Saving the World

by Ponzo, Gary

  “I’ll make you a deal,” Bryant said. “I’m not quite sure I want to go on myself, but if you help me get you out of here, I’ll promise to live one more day.”

  Jeff cocked his head and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.

  “Just one more day,” Bryant repeated. “Will you live one more day with me?”

  Jeff looked around at the situation. The man groveling at his feet. The hostages watching with horrified expressions. The mangled nose of his car poking through the entrance to the bank like a bulldog peaking through a doggie door. He looked up at Bryant with a questioning expression.

  Bryant held up his index finger. “Just one more day.”

  Chapter 3

  Detective Meltzer saw the boy get to his feet. He could sense Roger’s rifle tighten against his thick shoulder. Meltzer had his Glock ready too. Even if Bryant had lost interest in his own wellbeing, Meltzer hadn’t. There was too much history between them. Bryant deserved a chance to get through his crisis. He’d helped too many kids in his life to have one of them end it.

  The end came quicker than expected. The boy dropped the gun to the floor, looked down and collapsed into Bryant’s arms like a homesick five-year-old. The psychiatrist gathered Jeff into his chest and clutched the boy with a father’s grip. While the two of them embraced, the hostages scurried out of the bank into the light drizzle. Uniformed officers escorted them away from the scene, splitting them up into appropriate groups of witnesses. The Chandler PD would want their statements while the incident was still fresh in their minds. Time was the killer of all good testimonies. Fortunately for Bryant, time was the only thing that was killed.

  Meltzer holstered his pistol and smiled. Roger pulled back from his scope and sighed like a hunter who’d just lost sight of a ten-point buck.

  “Waste of my time,” Roger grumbled.

  Meltzer patted the sniper on his back as he headed toward the bank. Thank goodness, he thought. He felt a vibration in his pocket, pulled out his cell phone, and looked at the display.

  “Hi sweetie,” he said into the receiver. He listened for a moment, then added. “It’s just a storm, honey. That’s all it is.”

  * * *

  The next morning Bryant sat in a leather chair behind his desk examining the stacks of patient charts that needed attention. He’d opened his practice years before electronic records were even a viable option. Now he needed to determine their fate—which charts went to storage and which ones went to his old college roommate, Frank Sullivan.

  He was doing a good job of keeping busy until his eyes found the framed photo next to his computer screen that haunted him each time he looked up. It was a photo of Kate and Megan smiling as they sat on a white oak fence in a farm back in Virginia. His daughter’s bright eyes seemed to be looking directly at him. Megan was thirteen and completely oblivious to the fact that she wouldn’t survive another month. He began taking shallow breaths and felt the anxiety rising up inside. He needed help, but didn’t want it. His agony was just the thing he’d deserved for his transgression. This was more than mere Catholic guilt and he knew it.

  He opened the top drawer of his desk and spied the unopened bottle of Ativan. As the surge of anxiety swelled, he leaned back and concentrated on taking deep breaths. Get through it alone. You’re capable. But how long could he hold it off? It became harder with each passing day.

  Bryant shut his eyes and focused on the patter of raindrops hitting the windowsill. He tried to meditate, but couldn’t keep his mind off his girls. Like a phantom limb, the pain was sharp and real.

  Bryant heard children’s voices and it startled him. His eyes popped open as he watched a group of kids exiting St. Andrews. His freestanding office shared the parking lot with the church. It was the reason he’d purchased the building to begin with. Before he’d lost his convictions, the church was a big part of his life. Through the picture window that fronted his office, he could see St. Andrews only forty yards away. Close enough for Bryant to run over to the rectory and visit with Father Joe between patients. Before the accident. Back when he cared.

  Now the white stucco building seemed farther away somehow. The asphalt between the two buildings seemed to run on for miles. Even after Bryant sold his house and moved into the office fulltime, his trips next door had diminished. His reasons for going had evaporated along with his faith.

  The kids jumped into the open door of a waiting minivan and drove away. Through the drizzle, a black Mercedes coupe pulled up outside Bryant’s office and parked next to his car. A stout man with premature-gray sideburns and a potbelly hunched out of the car and jumped around a couple of puddles until he ran up the steps to Bryant’s private entrance.

  The office door opened and Frank Sullivan lunged in from the rain, then shut the door behind him.

  “I was just getting these charts ready for you,” Bryant said, his breathing now under control.

  Sullivan ran his fingers through his wet hair and wiped his hand on his pants. He went over to a cabinet and pulled out a Styrofoam cup.

  “The newspaper is calling your actions at the bank yesterday heroic,” Sullivan said.

  Bryant said nothing.

  Sullivan poured himself a cup of coffee from the coffeemaker on the counter next to the sink. “But we both know what really happened out there yesterday, don’t we?”

  Sullivan sprinkled powdered creamer into the steaming cup and stirred it with a plastic swizzle stick. When the silence lingered, Sullivan added. “I mean, why would you do such a thing unless of course you had no sense of consequence.”

  Bryant finally looked up from his charts and said, “Is that how you talk with your patients, because it’s a great way to keep them coming back. How else are they going to find out what you’re talking about?”

  Sullivan sat on the couch that Bryant pulled out as a bed each night and took a careful sip of the hot coffee. “You’ve stopped taking your meds, haven’t you?”

  Bryant waved the back of his hand. “I’m not dulling my senses in order to cope with something I have no business coping with.”

  Sullivan leaned forward. He spoke in a softer voice. An instructive voice. “There are certain chemicals that can have a direct effect on your—”

  “Don’t, Sully,” Bryant snapped. “We took the same classes and I got better grades, so don’t give me a damn chemistry lesson.”

  Sullivan frowned. “Listen, I’ll take care of your patients. I’ll take care of your office while you’re gone. I’ll even drive your car around the block once a week, but I’m not going to be an accomplice to your demise.”

  Bryant had nothing for that. How do you hide your proclivities from a

  professional who spends his day scouring the landscape for those tendencies?

  “You can’t give up that easily. Kate and Megan didn’t have a choice, someone took that away from them. But you . . . you do, and without proper medication, I’m afraid you’re going to make the wrong one.”

  At the mention of his wife and daughter, Bryant’s hand clenched up into a fist. “Don’t you dare take this anger away from me. It’s all I’ve got left.”

  Sullivan seemed to retreat. He pushed off the couch and turned to look out the window. One hand in his pocket. One hand holding the coffee. “How’s Jeff?”

  Bryant followed Sullivan’s gaze and watched the rain glisten the asphalt. “He’ll be okay. Sam’s keeping him in a holding cell until the meds kick in.”

  “What’d you put him on?”

  “Zyprexa.”

  “Five milligrams?”

  “Ten.”

  Sullivan turned with raised eyebrows. “Ten milligrams of Zyprexa? That’s practically the recommended dose.”

  “Shut up.”

  Sullivan grinned. “You know, a psychiatrist who doesn’t like prescribing medication is like a fisherman who can’t stand the smell of fish.”

  “I prefer to get to the root of the problem rather than treat the symptoms.”

  Sulliv
an shrugged, then took a sip of coffee. “Listen, you’re the best in the world at treating adolescents. I’ve never seen a collection of patients gain more strength and stability purely from psychoanalysis as yours do. It’s amazing. But there is a place for science within our profession.”

  “I’ll try to remember that,” Bryant deadpanned.

  Sullivan returned his gaze out the window again. He lifted the cup to his mouth and slurped another sip. “Actually, that’s why I’m here. I need your help.”

  “One of my patients?”

  “No,” Sullivan said. “It’s a new one. A girl. Eighteen years old. She wanted you, but your calls are being forwarded to my office, so she made an appointment to see me.”

  Bryant waited while Sullivan seemed to put his thoughts together.

  “She’s special,” Sullivan finally said.

  “Special how?”

  As the silence lingered, Bryant felt like the pause might have been contrived. Finally Sullivan turned to face him. “She says she can sense beings from another planet.”

  Bryant tried to remember. “The alien girl? The one who says the aliens are living in these thunderclouds above Chandler?”

  Sullivan nodded.

  Bryant looked outside at the sky as if for the first time. The dark clouds seemed to be in a permanent standstill. “So what’s the problem?”

  Sullivan shrugged. “She’s suffering from acute PTSD and refuses to take any medication.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she’s afraid it’ll dull her senses and she won’t be able to know what the aliens are doing.”

  Bryant sighed. Sullivan was quite aware of Bryant’s interest in helping teenagers navigate their way through adolescence.

  Sullivan looked him in the eyes. “So you’ll see her?”

  “No. But that was a really good try.”

  “Good try?”

  “C’mon, Sully, you don’t think I see what’s going on here? You think I’m living recklessly, without any sense of purpose and you just happen to come across a teenage patient who won’t take medication? How long did it take you to find her?”

  Sullivan frowned. “You’re paranoid. There’s nothing here but an innocent girl with a problem.”

  “Maybe,” Bryant said. “But I’m not a practicing doctor anymore.”

  “Mike, if anyone is capable of helping this girl without using medication, it’s you. No one has done more with less. You’re her best chance for recovery.”

  “I’m sorry.” Bryant picked up a stack of files from his desk and handed them to Sullivan. “I’m making travel plans.”

  Sullivan’s head rolled back in mock surprise. “You? You’ve lived in Arizona your entire life and never even been to Mexico.”

  Sullivan was right, of course. Bryant was doing it for Kate. At least that’s what he told himself. It’s what she had always wanted. Before they were married, before Megan came along, Kate had dreams of traveling around the world. It was her one great desire. Then the family started and Bryant got what he wanted instead. A reason to stay home and play games and wash dishes and avoid the perils that could be out there waiting to disrupt his perfectly safe life. Kate’s dream would have to wait until Megan left for college. Then the dream died.

  “I’m going to see the country,” Bryant said. “Then maybe Europe.”

  “But you hate to travel,” Sullivan stated flatly.

  “I know and that’s about to change.”

  Sullivan nodded. “And what about Jeff?”

  “I’m going to stay until the meds kick in, then I’m going to have Catherine take care of him. You remind him too much of his father.”

  Sullivan held his ground. As Bryant walked over to open the door, Sullivan simply stood there with the patient charts pulled to his chest.

  “I may be too close to offer therapy,” Sullivan said, “but you need to speak with someone. Anyone.”

  It was no accident that Bryant had avoided psychotherapy. He was merely sidestepping the awful memories that had haunted his dreams and soiled his daydreams. As the scar tissue continued to pile up, his chance for a full recovery became virtually unattainable. And that’s precisely where he wanted to be—incapable of recovery.

  “I’ll think about it,” Bryant lied.

  Sullivan pointed his thumb out the window toward St. Andrews. “Maybe even Joe,” he said. “At least you could trust him to listen.”

  “Maybe,” Bryant said, faithfully keeping his grip on the open door.

  Sullivan placed his coffee cup on Bryant’s desk, then came up to his friend and gently squeezed his arm. “Listen, there’s nobody left to take care of you. No siblings. No parents.” Sullivan paused a beat, then added, “I worry about you.”

  “I know you do,” Bryant murmured. “I know.”

  Chapter 4

  Bryant spent most of the day cleaning his office and going through old patient files. Sometimes he’d groan at his dictation, sometimes he’d smile. But mostly he tried to find a good home for the kids who’d put their faith in him.

  A couple of times he glanced into the parking lot he shared with the church and spotted a black Ford Expedition parked in the back of the lot with a man behind the wheel. He wondered who the man was or why he’d be sitting there for more than an hour—but not enough to act on the thought.

  Instead, he tried to focus on his travel plans. Where would Kate want to go should she have the chance? He’d become a surrogate for her dreams as he sat hunched over his computer screen staring at a map of the globe trying to figure it all out.

  Finally, he remembered a conversation they’d had about the Grand Teton National Park and how close it was to Yellowstone National Park. The same visitors pass worked for both sites. She was excited about the concept and even purchased airline tickets. That was two weeks before she’d discovered she was pregnant with Megan.

  Two weeks later, they’d called it off. Megan’s health and safety was priority one, and there ended the traveling plans for good.

  Now, Bryant pounded his computer keyboard with a purpose. He made airline reservations for Jackson Hole, Wyoming, in three weeks and was about to find a hotel when he felt his stomach growl. He looked up to realize it was past three o’clock and he still hadn’t had any lunch.

  He opened his mini refrigerator and found a jar of mayonnaise and a can of Diet Pepsi. He glanced out the window and knew there would be food in the church kitchen. While heading across the parking lot, he noticed the man in the black Ford Expedition still in the vehicle, a phone to his ear, staring at him. This time Bryant stopped and stared back until the man looked away. Bryant didn’t know what to make of it, but this was a church, not a jewelry store worthy of casing, so he sidestepped a few puddles and kept moving.

  Bryant pulled on the door to the employee entrance and was grateful to find it open. It led him into the employee kitchen where a tray of dried-up sandwiches sat on the counter next to the sink, waiting to go in the trash. Bryant grabbed two sandwiches and found a Diet Coke in the refrigerator. He was standing over the sink, halfway through the second sandwich, when a graying woman with a purple apron swung into the kitchen from the dining hall. She smiled a sad smile, then reached for him.

  “Michael,” she whispered as she hugged him.

  “Good to see you, Norma,” he said, hugging back. He looked down at the sandwich. “Is it okay?”

  She waved her hand. “Of course. They’re from a Bible study group that left an hour ago.”

  Bryant looked over her shoulder at the door leading to the church.

  “He’s in there,” she said, smiling.

  “Thanks,” he said, shoveling the remainder of the sandwich in his mouth and taking a final gulp of his soda.

  He was still wiping his mouth with his hand as he entered the back of Saint Andrews. There was a stillness that brought a strange comfort to him. Maybe the familiar environment, maybe the lack of people. Only two people were visible. Father Joe was wrapping up the power cord of
a vacuum cleaner, while a young female parishioner sat by herself in the second row of pews.

  Bryant moved along the back wall of the church until he got to the row of candles that fronted an alcove displaying a statue of Christ on the cross. It was a statue he’d seen many times before, but now he viewed the image as if for the first time. He truly understood the agony Jesus must have felt, all alone, no one to trust.

  Bryant knelt on the padded kneeler and silently prayed for forgiveness. He wanted to be forgiven for everything. Everything he’d done. Everything he thought he’d done. And everything he’d thought of doing. He desperately longed to be with his family once again and he prayed for that chance. All the while wondering what good it would do.

  Behind him came a low sob. The girl in the second pew was crying. Father Joe was there next to her speaking in soft tones while her head drooped and her shoulders bobbed up and down with grief. The girl was in good hands. No one was better at consolation than Father Joe.

  Bryant continued his prayer, conjuring up images of Kate and Megan. After just a few minutes he felt a presence. Not the spiritual kind, but the familiar dry cough of a former twenty-year smoker.

  “Hey, Joe,” Bryant said without looking back.

  Father Joe waited patiently as he always would, never a moment sooner than necessary. He almost never spoke first, as if he needed to hear your initial words to determine how best to guide you.

  Bryant stared at Jesus and said to the priest, “What’s it like up in Heaven?”

  “Are you planning on leaving us prematurely?”

  Bryant shook his head. “You should’ve been a psychiatrist.”

  “But I am,” Father Joe said. “I’m a guidance counselor, a gym teacher, a nurse, a hustler . . . and sometimes all in one day.”

  Out of sheer habit, Bryant made the sign of the cross with his hands, then stood to face the priest.

  “Anything I can do for you?” Father Joe asked.

  “Just praying,” Bryant said. Leaving it at that. Even though deep down he knew it was merely a form of self-therapy.

  “I’m glad,” Father Joe said, his Irish lilt sneaking out. “We could all use a bit of repentance now and then.”