The Shape of Love

"Do not close your eyes! Do not go to sleep!"

His voice is far away, drifting slowly through my mind like waves agitating dark-black water. The sound echoes around the subterranean ocean of my awareness. I feel its aftershock, its ripple, ebbing at my will...my will to sink into the cool-deep aquifer and disappear.

"Stay with me, Mari, hold on, stay with me."

Here in the underground lake sirens and voices are sounds from a distant place – traveling through a thin crack into a submerged ravine, coming down from the surface, from another time.

"She was hit by that taxi, she hit her head, her eyes were open a few seconds ago, oh God, please help her!"

"Stay calm now Pal, she's in good hands."

"Oh God, darling...please hold on, stay with me, stay here, stay."

Who is calling? The sound seems abstract and unimportant. The eternal water is so soft, I long to drift into its smothering arms. It seems to breathe for me, to cradle my weightless soul.

A strange sensation – a body I am no longer connected to, being handled, picked up, traveling. Time reveals itself in brief bursts and flashes, confusing little fireworks, sending flickers of light into the underground cave. Then a wave of whispering water caresses me into its bottomless darkness and I submerge into the depths.

A machine beeps.

I can hear a machine. I feel myself slowly rising up through the water, surfacing. My mind is a hazy confusion. How long have I been drifting in the caves? I feel a life-force, an electric flood, inundate my senses. Firstly my head, then gradually my torso, then my limbs, tingling, coming alive.

My body feels like a stranger.

It is more comfortable in the cool waters of the ravine.

As my consciousness returns, I remember my name. Marie. I am Marie. I can hear the hum of a small engine to my left. Distant shuffling feet and busy voices. I smell disinfectant. I am in a hospital. I vaguely remember being thrown from my bike, hit by a car. I can't remember much. I'm foggy and disorientated. I had been with my husband when it happened, I remember him in a rush. Stephen. He had cried out when the car hit me.

My self-awareness is slowly returning, like a tide coming in. The under-tow of the bottomless lake releases me. I have been unconscious. I am in a hospital. My name is Marie. I am a writer. I live in New York. I have some sort of tube in my throat.

With a rush of groggy gratitude, I realize I can open my eyes and return to the world.

But my eyes do not open. I can not make them, they ignore my efforts. I think it must be a bad dream. I try to move a finger, a toe, my mouth, but nothing works. My body is not listening. I can feel myself lying here, on a bed, with a tube in my mouth, but no neuron or cell obeys me.

I am locked in.

The pathway between my brain and my body is broken. My mind is still in the ravine. The waters are not embracing me, they are suffocating me. I am buried alive, in the crypt of my own body. Despair and panic invade me as another thick wave rolls in and carries me under.

Shuffling. Voices. Machines humming. Beeps.

"Stephen, it's been three weeks now, there is no change in her condition. After 4 weeks like this she will be classified as being in a persistent vegetative state. You must start thinking about the possibility that she will not wake up. Her body shows no sign of response, she has a serious brain injury. We cannot justify keeping her on life support indefinitely. I'm sorry, I know this is a difficult time, but you may need to start considering what she would have wanted. It's very likely she may be in a severe vegetative state if indeed she wakes up at all."

"I can't consider for a moment giving up on her, I know she can hear me, I know she can!"

"I'm sorry, but after 4 weeks in a coma we have protocols to follow. Due to the pandemic we are stretched beyond capacity. Sorry."

Feet walking away.

Stephen, by my bed, his breath gagging with silent sobs, grasping my limp hand. His hand feels good on mine, like the warmth of his touch could pull me out of the cold water. I try to respond. The ravine below me murmurs, the waters shift, their tentacle fingers holding me, static.

"Oh darling, come back to me. Tomorrow I will bring your little black Book of Ideas."

My Book of Ideas was full of small observations and scribbly pencil drawings. Anything that delighted me would be lovingly recorded within its soft covers as possible inspirations for future stories. During our vacations, walking in the mountains, I would write poetic descriptions of nature and carefully sketch seedpods, fungi and flowers onto its leaves.

"I thought I would read them to you, your ideas. I know you can hear me." His voice breaks, "can you hear me?" He is pained, exhausted, unsure.

I silently scream, "I hear you! Don't go, stay here, get me out of this prison, don't let go of my hand!"

But he does let go of my hand.

He kisses my head, "I love you. I'll see you tomorrow." His footsteps leave the room. The machine hums. The black waters below me sigh and lure my bruised brain into coma-sleep. I am wearing a death-mask as I slip down under the water.

Doctors, nurses, shuffling around the room, adjusting machines near my head. I try to force the machine to beep louder, faster. I send my will to do it, but my will is tired from treading the heavy water. I have no power to manipulate machines with my mangled-mind.

"Darling, it's me, how are you Mari, aah darling, I love you." He kisses my forehead. There is sadness in his kiss, despair in how he holds it there for a moment before he pulls away.

"I've bought your Book of Ideas, I'm going to read them to you. I know you made me promise I would never look in your book, but...I think your ideas may help you to remember, to come back. Please...come back..."

He takes my ragdoll hand in his and gently strokes it as he reads.

"9/18/2020. Love is the shape of snowflakes, it takes many forms. It always melts."

He pauses, then chuckles a little, "that's so you, non-commital to the end."

"11/23/2020. Dr. Emoto displayed the shape of love in magnified water crystals. Be that shape."

"Excuse me?" A male voice comes from the door.

"Yes?"

"Mr. Seros, I am so sorry about your wife. I am Mr. Cilas, the driver of the taxi that so tragically hit her. I hope you don't mind that I came here...I have been so worried about her, is she.....going to wake up? Perhaps? I can't tell you how sorry I am."

The man's voice is sorrow.

"Oh. Well...no...she may not wake up." He pauses. "They say she has only a few days left before they will turn off her life support," his throat catches.

The hungry lake shifts beneath me.

Mr. Cilas utters an agonized cry. "I am so sorry, she is the age of my daughter. I am so, so very sorry."

Stephen, somewhat gruffly, "it was an accident, a horrible, terrible accident."

"I have something for her...when she wakes up, it is the best I can give her. It is my mother's bible, my mother, she was always praying. So many prayers have been said with this book. I want her to have it, in case...she...well, for luck."

I hear him put a book on a table to my right. I try to engage my eyes but the waters hold me, frozen.

"Thank you," Stephen says, a hint of annoyance in his voice.

"Please forgive me, Mr. Seros, I am praying for her."

Feet leaving the room.

I feel Stephen gathering himself, reeling in the loose frays of his psyche, restoring his shield for battle.

"Did you hear that darling? He will pray for you." Stephen is strictly atheist. He is grasping at straws to give credence to a taxi driver's prayers – a sure sign of his desperation.

He leans over and picks up the book and places it under my right hand. "It can't hurt darling, it's his mother's bible...whatever it takes."

"Now, where were we?" His hand returns to mine, he absently strokes my finger with his thumb. "Ah yes. 11/23/20. Dr. Emoto displayed the shape of love in magnified water crystals. Be that shape."

"You've done a beautiful drawing of an Emoto water crystal here, darling, it's lovely."

I remembered drawing it. I had been enamored with Emoto's discovery that water could hold emotions and memory. I had drawn a copy of a microscopic water crystal that had been blessed by Buddist Monks. The energetic patterning had resulted in a fern-like mandala. It had resonated with me. Water blooms beautiful microscopic flowers if you love it. It looks deformed and sick if you abuse it. It was the same with all forms of life. Nature thrived on the energy, the vibration, the shape, of love. Love was a natural state. I had been considering getting the design tattoed on my inner-forearm, just so I could look at it and remember to be that shape.

Be that shape.

Be. That. Shape.

A life-line.

I concentrate on the image of the water crystal. I bring it to the front of my brain. I try to feel love, to be that shape. I feel my heart awaken, my love for Stephen starts to glow like an ember in my chest. I feed my brain this feeling, this energy. I put everything I have into it.

Stephen is gently reading from my book, but I don't listen. I put the love from my heart into the vision in my mind's eye with every ounce of will I have. I feel a shift, an unfurling. A light vibrates from the mandala. It is a shape creating energy. I feel it wash over my brain like a burst of sunbeams.

The dark waters shudder like a dragon and recede into the depths, shy of the light.

I open my eyes.

The room is blurry and very bright. I try to move my hand. It works. My fingers flutter under his.

"Mari! Mari! She's moving! Doctor, nurse! She moved her hand, darling, do it again!"

I do it again.

I feel my right hand on the old bible, I wiggle my fingers. They barely move, but they move.

Stephen sobs as the doctors rush in.

"Stephen," I croak.

I had been a prisoner of the dark ravine but I had escaped. I had found a tunnel out of the dungeon – the light of love had shown me the way.

The bible sat by the bed. Once I was strong enough to sit up, I picked it up. I caressed its vintage cover and opened it. Inside was an envelope containing a letter from Mr. Cilas in old-timer cursive script.

"Dearest Lady, please take this gift. It's all I can give you. Such a tragic accident. I have never been so sorry. This is the insurance payment I received for my car. I will never drive again. Forgive me." Tucked behind the letter was a cheque for $20,000 dollars.

I put down the bible.

I picked up the Book of Ideas and a fresh pencil.

I added the date 2/14/21 and started writing.