Faith in Forrest

Because she was his Guardian, Sarah visited Forrest often, though there was really nothing more for her to do. Forrest Wheeler had lain in a coma for the two years since he had become what those in the business called “collateral damage.” In this state, he could not communicate, could not move, could not sense.

Sarah looked down at the thin shell of a once handsome man from her perch atop a chest of drawers. As Forrest’s Guardian, she felt responsible for his being in that bed. Not responsible for the accident, for that event had been planned long before Forrest was born. No, Sarah felt responsible for Forrest’s condition because it would have been in her power to keep him safe had she been with Forrest then.

Forrest and another driver met violently at an intersection. The other driver, as had been foreordained, died at the scene. Forrest, because he was not mentioned in the order, did not. Sarah had been in a conference call with other Guardians at the time. The group was discussing the alarming shortage of Guardians, which resulted in each Guardian being asked to take on additional charges. She already had 10 people to look after, and they wanted her to take on five more.

Forrest should have been fine without Sarah for the few minutes the conference was to last. She left him in his office, working at his desk. But it was a lovely spring day, and Forrest had begun daydreaming and finally resolved to drive to the beach and have lunch by the water. Free will.

Jerrold, a friend of Sarah’s who had been an Acquisitor much longer than she had been a Guardian, had told her it wasn’t her fault. The Boss had told her it wasn’t her fault. But still she couldn’t help feeling a little guilty.

Forrest’s family and friends visited him often. His wife and his parents came every day, his children two or three times a week. For a year and a half, Sarah watched as each visit played itself out. Depending upon who was in the room, the visits were like small quiet parties, with everyone chatting and snacking and including Forrest in the conversations as if he were an active participant. Sometimes a visitor would read to Forrest or play music for him. Once she watched as his three children included him in a game of poker. Each child took turns playing his hand along with their own, asking his advice on which cards to keep, how many to draw, and what hands to construct. Forrest won. And always during these group visits, someone would say, with a smile and a pat on Forrest’s hand, “It won’t be long, and you’ll be up and around!”

And always, when there was a single visitor, somewhere near the end of the visit, there was a prayer. Forrest’s family and friends weren’t a religious bunch. They didn’t pray to the Boss or to anything really. But what they said was no less a prayer. A small prayer: “Please wake up.”

Immediately after the accident, Sarah started the paperwork to get Forrest’s case adjudicated and resolved. But bureaucracy is bureaucracy, and she had lost track of the levels and intermediaries the forms had gone through before she lost her patience and went straight to the Boss. Forrest had lain in his coma for 18 months, and the wait was wearing his family and friends thin. The small prayers had taken on the tone of pleas, the smiles and pats on the hands a little less certain.

And then, six months ago, Forrest’s wife Emily had come in late one evening when Sarah had happened to be in the room (her 10 other charges apparently safe in bed or at school or at work). Emily pulled a chair up close to Forrest’s bed and began speaking to him quietly, tears welling up in her eyes.

“Sweetheart, we’ve all been talking, and we think it’s time to take you off these machines. I know they wanted us to do it long ago, but we just couldn’t. But now it’s time.”

Emily leaned forward and kissed her husband on the forehead. Then she said her prayer. “Please wake up.”

But Forrest didn’t wake up.

So the next day, with Forrest’s parents and Emily and the kids in the room with him, the doctor turned off Forrest’s respirator and pulled the airway from his throat. The doctors expected that to be it. Forrest would die, and the family would grieve, and life would go on.

Against everyone’s advice, Sarah had spoken to the Boss that morning, and the Boss had granted Forrest a stay pending review. So when the respirator went off, Forrest began breathing on his own, for the first time in 18 months. There wasn’t a dry eye in the place. Even grizzled old Doctor Raye cried as he wrote on Forrest’s chart.

The family’s visits regained some of their old fire. Instead of the increasing sobriety that had accompanied the visits for the past few months, they were once again rather festive affairs, and the smiles and pats on the hand were given with renewed vigor. “It won’t be long, and you’ll be up and around!”

And finally, after six more months of waiting, word had come down from the Boss that Forrest’s case had been reviewed and adjudicated, and the decision had been turned over to Jerrold and a new Acquisitor to decide upon. And though Sarah had no way of knowing what the Acquisitors would decide, Forrest’s journey, one way or another, was about to end.

Sarah sat perched on the edge of Forrest’s chest of drawers and prayed. She didn’t pray to the Boss or to anything really. But what she said was no less a prayer. A small prayer: “Please wake up.”

©2025, Brian G Parker