot of good people pulling for him to make a full recovery,” my grandmother said loudly and clasped her hands. “Praise God,” she squealed. A smile crossed my face as I studied her. Everyone at my grandmother’s church was familiar with her distinguished raspy voice. Nearly every Sunday she would do her fair share of shouting and testifying, yet it was still strong enough to command attention whenever she spoke. At that very moment there was a rapid succession of knocks at the door.
Two uniformed officers entered the room. “Hello, folks. I’m Officer Miles and this is my partner, Officer Davis. I was wondering if we could speak to Wesley for a moment. We need to ask him some questions.”
“Sure. He just woke up not long ago and things are still a little fuzzy. He appears to be experiencing some memory loss,” Dr. Murphy explained.
“Do you remember what happened?” asked my dad as he poured more water into my cup.
“I just can’t concentrate right now,” I whispered as I vainly tried to recall the incident.
“Can you tell me the last thing you remember?” asked Officer Miles as he pulled out a writing pad.
I shrugged my shoulders. “I just remember waking up in this room,” I answered honestly.
“Do you remember what you were doing yesterday?” asked Officer Miles. I paused and tried to remember, but I got nothing.
“No,” I answered as I continued to search my mind for answers or clues.
“We should talk to the girl,” Officer Davis suggested to his partner. “If he can’t remember, it’s going to be difficult to get a conviction.”
“Now hang on a minute. Don’t give up on him. Give him a little more time to recover. He’ll remember.” My dad had gotten upset. “I don’t want you guys to give up because of this.”
“We’ll talk to the girl and then we’ll come back in a day or so to see if he can recall what took place,” said Officer Davis.
“Well, I’m working on getting an attorney,” my dad said.
“No need for you to do that right at this moment.” Officer Miles removed a business card from his shirt pocket and handed it to my father. “Call this number and give them the police report number. They’ll tell you which state prosecutor your case has been assigned to. We’ll continue our investigation and provide them with a report of our findings.” My dad exhaled loudly as he took the business card.
“Get well soon,” said Officer Miles. He and Officer Davis turned and exited the room.
“I’ll go and have the nurse order you some food,” Dr. Murphy said before stepping out.
“Wesley, think back. What happened?” my dad pleaded.
“I don’t know,” I answered truthfully.
“That’s it. Leave him alone,” Grandmother Lorraine interrupted. “Let him get some rest.” I picked up my cup of water and took a sip. Just as I finished off the cup, my mother walked into the room. Without acknowledging anyone, she moved past my father and grandmother and hugged me. She reeked of alcohol and cigarette smoke. After a short embrace she pulled away and glanced accusingly over at my father.
“Don’t say a word to me and don’t start saying a bunch of crap because I don’t want to hear it,” my dad snapped.
“I told you that Wesley was a handful, but at least when he lived with me he never ended up getting shot. Maybe I need to take you back to court and claim that you’re an unfit father,” my mother spat.
“Stop it! Both of you!” Grandmother Lorraine moved between them. “This is neither the time nor place for squabbling. Come on. Let’s go out into the waiting room so Wesley can rest.” Grandmother Lorraine escorted both of them out of my room. I then rested my head on the pillow, closed my eyes and groaned.