OvidLemma

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-Ovid

Chapter Five: Turning

Verne took the B2 downtown bus from Weeks to the Twin Boughs Methodist Church in East Palmetto. He didn't drive on account of his seizure medications – realistically, he was fine to drive, but it was a hard sell to the DMV that his seizure disorder was well-managed on account of his smoking epic amounts of weed. So Verne took public transit pretty much everywhere – and that was a good thing that morning. For some reason, the sun seemed especially harsh, and looking anywhere near it, even with sunglasses on, shot lancing pain through his head. He wondered whether he'd suffered from a mild concussion when he'd collapsed into the bathtub the night before.

He stumbled out of the bus after a few other parishioners, wincing at the light. His parents were already waiting at the front of the church, his father looking annoyed and tapping his foot. Tough shit – Verne was twelve minutes early, which was a minor miracle at the best of times. His mother spotted him and waved him over.

"For Pete's sake, Verne," Ashley said, tugging at the lapels of his suit. "You didn't get it dry-cleaned... it's wrinkled all to heck."

"I did get it cleaned," Verne lied. "But I guess I lost weight. It's too big... I didn't notice until I put it on this morning."

"You look like a bum," Vic said. His own suit wasn't exactly impeccable – he'd gained a few pounds since the last time he'd worn it and the buttons were straining. Ashley Vera's wine-red skirt suit, though, fit her just right.

They proceeded into the welcome area at the front of the church, Verne experiencing a strange sensation as he did so, his heart rate rising and his breath catching in his chest. Thinking he was overcome with emotion, his mother squeezed his hand, which made things worse. When Verne shook hands with Pastor Mooney on his way into the chapel, the man had to have felt his sweat, must have felt his racing, thudding heartbeat right through the skin of his hands. Verne looked up to the crucifix behind the altar, surrounded by a corona of almost-blinding sunlight and stumbled.

"...Sorry," he mumbled. "It's these pants."

"We've got to get you a new suit," Ashley whispered.

That much, his mother was right about. It clearly didn't fit anymore, but Verne wasn't sure that he was done changing. In fact, even as he sat in the pew he could feel the dull visceral ache starting up again, pulsing through his guts, pushing up into his chest. It was the feeling that had sent him toppling into the bathtub the night before, but for now he could bear it – somehow, the anxiety attack brought on by being in the chapel canceled out some of the pain symptoms. The choir started filing in behind the pulpit.

"This is Kayleigh's first day in the choir," Ashley whispered to Verne. Kayleigh was one of Verne's many cousins – she was fourteen or maybe fifteen. Verne had enough cousins that he could never keep track.

The choir sang. Verne couldn't have told you what songs they sang or whether Kayleigh  was any good. He was too preoccupied with his own problems. He did his best to keep up with the services – to stand and sit at the right times, to at least look like he was singing along when he was supposed to. About the only part he paid much attention to was the little memorial near the end of the service, when Pastor Mooney talked about the tragedy from ten years before that had claimed the life of Verne's brother and two other teens at the church. They'd been drinking heavily at the time, but that bit had been dutifully smoothed over in the public narrative, and it had become a freak accident on the highway at night.

"And as we remember those we've lost, many of them lost sooner than we'd like, we are also reminded of the victory of Christ at Calvary, his victory over death, that we all might live in him forever. We remember the ultimate sacrifice that promises to us: you will go home again. There will be a reckoning, and there will be a reuniting. So let us rejoice in the lives of our brothers and sisters, Wesley and Benjamin and Sheila, and rejoice in the ultimate power of salvation. I'm reminded of a verse from First Corinthians:

"And as we have borne the image of the man of dust, we shall also bear the image of the heavenly Man. Now this I say, brethren, that flesh and blood cannot inherit the kingdom of God; nor does corruption inherit incorruption. Behold, I tell you a mystery: We shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet. For the trumpet will sound, and the dead will be raised incorruptible, and we shall be changed. For this corruptible must put on incorruption, and this mortal must put on immortality. So when this corruptible has put on incorruption, and this mortal has put on immortality, then shall be brought to pass the saying that is written: 'Death is swallowed up in victory.' Amen."

"Amen," the congregation said.

"Amen," Verne blurted out a fraction of a second later. It was because he was having trouble keeping up, what with his guts churning, feeling like they were liquefying themselves as he sat next to his parents in the chapel. But to the rest of the congregation, it sounded just like emphatic agreement. His mother squeezed his hand again.

Then the families of the dead teens brought wreaths up and put them on the little memorial display, and Verne managed not to trip over his too-large pants or otherwise collapse in front of the whole congregation. Then the choir sang one last hymn, and then Pastor Mooney gave his closing remarks before services let out.

Verne stepped out of the church and into the midmorning sunlight, grimacing and blinded by its brilliance. The thumping anxiety of being in church eased, replaced by a dozen greater motes of pain quickly blazing to searing heat across his body. He cried out and collapsed into the bushes along the front entryway, utterly overwhelmed.

+++++

"It might be food poisoning."

Verne had been vaguely aware of driving somewhere. He'd assumed it was the hospital, but apparently not. Money in the Vera household was tight, and a hospital bill, even one for something non-life-threatening, could wind up costing thousands or tens of thousands of dollars. When seen in that light, something like Juvechrome seemed downright reasonable. Verne almost wished he'd stuck with the original regimen, but it was way too late for that.

"Where are we?" Verne asked, swallowing back the sour bile in his mouth – déjà vu. He vaguely recognized the woman, a friend of his mother's, sticking an IV into him. He supposed her name was probably Dorothy, but she went by Dottie. His mother's age and solidly built, her dark hair prickled with gray, her intense expression softened by a little button nose.

"This is my friend, Dottie," Ashley said. "She's an ER nurse... I thought she might be able to take a look at you before we went to urgent care..."

"He should probably go to the ER," Dottie said.

Verne struggled to sit up, feeling empty and weak, his guts still sore but no longer pulsing and sluicing with pain. He looked to his arm, where an IV was dripping saline in, and noted a little black streak trailing out from the insertion site. It was definitely darker than blood ought to be, the red-black of pinot noir rather than the maroon of venous blood.

"I feel fine," he lied. "I don't need to go to the ER..."

Dottie nodded uncertainly. "Have you eaten anything strange in the past day or two?" She asked.

Verne shrugged. "Yesterday, I ate some burgers that were maybe a little bit rare..."

"Have you been having diarrhea or unusual bowel movements?"

Verne shrugged again. "Maybe? I've had some abdominal pain. And a big number-two, darker than usual..." he looked to the dried, dark trickle of blood on his arm. "But I don't think I'm passing blood. I'm not anemic..."

Dottie nodded. "Ok, sure. But you're very pale. So maybe, maybe not. But belly pain, right? Now, Verne, I need you to be very honest with me, okay? Have you taken any non-prescribed drugs or illicit substances recently?"

Verne swallowed. Yeah, he had... but he wasn't about to tell Dottie that. But she'd already read his reaction. "I smoked some weed from a bong," he admitted. "A gram... maybe a gram and a half."

"Vernon! Is… is it the pot?" Ashley asked, her worried expression turning accusatory.

Verne almost laughed. So did Dottie. "It's not the weed," she said. "I think it's the beef. Listen, Verne, food poisoning can be serious. Thousands of people die from it every year, and hundreds of thousands get seriously ill. At the very least, get lots of water, lots of rest, and a day or two of only light activity. If things get worse, I want you to promise me you'll go to the ER... promise me or I'll call the ambulance right now."

He held up his IV-stuck arm and swore: "I solemnly swear, I'll go to the ER if things get worse."

Dottie released Verne back into the care of his mother, who stormed back to her car with Verne shambling along after her, shielding his eyes from the beyond-harsh glare of the sun. When he slid into the passenger's seat, the too-loose suit hanging off his frame, his feet knocking around his too-large loafers, she shot him an angry look and pounded a slim fist against the steering wheel.

"Vernon Vincent Vera! I can't believe you smoked pot! With your condition..."

"It helps with the seizures, mom," he said honestly. "Would you disapprove if I got detoxes or herbal supplements or acupuncture or any of the other dozen things people suggest without a shred of evidence that they do a dang thing?" He almost said 'fucking thing', but this was Ashley Vera... if he cursed around her, it'd suddenly become the sole focus of her ire. "I'm telling you, it actually works. I'm going to try anything that works and I don't need your sensibilities telling me I can't. It's my health."

She was crying. Great – Verne had just made his mother cry. "I'm just worried about you," she sniffed. "With your NVC... I'm just worried that something will go wrong, and that's it. I've already lost one child, and I'm not going to lose another. I've been praying for a breakthrough, baby." She pulled Verne into a hug and whispered into his ear. "I've been praying so hard, Verne. I just know something's going to go our way… just this once. I just need you to hold out hope. Okay, kiddo?"

"Okay, mom," Verne said, wiping her tears with a tissue and smearing her Sunday mascara. "Let's go home."

+++++

Ashley Vera warmed up some chicken noodle soup and ladled a bowl out to Verne, leaving the rest in the pan, should he want seconds. Verne sprinkled a little pepper in and took in a big whiff, his mouth watering at the smell. He knew he mostly just needed fluids, but he felt ravenous. That had to be a good sign, he reasoned – he couldn't simultaneously shed off body mass while feeling the need to consume a whole hog worth of food. He blew the soup cool on his spoon, slurped it down, and very nearly vomited.

The soup was disgusting. It tasted like ashes, like something dead and empty. It couldn't possibly sate his hunger. He needed to wash the awful taste down... he spat what he could in the sink, gulped down about a pint of water, and turned to the refrigerator for something to eat... something savory, something vital. He rummaged through the contents, eventually finding a long roll of brown-black sausages... blood sausage. They were made from the deer his father hunted in the fall. Normally, Verne hated the stuff – it was a sort of mealy, congealed porridge made from the deer's blood and fat with oats and scraps of venison as filler. The stuff normally made him almost vomit, just as run-of-the-mill chicken noodle soup normally didn't. But now? A few links of blood sausage sounded amazing. He took the whole mass of the stuff, probably two pounds of sausage, and microwaved it until it was soft and warm. Normally, you'd fry it over the stove, but in was pre-cooked, right? No use overcooking it...

Three minutes later, Verne dumped the sausages, warm and steaming, onto his plate. He dug in. He didn't care for the oats... they tasted like horrible nothing... but the blood? Amazing. The venison was fine, too, he supposed. But the blood. Jesus, it really hit the spot. After a few bites, he could ignore the oats. He devoured the whole pile of sausage, smacking and slurping in a way that would have horrified his mother, were she in the room.

"Makin' a go at the blood sausage, are you?" Vic asked. He raised his eyebrows, impressed at the sheer volume that Verne had just consumed. "Next time, you'll have to go hunting with me... if you like it so much, you'd better learn to make it."

Verne just nodded. Then he turned to the chicken noodle soup and slurped that down, too... somehow, it tasted fine now. Once he was finished everything, he patted his belly, visibly distended beneath his too-loose shirt.

"I needed that," he muttered.

"Oh good," Ashley said, checking that he'd eaten his soup. "Feeling better?"

"A bit," Verne said. "I think I'm gonna rest..."

"Your room's still ready for you," she said.

Of course Verne's room was ready. Some day in the not-too-distant future, the NVC would have him going downhill and he'd have to give up whatever semblance of independence he had. So the theory went. It was polite denialism to pretend otherwise. So the Vera parents hadn't bothered to repurpose his room. In fact, it was unchanged from when he'd stopped updating its decor sometime in mid-high school. The Pixar posters were gone, but the Bionicle one remained. His old Nintendo DS sat on the bookshelf. His mother had hung his full-ride scholarship offer from UNC Wilmington in a plaque next to his high school diploma even though he hadn't so much as stepped on campus as a student.

He changed into an old pair of pajamas – also far too loose – and examined himself in the mirror. In addition to looking a bit disheveled and like he'd just run a surprise marathon, Verne looked different, even from before. Even slimmer. The slenderness made him resemble how he'd looked the last time he redecorated the room... well, sort-of. His cheekbones looked off, and his whole jawline looked even smoother than that. His eyes seemed to have lost some of their color, too, becoming a muddy, mottled hazel, and his wiry black hair, its messy mop dangling over his ear, was streaked through with brown. What the fuck was going on with him? Was he dying?

Just then, the pain in his guts resumed. It was bad pain, piercing pain, quickly escalating to become worse than what he'd felt when he collapsed outside of church. But Verne was also so, so tired. Maybe he could just sleep the latest pain over and wake up renewed. He lay on his bed, moaning and writhing at the discomfort. Sometimes, there were sharp, stabbing pains, and they radiated through him. The rest of the time, it was just a grinding, full-body soreness. Verne thought he could feel his organs shutting down - pancreas, kidneys, liver, on down the list. His heart skipped a beat: da-thump, da-thump, da... ...thump, da-thump. It skipped another beat, and then two beats.

Verne realized he was dying, that his whole body was verging on catastrophic failure, whole organ systems in full collapse. The pain, though, was receding, and that was a welcome relief. His heart made a few more faint and intermittent attempts at function. His limbs grew cold and darkness enveloped him. Verne was only vaguely aware of himself spinning into the void of death.

+++++

When people sleep, even in the deepest of sleeps, there is a vague sense of being and of the passage of time. While nowhere near the acute awareness of wakefulness, the embers of consciousness nonetheless persist. Verne had been under general anesthesia a few times before, and being dead was a lot more like that than like sleep – a hole in time, a gaping gap in being. It might have been seconds or thousands of years, and it would have been the same. In the current case, it was closer to eight hours.

Afterward, Verne would try to reflect on his time while dead and realize that there wasn't quite nothing there. That being dead wasn't utter nonexistence. Rather, it was a rapidly dissipating awareness that spread out from one's body as the consciousness faded. A feeling that, as the nexus of awareness died, it became one with the rest of the inanimate universe, that humans existed as flitting little centers of concentrated consciousness among an infinite expanse of the barely-aware in the rest of the universe. But that was neither here nor there – as a dead person, Verne had possessed no way of pondering this, and as an un-dead person, he didn't have enough recollection of being dead to properly contextualize it.

Awareness seeped back into him a bit at a time. The pain was gone, replaced with a sense of cool evenness and a slowly building hunger, now only barely lighting upon his groggy awareness. The room swam back into being around him, and it took Verne a moment to realize that it was nighttime, for he could see perfectly well in his darkened room. The little blinking light from his phone was a distraction in the otherwise uniform non-lighting - it should have been close to pitch black in there.

Verne felt strange rolling out of bed... not only did his limbs feel oddly disjointed, as if he were operating them from a little control booth from the next city over, his whole body moved strangely, its dimensions and center of gravity subtly wrong. His pajamas were huge on him – he held up a slim, smooth hand, the sleeves of the flannel dangling well past the fingers if he didn't bunch it up... it wasn't a man's hand. A chill ran down his spine... he hadn't been this size since he was perhaps twelve years old, a gangly one-twenty and perhaps half a foot below his usual height. He held his flannel pants up to keep them from flopping down to his ankles and, with some hesitation, approached the mirror.

The person looking back in the mirror wasn't him. Not even a younger version of him. And when he screamed, the shrill, piercing scream wasn't in his voice. What the fuck had happened to him?

OvidLemma

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