Stephen King: The Dead Zone

4.

‘He was awake,’ Marie Michaud said. ‘He was completely coherent.’

‘Okay,’ Dr. Brown answered. ‘I’m not doubting you. If he woke up once, he’ll wake up again. Probably. It’s just a matter of…

Johnny moaned. His eyes opened. They were blank, half rolled up. Then he seemed to see Marie, and his eyes came into focus. He smiled a little. But his face was still slack, as if only his eyes were awake and the rest of him still slept. She had a sudden feeling that he was not looking at her but into her.

‘I think he’ll be okay,’ Johnny said. ‘Once they clean that impacted cornea, the eye’ll be as good as new. Should be.’

Marie gasped harshly, and Brown glanced at her.

‘What is it?’

‘He’s talking about my boy,’ she whispered. ‘My Mark.’

‘No,’ Brown said. ‘He’s talking in his sleep, that’s all Don’t make a picture out of an inkblot, Nurse.’

‘Yes. Okay. But he’s not asleep now, is he?’

‘Marie?’ Johnny asked. He smiled tentatively. ‘I dozed off, didn’t I?’

‘Yes,’ Brown said. ‘You were talking in your sleep. Gave Marie here a turn. Were you dreaming?’

‘No-oo… not that I remember. What did I say? And who are you?’

‘I’m Dr. James Brown. Just like the soul singer. Only I’m a neurologist. You said, “I think he’ll be okay once they clean that impacted cornea.” I think that was it, wasn’t it, Nurse?’

‘My boy’s going to have that operation,’ Marie said. ‘My boy Mark.’

‘I don’t remember anything,’ Johnny said. ‘I guess I was sleeping.’ He looked at Brown.

His eyes were clear now, and scared. ‘I can’t lift my arms. Am I paralyzed?’

‘Nope. Try your fingers.’

Johnny did. They all wiggled. He smiled.

‘Superfine,’ Brown said. ‘Tell me your name.’

‘John Smith.’

‘Good, and your middle name?’

‘I don’t have one.’

‘That’s fine, who needs one? Nurse, go down to your station and find out who’s in neurology tomorrow. I’d like to start a whole series of tests on Mr. Smith.’

‘Yes, Doctor.’

‘And you might call Sam Weizak. You’ll get him at home or at the golf course.’

‘Yes, Doctor.’

‘And no reporters, please … for your life!’ Brown was smiling but serious.

‘No, of course not.’ She left, white shoes squeaking faintly. Her little boy’s going to be just fine, Johnny thought. I’ll be sure to tell her.

‘Dr. Brown,’ he said, ‘where are my get-well cards? Didn’t anybody send me a card?’

‘Just a few more questions,’ Dr. Brown said smoothly. ‘Do you recall your mother’s name?’

‘Of course I do. Vera.’

‘Her maiden name?’

‘Nason.’

‘Your father’s name?’

‘Herbert. Herb. And why did you tell her no reporters?’

‘Your mailing address?’

‘RFD #1, Pownal,’ Johnny said promptly, and then stopped. An expression of comic surprise passed across his face. ‘I mean … well, I live in Cleaves Mills now, at 110 North Main Street. Why the hell did I give you my parents’ address? I haven’t lived there since I was eighteen.’

‘And how old are you now?’

‘Look it up on my driver’s license,’ Johnny said. ‘I want to know why I don’t have any get-well cards. How long have I been in the hospital, anyway? And which hospital is this?’

‘It’s the Eastern Maine Medical Center. And we’ll get to all the rest of your questions if you’ll just let me …

Brown was sitting by the bed in a chair he had drawn over from the corner – the same corner where Johnny had once seen the passage leading away. He was making notes on a clipboard with a type of pen Johnny couldn’t remember ever having seen before. It had a thick blue plastic barrel and a fibrous tip. It looked like the strange hybrid offspring of a fountain pen and. a ballpoint.

Just looking at it made that formless dread come back, and without thinking about it, Johnny suddenly seized Dr. Brown’s left hand in one of his own. His arm moved creakily, as if there were invisible sixty-pound weights tied to it – a couple below the elbow and a couple above. He captured the doctor’s hand in a weak grip and pulled. The funny pen left a thick blue line across the paper.