Chapter 3
Fluorescent light buzzed overhead. Gurney wheels rattled down hallway. Cold air hit my skin where coffin lining had been warm.
I heard Daniel's shoes slapping beside me. His hand found mine again. Same grip as over coffin, but now moving.
"Stay with me," he said. Voice cracked. "Elena, stay."
I tried to answer. Throat locked. Chest rose shallow. Breath dragged like through wet linen.
ER doors banged. Voices stacked.
"Thirty-two-year-old female, presumed deceased, found responsive in funeral home," someone said. Clipboard voice. "Thready pulse, unresponsive, bradypneic."
Hands lifted me. Sheet pulled. Stethoscope cold on chest. Fingers pried eyelid open. Light stabbed.
I tried to blink. Eyelid wouldn't obey.
Nurse pressed pulse oximeter to fingertip. Beep started, slow, uneven.
"Is she—" Helen's voice behind curtain. Rosary beads clicked. "Is she breathing?"
"She is," nurse said. "Barely."
Daniel didn't let go of my left hand. Silver rosary bracelet still looped around my wrist. Beads pressed into skin. I focused on that pressure. Tried to move finger.
Nothing.
They wheeled me into ICU room. Curtain dragged shut. Machines lined wall. Monitor traced thin green line. Beep steadied.
Doctor came in, older man, gray hair, soft shoes. He lifted my eyelid again, shone light, watched pupil.
"Can you hear me, Elena?" he asked. "If you hear me, try to blink."
I fought. Whole body felt poured full of cement. I pushed behind eyes. Sent signal down.
Eyelid fluttered. Once.
Daniel gasped.
"Did you see that?" he said.
Doctor leaned closer. "Again, Elena. Try again."
I gathered breath. Blinked. Slower this time, deliberate. Lid stuck halfway then dropped.
"Yes," doctor said. Quiet. "Good. That's good."
He turned to nurse. "Cataleptic state. Mimics death. Muscle rigidity, slowed respiration, fixed stare. Could be mistaken."
Helen's hand flew to mouth, same gesture as by furnace, but now over mask. Gold crosses swung.
"Catalepsy?" Daniel said. "Like— she was conscious?"
"Possibly throughout," doctor said. "Patients hear. Can't respond. Motor system locked. We see this with severe metabolic disturbance, also drug-induced."
He lifted my hand. My fingers stayed curled around rosary. He tried to straighten them. Resistance held.
"Waxy flexibility," he murmured. "Classic."
He looked at Daniel. "How long was she like this? Funeral home said viewing lasted hours?"
Daniel swallowed. "Four hours in coffin. Before that— morning at apartment. She collapsed. Couldn't wake her. Paramedic— someone said no pulse."
Doctor nodded, wrote on chart. "County declaration premature. We'll need tox screen, EEG, labs."
I tried to squeeze Daniel's hand. Thought hard about fingers. Pressure.
His eyes widened. "She squeezed. Elena, squeeze again."
I squeezed. Weak, barely twitch of tendons, but his thumb felt it.
"I felt it," he said. Voice broke. "Helen, she squeezed."
Helen stepped to bedside. She didn't touch machines. She touched bracelet. Silver beads cold.
"We kept this on her," she whispered. "Thank God we didn't—"
She stopped. Didn't finish. Started praying, low, fast, in Spanish. Same beads she wore by furnace now brushing my wrist.
Doctor pulled stool close. Spoke directly to me.
"Elena, you're in county hospital. You're safe. Furnace stopped. You're not going back there," he said. "We will monitor you. Blink once for yes, twice for no. Understand?"
I blinked once. Tear slipped sideways, same path as in coffin close-up. Daniel wiped it. Gentle, with thumb.
"You feel that?" doctor asked.
Blink once.
"Can you squeeze again on count of three? One, two, three—"
I squeezed. Fainter now. Energy drained.
"Good. Motor path intact but exhausted," doctor said to Daniel. "Drug-induced cataleptic state suspected. We keep rosary as anchor if it helps her orient. No sedation. Continuous pulse ox, cardiac monitor. Reassess hourly."
Helen kept praying. Daniel stayed bedside, chair pulled tight, forehead almost touching rail. He didn't look at phone. Didn't leave to fill forms. Nurse brought clipboard, he signed without looking away from my face.
Night settled. Monitor beep evened. Beige stone of crematorium replaced by white tile. But furnace heat still lived in my skin memory.
I blinked once more, unprompted. Daniel caught it.
May you like
"I'm here," he said. "Not leaving."
I believed him. For first time that day, breath came easier. Linen no longer coffin lining. Hospital sheet. Still trapped, but watched.
