Bestowel by Kashna Dass

It happened so fast, like a scene straight out of a movie. We rolled to a stop as the traffic lights turned red. One second we were reminiscing about our recent holiday and the next, out of nowhere, two masked gunmen appeared, one at Ross’s window and one in front of the car.

‘Get out! Get out!” Screamed the man in front, gesturing wildly with his gun, while the other tried repeatedly to open the door.

“Do as he says Lane!” Ross said in a tense voice. He reached across, unclipped my seatbelt and then reached for his. It spurred me into action. I released the handle and was about to get out when I noticed that he struggled with his belt, his haste making him clumsy. Frantically, I tried to help him release the jammed clip but it was stuck. 

“Go” he said, helplessly pleading with me. I shook my head when his hand covered mine. We heard the door open, but didn’t acknowledge the intrusion. Blinding pain tore across my scalp as I was yanked out of the car and thrown to the ground.

“Leave my wife alone!”

Scrambling on my hands and knees I tried to get back into the car. I could feel the grit of the tar digging into the skin of my knees. Ross still struggled with the damn seatbelt clip while the other man still tried to get the driver’s door open. 

“Hurry Ross!” I looked at him trying to twist out of the seat belt. The sound of a car horn blaring, made us both turn to the sound, grateful for the interruption.The driver of the car looked at me, then behind me into the car and his eyes widened. I whipped my head around to see the second gunman aiming his gun at Ross’s head while Ross looked at me, a look of resignation on his face. I opened my mouth to scream but the loud, violent retorts from the gun drowned out my warning.

I saw his body move like a rag doll with each shot, violently throwing him forward. I scrambled inside crying. I grabbed Ross, pulling him toward me. Desperately, I searched for a pulse.

There. A faint beat, like a whisper in the wind. 

Shaking with relief and adrenaline I tried to stop the bleeding from the wounds, desperately pressing his head into my chest while simultaneously trying to stem the bleeding from his neck.

“Help me! He’s alive! Help me get him to a hospital!” I screamed to the driver.

“Oh Shit, he said, when he looked into the car.

Just like the hijacker, he pulled on the handle trying to get the door open. I pressed the central locking but it slipped from the blood on my fingers. I wiped my hands down my pants and tried again, it disengaged. He reached in to release the seat belt, “It’s stuck. It’s stuck.” I repeated expecting him to understand.He tried anyway. To my incredulity it released on his first try. He pulled Ross out and we carried him to the man’s car.

*          *          *

I look down at the small bandages covering my knees where a nurse had picked out bits of tar and stone before dressing it. She had done the same to my palms but didn’t dress the scrapes. I winced at the memory of the stinging sensation, thinking that it was nothing compared to Ross’s injuries. They had taken him into emergency theatre and it seemed like hours had passed since I’d arrived here.

“You can use the restroom down the hall to clean up.? If I hear anything I’ll come and get you.” promised the same nurse as she recognised my hesitation to leave the waiting area.

The restroom was like every other hospital restroom. Cold and clinical, it smelled of industrial detergents. The reflection that stared back from the mirror was me but not me. I had blood everywhere, on my arms, on my clothes, in my hair and on my face. Ross’s blood. After scrubbing my face and hands almost raw I walked back to the waiting area to sit.

As I passed the nurses station, she gestured to a police officer. He said that they had recovered our car and wanted to give me my purse in case I needed it. They would speak to me tomorrow, at a more convenient time. He wished me good luck for Ross and left to get a statement from the gentleman who helped us.

What must have been minutes later, I was approached by an attractive woman in scrubs. She looked to be in her forties, and I assumed she must be Ross’s surgeon.

“Please can you tell me how my husband is doing? “I pleaded.

“Hi Mrs. Neil, I’m Nira Sharma, I have just operated on your husband. Can we sit down?” she asked calmly after taking both my hands in hers.

“Why? Why must I sit? Tell me, does he need more blood?” I demanded, looking down at my stained clothes, as if to explain where all his blood was.

“Let’s sit.” And she pulled me down into the chair next to the one she just occupied. “Is there someone I can call? Family? Friend?” she asked. Her consoling tone sent shivers down my spine. 

“No no no no no no…” I repeated, covering my ears. Instantly I knew what she was about to tell me. I couldn’t breathe. It felt as if someone had sucker punched me. 

“Mrs Neil, I’m so sorry for your loss. We tried everything we could but there was too much trauma to the brain and the brain stem itself. By the time your husband came in, there was significant bleeding and swelling of the brain.”

I held my sides and rocked back and forth. I couldn’t understand. “B-b-but he had a pulse! I felt it. I want to see him!” I demanded, needing proof. Thinking... this must be a cruel lie.

“There was very little we could do.” She pressed on. “When someone is declared brain dead, it means that the brain is no longer functioning and won’t ever again. His heart, kidneys and liver, will work for a very short time. You can see him now. Is there someone you would like us to call?” she asked again. 

I mumbled that we only had each other. She held onto me as my knees buckled and led me to his room.

He looked so calm and peaceful. His head was wrapped in bandages and he was hooked up to a respirator. I took his hand and was surprised by its warmth. How could he be dead?
“This is going to be hard for you to process. There are no brain waves and no response to all the other tests to confirm brain death. He is on life support. His heart will continue to pump with aid and the respirator will, in essence, perform his breathing. Once we disconnect him he will no longer be able to function on his own. He can feel no pain. I can tell you that he didn’t suffer, on being shot he lost consciousness.  I’ll be back soon.” Her words landed like poison arrows, each slowly robbing me of my own sanity.

 I looked at his perfect hands, I traced the veins. I put my face into his palm for a minute and his smell, tormented me.  I wished I could bottle it. The pain seeping into my heart was debilitating.

 He looked like he was asleep. I searched his face for any movement, the flutter of his eyes or a glimpse of his dimples. I used to marvel at how he woke, slowly, always with a smile playing across his lips before his eyes would open. I’m willing, with every cell in my body, that his lips pull apart in that familiar smile. Nothing. 

Loss, fear and anxiety well up in me, it has no place to go. For the first time in years, I have no hope.  I put his face in my grazed palm, feeling his dark stubble tickle. I will never see that beard grow grey.

A hundred ‘what ifs’ were going through my mind, but I couldn’t catch a hold on single one.

A light knock scattered my thoughts.

 “Excuse me Mrs Neil, I would like to introduce you to Dr Coutts.” Said Dr Sharma. A tall thin man with a kind face stepped forward and offered me his hand.
“I’m sorry to meet you under these sad circumstances, please accept my condolences. As I understand, neither of you have siblings or other family members. Children?” He asked.

“We thought we had time…” Dr Sharma squeezed my shoulder in comfort.

“I know this may hardly seem like the right time, but the hospital is aware that Ross was a registered organ donor. He was a healthy young man with no history of any chronic illness. He is a definite heart donor match and a potential donor to several other people. We would not like to rush you into any decisions, however the longer we wait the less viable the transplant becomes. He could save up to seven people on the organ donor list. We want you to really think about this, if you have any questions please ask me or Dr Sharma and we will try our best to answer them.”

“Is that the reason he’s still on the ventilator?” I looked between them feeling betrayed.

“Yes. Whenever the patient has given consent the hospital will keep them on a ventilator after the time of death has been established. The blood pumps through as well as certain hormones to ensure that the organs are at the optimum level for transplant. We are a heart, lung and kidney transplant centre.”

“I haven’t even thought of a funeral. What will happen to him?” I asked needing clarity.

Dr Sharma stood next to me while Dr Coutts explained everything. That they would treat Ross with the utmost respect and dignity.  The transplant team would carry out the recovery of his organs with great care. There will be no disfigurement and his body would be ready for a funeral soon after the operation. If I wanted I could have an open casket. Before leaving, their last plea was for me to consider helping others, just as Ross had intended.

They left us alone. The warmth of his hands gave me strength and courage. I know that in my heart I would follow Ross’s every wish. It didn’t come as a surprise that my dear husband would have signed himself up to be an organ donor. He had obviously done it long before we met. He was kind and generous to a fault. This would be his most generous gift, helping others stay alive.

I rose from my chair and sought out doctors Coutts and Sharma. Both had treated me with such compassion, I could see the relief in their faces as I began to speak. I was introduced to the doctor from the transplant team. He too was respectful and put my mind at ease immediately. I was asked to sign various forms.

Reaching into my handbag for my ID, my hand brushed against a box. Shock froze me.

“Are you okay mam?” asked the transplant doctor.

 “I’m fine. There, all signed.” I said while handing him my ID. I couldn’t get to the bathroom fast enough.  

With shaky hands, I withdrew the unopened box that had been sitting at the bottom of my bag for the last four days. There wasn’t a better time than now. Nerves rattled, it took me several tries to open the packaging. I quickly did the deed and waited. Slowly like a mini magic show, two very distinct blue lines appeared on the tiny window of the pregnancy test. I couldn’t breathe I was so elated.

I was wrong earlier, this would be Ross’s last and most precious gift.

By Kashna Dass

2016 SA Writers 2016 College Competition Entry