Ice Age

I wrote this story in 1990, with this original title. This story is in its original form, with no intentional additions or omissions aside from very minor spelling and typo corrections and an occasional format change, such as changing an aside phrase from being bracketed by commas to dashes, that sort of thing. Otherwise I resisted the urge to polish where I saw it needed polishing. Please enjoy.



ICE AGE

She awoke.

Apparently the surgery had been a success, for she was alive and back in her hospital room. Or a hospital room. This was not the same room she was in the day before. She lay in her bed and looked around.

She had never seen a TV like that before. The screen was almost twice as wide as any she had ever seen. Maybe it wasn’t a TV. But it had to be. It was up in the corner, aimed at the bed. Maybe she was in a remodeled part of the hospital. Everything looked new and different.

She tried to sit up, but pain from her freshly closed surgical cut stopped her instantly. Of course; Doctor Benzen told her she would have pain there and wouldn’t be able to walk for a few days…if the operation is successful. He had said that. He was a good doctor, but so damned frank about things that he frightened her. “If we don’t do it, you’ll be dead before Christmas,” he had said. “If we do it, there’s only a forty percent chance you will survive, but that’s still a better chance.” So she and David had decided it was the only chance. I guess it paid off, she said in her mind.

She cleared her throat and swallowed. Her throat was painfully dry, and there was no water in the room. On the far edge of the nightstand was the nurse’s call button, but it was beyond her reach. They must not have expected her back. She stretched her left arm for the button and noticed an aching stiffness all through it. Doctor Benzen never said anything about that. Maybe it’s the anesthetic. She gave up on the call button and concentrated on salivating to moisten her throat.

She closed her eyes and quickly relived the hours before the operation. The pain, the fear, the concern in David’s face around the love in his eyes, the frightened look on Amber’s five-year-old face, and two-year-old Jason’s oblivious flight around all the gadgets and hiding places to explore in a hospital room, with a nervous nurse on guard to make sure nothing important was unplugged, disconnected or chewed on. How close she came to losing them all! She sighed with relief that she had made it through. Now she couldn’t wait to see her family again.

Curious about the surgery, she rolled the hospital covers off and found the tender spot on her abdomen where the blade had visited. She slowly peeled the hospital-green gown up past her naked thighs and hips, and then hesitated as the hem came to rest on the cut. It had only now occurred to her that she might have to face the rest of her young years in one-piece swim suits rather than the bikinis that she, as well as David – especially David – preferred. Doctor Benzen had said the procedure would leave only a medium-sized scar, but that it would be conspicuous. It hurt enough to be a foot long. Holding her breath, she inched the hem over it. She breathed out heavily when she saw that it wasn’t anywhere near as large as it felt, nor as large as she feared it would be. It wasn’t even ugly, she thought, despite the purple bruising around it. There were no stitches, not even staples. It looked to her like a series of small plastic clamps. She had never seen anything like them before. Hadn’t Doctor Benzen said he would use staples? It hadn’t mattered then. She ran her fingers over the purpled skin and noticed a pain-tingle ripple through her, and into her thighs. She shifted her gaze to the stiff, brown curls only an inch below the wound and pressed her fingers into them, creating yet another tingle. She pictured David there as she squeezed, wondering how long the doctor would tell them they would have to wait, and how long they would wait before they would say, “Screw the doctor!” Then she envisioned how embarrassing it would be if someone were to walk in right now, so she rearranged herself and pulled the covers up.

Her timing was right. Only minutes later a nurse, different from the day before, entered the room and, without even looking at her, charged across to the windows and opened the curtains.

She spoke. At least she attempted to, but all that came out was a horrendous croak, which caused her to cough. The startled nurse spun around with a look of delighted surprise. Without speaking a word she bolted from the room.

How strange, she thought. Surely I’m not the first person to survive an operation in this hospital.

The door opened again moments later, and the same nurse popped her head in. “Hello, Mrs. Howarth,” she said with a big smile. “I’m sorry for rushing out, but the doctor told me to call her as soon as you woke up.”

She returned a vague smile.

“My name is Shonta. Are you hungry?”

She nudged her head side-to-side.

“Thirsty?”

She nodded.

“I’ll be right back.” Moments later Shonta appeared again, this time with a pitcher of water and a plastic cup. She propped the bed up, and then poured some water and gave it to her patient.

It seemed as though she hadn’t had water in a week as she felt the cool liquid trickle past her lungs and into her belly. “Oh, God, that’s good,” she said after a long drink. “I don’t think my throat’s ever felt that dry before!”

“Well, it’s been a while, Mrs. Howarth,” the nurse said, darting her eyes away from the patient.

“Please, call me Colleen. Well, how am I?” she asked as she took another long swallow.

“I can’t say, but the doctor will be here in a few minutes, and I think she has only good news for you.”

“’She?’ Uh, you have the wrong doctor. Mine is Doctor Benzen, and he’s a ‘he.’”

Shonta’s eyes went slightly wider, as if she had made a mistake, but then she said, “Well, of course, but Doctor…”

The door burst open and in rushed a short, Black woman who looked every bit a doctor. About forty, wiry black hair pulled back into a bun and gray at the temples, confident, and with a detached friendliness, she put out her hand and introduced herself. “Good evening, Mrs. Howarth. I’m Doctor Butuni.” The name was African, but the accent was New England, born and educated.

“Colleen,” she said, taking the doctor’s hand.

“Marka,” the doctor returned. “How are you feeling?”

“Alive,” Colleen said with another relieved sigh. “But if you don’t mind, where’s Doctor Benzen?”

Hesitating, the doctor said, “Well, yes. He left explicit instructions for your care, Colleen, and you can be sure you’ll get it.” She bent down and grabbed the covers. “Let’s see how you’re doing.” She flipped up the hem of the flimsy green gown and examined the area of most interest, and with a satisfied grunt, proceeded to do a routine physical check. “You are once again perfectly healthy, and ought to be moving around with little discomfort by the end of the week.”

“That’s so good to hear! When will I be able to go home?”

“Well,” Doctor Butuni rubbed the corners of her mouth as she speculated, “we’ll want to keep an eye on you for a while. We’ll see. I’m going to have Shonta give you a sedative to help you sleep so that tomorrow you’ll be well rested and ready for visitors.” She exchanged what looked to Colleen to be a nervous glance with the nurse. “Good night!” Then, almost as quickly as she had entered, she left, with Shonta in tow.

Colleen didn’t want to sleep, didn’t want to wait to see her family. The doctor hadn’t answered her questions. Where was Doctor Benzen? Why did he leave “explicit instructions?” When could she go home? Certainly David and the kids would want to at least know that all was well! She decided that a quick phone call would be almost as good as going home. Colleen rolled slowly to her right to the telephone table and…there was no phone. She eased herself onto her back once again and was overcome with a feeling of loneliness. Why couldn’t she see them tonight? Doctor’s orders, I guess, she thought with a hum.

Shonta returned with a little shiny red pill, and supervised Colleen’s taking it, and then nurse made sure patient was comfortable before leaving her to her sleep.

Colleen pulled the covers up to her chin and stared at the ceiling tinted pink from the sunset sky pouring in through the open curtains. She began the slide into slumber. She saw the faces of her children, she saw herself walking through the doorway to her home. Jason’s toys in chaos on the floor. Amber’s kindergarten crayon masterpieces pinned under magnets on the refrigerator. And she saw herself loving the whole mess. And she saw herself lying naked on her bed, and David…they’d have to send the kids to David’s mother’s for a weekend.



She awoke. A sliver of light from the curtained window was grazing across her face, across her eyes, interrupting her slumber. Colleen judged by the agle of the light coming in that it was late morning. She turned her head away from the light and was startled to see an old, very old, woman in one of the chairs next to her bed, reading a magazine. The woman looked up upon hearing Colleen’s gasp. Then her face broke into a warm smile, tears welling up. “Welcome back,” she whispered.

“Thanks,” Colleen said, not really knowing what she whould say. The woman looked very familiar to Colleen, almost like Gramma Kate. But Gramma Kate had been dead for almost fifteen years, now. The old woman’s eyes reminded Colleen very strongly of someone else she knew, but she couldn’t place whom. And she was certain she had never met the woman before.

Colleen had never felt comfortable with strangers of any age, so she spent the next few minutes silently gazing about the room while the strange old woman stared at Colleen. She turned to see if, by any luck, there was a phone, but there wasn’t. There was, however, what appeared to be a TV remote control pad. Colleen reached for it, noticing that the stiffness today was only half as bad as it had been the day before. She turned on the TV, and the strange, wide screen instantly came to life. Some newscaster she had never seen before started talking about fighting somewhere in the world. Colleen had always hated the news, so she turned away from the TV and asked the old woman for the time.

“It’s about eleven,” the old woman said in a strained, old, biddy-bird voice. She had a slight nervous look about her craggy, wrinkled face. But she looked healthy. Colleen had always felt that old people were sick and on the verge of death. “So tell me. How do you feel?”

“I feel much better than I did a few days ago, and much safer.” Colleen switched the channel on the television to five, wondering silently who this nosy biddy was. She liked to watch “The Cosby Show” reruns when she had the chance, but this channel had another news program.

The old woman said, “Is there anything I can get for you? Are you hungry or anything?”

Colleen figured that the old woman must be from some sort of senior citizens’ group here to cheer up the sick. “No, thanks,” she said. “I just want to see my family.” She popped the television through all the channels and became frustrated at not finding “The Cosby Show,” and because she didn’t recognize any of the shows she did find. “Jeez! Where’s Bill Cosby?”

The old woman sighed and shifted forward in her chair as if she had made a conscious decision to skip small-talk and take up an unavoidable tough task head-on. She cleared her throat daintily and said, “He’s dead.”

Colleen could almost feel her hair blown back by the shock. “WHAT? When did he die?”

The old woman stood up and took the remote from Colleen’s hand and shut off the TV set. She placed her hands on Colleen’s shoulders and said, “Please relax. I have a lot to tell you.”

Colleen felt as though she were once again being comforted by Gramma Kate against a brewing storm as the old woman kissed her gently on the cheek and sat back down. “You were very ill,” the old woman began, looking at her hands as she wrung them. “Very few doctors had attempted the operation that could save your life. There had been many failures, but the few successes had been complete. The operation was your only chance.”

“But mine was successful,” Colleen said with suddenly unsteady confidence.

“No,” said the old woman. “No, it wasn’t.”

“What are you saying?” Colleen began to tremble with fear and with rage at this strange old lady.

“The doctors tried so hard, but you slipped away on the operating table, and they couldn’t get you back.”

Colleen’s voice became tense as she shouted, “ARE YOU TELLING ME I’M DEAD?”

“NO!” the old woman stood and pressed Colleen’s shoulders back to the pillow. “You’re very much alive! Please lie back and listen. There’s so much to tell you.” Colleen went limp and began to cry silently in her confusion. “You died, but Da-- but your husband had arranged a second chance for you in case your ‘only’ chance failed.”

“What second chance?” Colleen demanded.

“You never knew about it, but your husband had made the doctor assure him that, in the event the operation failed, you would be cryogenically preserved until the procedure was perfected. He loved you so much.”

Colleen felt a chill crawl across her body at the woman’s last words. “Preserved? Do you think I’m nuts? Where’s my husband?! Where’s my family?! They didn’t leave me. I know they didn’t!” she said with more control than she felt she had.

“You were placed in water maintained at thirty-six degrees Fahrenheit, where it is most dense. You were dead, but not dead. You were frozen, but not frozen.” She reached for Colleen’s hands, but Colleen pulled away. The old woman’s tears began again. "Your husband is dead. He stayed faithful to you, building his family, his business, his home all for you.

“He died of a heart attack at fifty-six.”

Colleen bolted up from the pillow, ignoring the pain tearing at her belly. “FIFTY-SIX?! He’s ONLY thirty-five!”

The old woman just went on. “Your son, Jason, grew up, went to college, and took over his father’s business, retired, and turned it over to his sons. He died of a stroke at seventy-three.”

“Stop it! Shut up!” Colleen sobbed, but she was powerless.

The old woman blew her nose before she went on. “Your daughter married at 22 while in college. She helped Jason get through after their father died. She had three children, all middle-age now. Her husband died six years ago.” She fell silent, weeping at the sight of the devastated young woman.

Colleen had lain with her arm over her face, refusing to listen to the woman’s last words, but had heard all. The woman hadn’t finished. Colleen tried to resist, but failed. She didn’t want to hear any more, but she had to. Finding barely enough courage to speak, she asked, “Where’s my daughter?”

The old woman reached for Colleen’s hands again, this time meeting no resistance, and, staring directly into her eyes, barely above a whisper, said, “I’m right here, Momma. I’ve waited ninety years to see you again.”

The long, agonized scream brought in the nurse who had been waiting outside the room. As soon as Colleen saw her she screamed, “GET THIS CRAZY OLD WOMAN OUT OF HERE!” and shuddered with uncontrollable sobs as the nurse led Amber from the room. Moments later the nurse returned again with a syringe and had Colleen sleeping in ten minutes.



Colleen awoke to the pressure of hands on her arms, shaking her. She was certain it had all been a dream, but resisted opening her eyes for fear that it hadn’t been. And then the sound of Shonta’s voice shattered her hope.

“Mrs. Howarth, wake up. It’s time you ate something.”

Colleen opened her eyes on her new Hell. Nothing was different, but everything seemed totally foreign, and it was. She really was hungry, so the hospital bland scrambled eggs and toast were welcome. She picked up her fork and slowly worked her way into an appetite. Before Shonta left the room, she picked a very thick book up off the night table and set it on Colleen’s breakfast table and said, “Someone left this for you.”

Colleen shot the nurse a scowl, as if to say, I suppose you want me to say, “Gee! Who?” Shonta simply turned and left.

The book was a photo album, evidenced by its cheap plastic embroidery. When all Colleen had left was her juice, she picked up the book and opened it to the front. She was mildly surprised to see a very old, very dog-eared photo of herself and David from their wedding day, and she immediately began to cry, but she continued with the book.

The pages that followed, nearly two hundred of them, faithfully chronicled her family’s life, up to and beyond her illness and absence. There was now no denying that it wasn’t all a dream, all a joke. She had been dead ninety years and had outlived all but one of her own family. Her tears ran dry as she paged past the memories she had slept through – children’s graduations, weddings, David’s accomplishments, his death. The grandchildren, and on. It was all there. David had kept vigil in photograph to his wife, passing on the duty to the children, confident that the day would arrive when their mother would be back with them. She felt that she had somehow failed them.

At the back of the book was a group photo – the old woman, Colleen’s daughter, and what Colleen guessed to be her extended family. Tucked inside the back cover was a piece of paper with a handwritten note. “You have a lot of catching up to do. Love, Amber.”

The door opened, and daughter stood there looking in at her mother. Colleen shrugged, held up her arms in a long distance hug like she used to do to get her five-year-old daughter to come to her, and invited the woman, still her daughter, into the room.