Coldhearted

By Pamela Love

“You gave me a shovel for Valentine’s Day?” My wife ran a finger along its heart-shaped grip as she rolled her eyes. “Seriously, Jason?”

“I had it custom-made, Corazon, just for you.” I grinned. Her name means “heart” in Spanish.

Setting the tool gently back into its box, she said, “Snow isn’t even in the forecast. We won’t have anything to use it on—unless the new Precipitation Manager does something about it.” Despite her slightly frosty tone, I caught a gleam of pride in her velvety brown eyes. Corazon had been sure I’d get the promotion at the local Weather Control station—she’d even gotten into an argument with her family about it.

My in-laws—just the thought of the wealthy Tolentino family was enough to twist my guts a little. They considered me a glorified technician who’d married Corazon for her money, although I’d suggested a prenup before they could. They’d even sneered at the promotion once I had it. “Big deal. He’ll tell somebody to flip a switch instead of doing it himself.”

Today, I was going to show them—and Corazon, of course—just what Jason Gatlin, glorified technician, could accomplish. With a kiss for my sweetheart, I put on my overcoat. “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes. There’s something I have to take care of.”

“You’re going to work now?”

I nodded.

“Can’t it wait? I’m ready to put dinner on the table.” Her forehead creased with annoyance. Corazon’s a great cook, and I’d asked for my favorite meal, French cassoulet, as a Valentine’s Day present. She made it from scratch—I’d been salivating over its aroma for hours.

As much as I was looking forward to it, tonight’s dinner wouldn’t be complete without one final touch—Corazon’s real gift. She would love it, and it would dazzle her family.

Everything was ready, but I’d have to turn it on at the lab.

I took Corazon by the waist and swung her around. “Your shovel was just a gag. I’ll be back as fast as I can.”

As I climbed into my mini-hovercraft, she shook her head. “Honey, this holiday is about being together. You don’t need to show off by creating a snowstorm for me.”

Oh, yes, I do. Just wait and see! Blowing her a kiss over my shoulder as I zipped down our float-way, I called out, “You’ll love it, I prom—”

***

I don’t remember the crash.

I do remember waking up.

Floating in a sea of beeps and whirrs. A faint whiff of disinfectant drifted into my nose through the ventilator—quite a change from the cassoulet. Assorted medical personnel and robots were running scanners over me.

The hospital. Not good, but better than the alternative. Bonus points that I wasn’t in pain.

“He’s conscious, doctor.”

A woman’s face moved into view. “Mr. Gatlin, I’m Dr. Singer. You’re in City General Hospital. You’ve been in an accident. Can you wiggle your toes for me?”

I couldn’t.

“Your fingers?”

Not them, either.

Further testing showed more of the same. At last, one of the physicians—Dr. Stone, a neurologist—delivered the final diagnosis. “You may have heard of Locked-In Syndrome, which means nearly all voluntary muscles are paralyzed, except for the eyes or eyelids. You have something more severe, CLIS, which stands for Completely Locked-In State. You can’t move anything at all, even your eyes.”

His fingers rapidly moved over a keyboard. “Your condition is long-term, but not necessarily permanent. Researchers are making major strides which may allow you someday to regain limited control of some of your muscles.”

Someday? Some? I tried to punch the mattress. I tried to scream. I tried to force him to admit he was just kidding. I failed. I was on my way to make it snow, and now I’m frozen.

***

“Jason?”

When Corazon came in, the staff stepped out, after cranking up my bed so we could look at each other. “Oh, Jason, I’m so sorry. This is my fault.” She lifted my hand and squeezed it hard.

Guilt squeezed my heart harder. No, it’s mine for not looking where I was going. It’s mine for not listening to you. This is what I get for showing off.

“I shouldn’t have complained about the shovel. It’s wonderful—so original. I must’ve been the only person to get that as a valentine.” A tear dripped from her face to mine. “And when you’re well enough to come home, we’ll sit outside and scoop snow with it together. Oh, that reminds me.”

With the gentlest of hands, she turned my face toward the window. She opened the shades. “I called your boss. Look, he gave permission for flurries—oh, sweetheart, please don’t cry.”

Corazon brushed off my cheek with her fingertip, then gave me a kiss. She started telling me about the experimental treatment program I’d be entering the next day.

But I didn’t want to hear it. I didn’t even want her to look at me. Not because of my condition, though. I wanted her to look outside. There were so many “if onlys,” but just then, believe it or not, my biggest was wishing I’d given her a magnifying glass, not a shovel. Maybe then she might have guessed it wasn’t the snowfall that was special; it was the swirling snowflakes themselves. I had created a one-time process to make them extra special for my Corazon this Valentine’s Day.

They were heart-shaped.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Pamela Love was born in New Jersey and worked as a teacher and in marketing before becoming a writer. Her work has appeared in Havok, Page & Spine, and Luna Station Quarterly. She is the 2020 winner of the Magazine Merit Fiction Award for her story “The Fog Test,” which appeared in Cricket. She and her family live in Maryland.

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