Raising Lazarus

by Aidan J. Reid

  Lazarus’ face was a rainbow of colours. Cuts had blackened to scabs on his forehead. Darkened eye sockets, deep purples sat on swollen cheeks. The bridge of his nose had been hammered with a blow. She studied the deep laceration that had sliced it. He took a breath, inflamed, blood crusted nostrils flaring with each intake. Sensing someone stir near him he opened his eyes, blinking slowly before focussing on her face and smiling.

  “I was wondering when you’d come around,” he said.

  She forced a smile, relieved that at least his teeth had been saved from the assault and pulled an empty seat off the wall, sitting down beside him.

  “Got bored of watching TV. How are you?” she said and reached out for his hand.

  “I’m fine. What did I tell you? I can’t be killed.”

  She shook her head and smoothed his hand between her own. On a bracket above them the TV was repeating the queen’s traditional Christmas speech. The patients who were awake curled toward it, ear cocked and listening. Her message was interrupted by soft sobbing across the room which seemed to come from the curtained bed.

  “Broken hip,” Lazarus whispered. “He had his family come in an hour ago. Must be in his seventies. Taking it very hard.”

  “Did you get a look at who did this? It was that blond bastard-”

  “Shhh. Don’t worry. They ambushed me. I didn’t get a good look at them.”

  “But-”

  “But nothing, Molly. I’ll be fine after some bed rest. Much comfier than my old place. In fact, I could get used to this.”

  Footsteps on the hard surface echoed around the room and she turned and saw a young doctor. She was moving from bed to bed, checking charts at their bedside. Those who were awake, watched her pass and smiled. The doctor crouched down and spoke with each one, a gentle quiet and private chat that left smiles on the patients’ faces. When the curtained bed was next on her rounds, she simulated a knock on the blind, stamping her foot and peered in. A wet voice mumbled something which prompted her to enter.

  “Can’t stand doctors,” Lazarus said. “Especially that one.”

  “Why not? She seems friendly.”

  He tried pulling himself up onto his elbows but couldn’t manage it, a shock of pain on his face. Molly rushed to his aid, holding up his back. She gently propped him up, holding under his arms against the paper robe which was sweated through.

  “Take it easy,” she said and watched him sit back against the cushions heaving a sigh. “Look, I brought you something.”

  She sat back down and reached into a coat pocket. She pulled out a little bag, loosely wrapped about the size of a fist. He looked at her and then at the object as she unwrapped it, rolling the piece around in her hand until the wrapping had fallen off.

  “Aw, Molly.”

  She smoothed the paper wrapping out on his lap and placed the square of mince pie on top. It was still warm and he could feel it heat his legs under the thin sheet.

  “I want to share it with you.”

  “There’ll be no sharing unless it goes three ways.”

  The doctor had crept up without them realising. She stood over Molly’s shoulder and was looking down at her patient with hands on hips, a mock expression of anger on her face.

  “I… Sorry Doctor. I wasn’t sure if I could bring something in.”

  “That’s fine,” the woman smiled. “How about we go get a knife?”

  Molly looked at Lazarus who remained expressionless.

  “I’ll be back in a minute, OK?” she said and rubbed the back of his hand before standing and joining the doctor.

  The woman was a similar height and build to Molly, and they soon matched strides walking across the ward. A long white overcoat hung loose and open over her narrow shoulders, trailed to the backs of her exposed calves. Her clapping feet on the tiled floor brought Molly’s eyes to the woman’s feet, little buckled black shoes like ones she fitted a doll of hers with a decade earlier. When they had gone through the doorway and entered the corridor, the doctor turned and guided their path to a little staff room, which was open where she found a blunt knife. Molly hovered in the doorway and watched as the woman returned. A chocolate hair bun had been left on her head for too long, strands of grey coursing through it. The woman didn’t wear much makeup and looked pretty for her age, which Molly guessed was late forties.

  “I’ve been trying to reach his next of kin since he was brought in,” the woman said, all cheer reserved for patients only. “You’re a friend? Family?”

  “Friend,” she said and was moved gently back against the wall by the doctor as a nurse wheeled an empty bed past, wishing them a Happy Christmas.

  “I see. I’m Doctor Garner.”

  “Molly,” she replied and shook the other woman’s hand. “How is he?”

  The doctor looked into the younger woman’s face as if to measure how much weight they could hold with the words she was going to speak.

  “Please,” Molly said, noticing her reluctance. “Just the truth.”

  “If he hadn’t been found, he would have been dead within a few hours. I’m certain of that.”

  “My God.”

  “One lucky case of nosey neighbours.”

  Molly leaned back against the wall. Emotion had latched in her throat and she blinked away tears. She was shaking her head until finally managing to compose herself.

  “And his injuries?” she said. “He’ll make a full recovery though, right?”

  The doctor made a grimace, looked away for a beat before finding the young woman’s confused face again. When they re-established eye contact, Dr. Garner was buttoning her lip with a top tooth.

  “The injuries he sustained were heavy and extensive. Fractured ribs, a punctured lung, internal bleeding of the intestinal tract, rectal bleeding, not to mention the head trauma.”

  Molly’s breath wouldn’t come. She watched open mouthed, struggling to comprehend. When the breath did come, tears had already formed. They were silent as they dropped from her face and she made no attempt to move them.

  “Rectal bleeding?”

  “There were signs that he was raped with some sort of sharp instrument. We had to stitch him up, but the damage was…”

  Molly’s eyes and ears were closed now as she held up a flat palm to stop the doctor.

  “Here, let me get you a glass of water. Sheila?”

  The woman behind the front desk approached and, with the doctor’s hand gesture, brought two small plastic cups filled at the water fountain nearby.

  “Here,” Garner said. “Take a seat.”

  Two tanned chairs were against the walls, beside the entrance to an empty room and when Molly was sitting, Garner passed the water to her and she took a long draw from it.

  “We called the police, but Lazarus hasn’t been very cooperative. He doesn’t want to talk about it.” The doctor was studying her face again, looking for a hint or flicker of emotion other than shock. “If you have any information Molly, the people that did this need to be brought to justice.”

  Molly clenched her jaw, looking through the wall opposite, no longer in the hospital.

  “Well if you do have any idea, get in touch. OK?” Garner said.

  Molly nodded and knocked the rest of the water and tears back down her throat. She started to rise, but the hand of the doctor brought her back down.

  “There’s something else,” Garner said.

  The doctor shifted around in the seat to face her. Molly suddenly found her hands in the other woman’s, confused at how they got there. When she looked back up, the creases around Garner’s eyes were vast, a new wrinkle added with every grave piece of news she had to share.

  “Given the trauma to the head, we had to perform a CT scan and I’m sorry to tell you but, Lazarus has a significant brain tumour.”

  Molly found herself winded, the air wrenched from her lungs. She leaned forward from the blow, held at the shoulder by the doctor. Her lips managed to form a word which might have been bad, but she was
n’t sure. The doctor anticipated a response and nodded.

  “It’s Stage Three. Very advanced.”

  “How… How long?”

  “It’s not good. To maintain the quality of life he has at the moment… Our tests show three months at best.”

  Blood drained from her body, feeling the sudden cold sweat whip her from the chair, tearing her hands from the doctor. The world around seemed to swim and her with it, as she reached out to the wall at her side for support, staggering forward. The sound of Dr. Garner behind didn’t stop her as Molly managed to stand fully, stale air returning to her chest which she took deep swallows of, until the slanted corridor stopped moving. Garner was at her side now, standing close and acting as a crutch.

  “Does he know?”

  “We felt it best that it came from a friend or family member.”

  “OK,” Molly said and nodded. “I just need a few minutes.”

  “Of course,” Garner said and gently squeezed her upper arm. “I’ll be back in a little later.”

  Molly re-entered the ward on unsteady legs, suddenly more sensitive to the death and disease around her as she passed between the files of beds. As she approached the Lazarus’ bed, there was a man standing over him. She quickened her step. Fractured ribs. Punctured lung. Internal bleeding. Head trauma. Tumour. When she reached the bed, the stranger turned, and she was assuaged with the person’s smile.

  “He’s asleep,” the man said and looked back down at the patient.

  The mince pie was sitting on her chair, a bite taken from it. Lazarus’ jaw moved as if he was continuing the action in his dream, smacking his lips. Molly moved to the other side of the bed from the man, gripping the side rail and slowing her breath.

  “I’m Dr. Lewin,” he said. “Are you OK? You seem a little…”

  “Flustered?”

  “Something like that.”

  “I thought Dr. Garner was his-”

  “Oh, I’m not here for work,” he said. “I don’t operate in this hospital.”

  Molly looked at him and he smiled at her confusion. He hugged an arm around his stomach, propping up the other hand, stroking a moustache that spilled down the corners of his mouth into a silver goatee.

  “You could say,” he said looking down at Lazarus, “we have a bit of a history together.”

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  The hospital cafeteria was closed so they had to make do with coffee from an espresso vending machine and took it into the waiting room. Four lines of chairs, two on either side facing one another, divided the room. In the centre were tall potted plants with clipped branches, their vibrant greens the only colour in the room. Lewin moved to the seat nearest which was under the shade of one of the monstrosities, an overhanging fern shading his face, before deciding to slide one seat to the right where the light above caught his face. Molly sat opposite, parking her coffee on the floor between her feet.

  “How is he?” Dr. Lewin asked.

  “Not good. I’ve only just found out myself.”

  “Any idea what happened?”

  “Took a bad beating. Doctor, I-”

  “Scott, please.”

  “Sorry for being direct Scott, but how do you know Lazarus? He’s never mentioned you.”

  “I don’t expect that he would,” Lewin said, raising the cup to his mouth and taking too much of it, cursing. “You know him well then?”

  She nodded. “I’ve gotten to know him a little over the last few weeks, yeah. Did you know about the tumour?”

  “Yes. That’s why he came to me originally. A mutual friend connected us,” Lewin said and offered a weak smile.

  “Really? When was that?”

  “Must have been around seven years ago now.”

  “I don’t understand,” Molly said. “They told me it was a Stage Three cancer. How can someone carry that for seven years?”

  She watched as Lewin took a deep breath and tried a second time with the coffee and was successful.

  “It’s quite a story,” he said and let out a small laugh.

  “Try me.”

  Lewin was leaning forward on his chair now and, to prevent them bobbing heads, Molly had leaned back, taking her coffee cup and parking it carefully in her lap. She crossed her legs and listened carefully as the man’s eyes seemed to animate his hands into action.

  “My friend I told you about? His name was Father Fintan Docherty, God rest his soul. He rescued him from Marrakesh and-”

  “Marrakesh, as in Morocco?” she asked and received a head nod.

  “Showed up on his door step one day. Beaten bad. I guess he took pity on the poor mite. Talk about history repeating itself.”

  “He must have been a kid back then. Jesus. The brutes.”

  Lewin smiled. Seeing the effect of it on her stern face, he quickly flattened it and continued his narrative.

  “No. This is the thing. He looks exactly the same in that room back there, as the first day I saw him.” He motioned toward the entrance with his cup. The coffee gave a little flip which he managed to catch. “Minus the injuries of course.”

  She started to shake her head and interrupt but he calmed her again.

  “To cut a long story short, they came to my practice not far from London and that’s how I met him for the first time.”

  “So how-”

  “Is it that he hasn’t aged a single day?” Lewin said, reading her train of thought and she nodded, her face still a picture of confusion.

  “My lab is unique in that I provide a climate that can suspend time.”

  No words came to her mouth. The animated doctor was at hand to fill in the blanks.

  “I’ll dumb it down. The LCC – Lewin Cryogenic Chamber,” he said, reading her face for a reaction and found none before continuing, “helps patients to enter and exit at a day of their choosing in the future.”

  “Like a time machine?”

  “Not exactly. More like a high-powered freezer, but far more advanced. We preserve the body in its resting state, feeding essential nutrients to keep the subject alive until they’re ready to exit.”

  “So, you’re trying to tell me that he stepped into this machine seven years ago and came out… when?”

  “Oh, about ten months ago.”

  “Seriously?”

  “The idea was to keep him in this comfortable state until medical advancements could help find a cure or treatment for this cancer. I released him myself. Took him to a hotel and gave him a little bit of money to get started.”

  “Not enough to keep him off the streets,” mumbled Molly.

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” she said. “How did you find him again? You plant a tracker or something on him while he was in your lab?”

  “No, nothing like that,” he said and laughed. “I saw you on the TV last week. I still have a few friends practicing so I made some enquiries and, as luck would have it, or not in this case, I found out he was at Westbrook.”

  They sat in silence, the sounds of her coffee sips soon beaten into second spot by a hospital speaker in the corridor requesting a doctor whose name they didn’t catch. At the front desk, there was a telephone call answered by the nurse who spoke in low mumbles to the caller before dropping down the headset. All was quiet again.

  “Something I don’t understand. Let’s say for arguments sake that you’re right, OK?” she said and got a nod from him. “Then why did Lazarus come out ten months ago? Why not in ten, twenty or thirty years’ time?”

  It was time for their positions to swap as Lewin moved back in his seat and took a swig of the coffee which, in his fervour, he had almost forgotten. Molly had edged forward, eyes searching skyward to see if sense was flying past.

  “We had to cut things short,” he said. “The cost was too great and I was left on my own.”

  “What happened the priest. Father…”

  “Docherty,” Lewin said and closing his eyes nodded slowly. “Unfortunately, he passed away just before Christmas last year. They
had a real connection. He treated him like his son. I think he gave your friend his name. Seems like it stuck.”

  “But Lazarus thinks he’s the Lazarus from the Bible.”

  “He does?” Lewin laughed and cupped a hand around his beard. “That’s what’ll happen if you have a priest filling your head with gospel bedtime stories every night for seven years.”

  “So, you don’t think he is?”

  Lewin shot his head back with a shut mouth. She half expected him to open it and show that he had caught a bullet between his teeth. Instead he gave the woman a funny look, which made her feel even more uncomfortable.

  “You tell me?” Lewin said. “You’ve spent time with him after he woke up. What do you think?”

  “Yeah,” Molly said and gave an exasperated sigh. “I thought he was kidding at first. I mean it’s ridiculous, right? He’s been brain washed into thinking he’s immortal and can’t be killed. That’s insane.”

  “Well, imagine for a second what Lazarus would have experienced. Suspended in a sensory deprivation chamber where the only contact with the outside world is the voice of a dying priest. A man who, up until that point, had experienced tremendous personal heartache. Some of that must have had an effect on the sleeping brain. Seeped into his subconscious. Would it surprise me if he believed he was Lazarus reincarnated? No.”

  Molly felt a headache brewing. She was still just coming to terms with the news of his injuries and now felt swamped with this new information. It was hard to know who to believe yet somehow, she was in the middle of it all.

  “You OK?” Lewin asked.

  “Yeah,” she said and rubbed her face. “They haven’t told him about the brain injuries yet. I just need to figure out a way to let him know.”