"Shouldn't that doctor be helping that kid, instead of just some ... pedestrian?” The voice came from behind us. “Aren't you a doctor?” A man tapped the pharmacist on the shoulder. The pharmacist shook his head, looking pale to the point of green.
With my free hand I stroked the child's light brown, wavy hair. Her blue eyes were half open. I smiled, hoping she would blink or return the smile, but she didn't.
"It's her birthday. I promised we'd go out for milkshakes. Vanilla is her favorite.” Her father crumpled to his knees, gasping.
"What's her name?” I asked.
The father shook his head as if my question made no sense.
"Her name?"
"Angela."
Chills raced down my neck and arms. Why, I asked. But God has never answered that question, and I have asked it a million times in the past six years.
Angela was the name I had chosen for my baby. Had she been born she would be the same age as the child in the street, this child whose warm blood coated my hand.
Angela blinked.
"Help is on the way,” I told her. “You'll be okay."
Like her, my husband had light brown, wavy hair and blue eyes, and like her he had a spray of freckles across his nose.
Derek.
This Angela wore a navy blue coat and black Mary Jane shoes with white ruffled anklets. The hem of a red-checked dress escaped where a missing button allowed the coat to fall open. The dress hem was small, about a half-inch wide and hand stitched. Maybe her mother had sewn the dress for her with barely enough material, or it was secondhand. I'd never know, but it made me angry. An innocent child from a poor family, her birthday party was a milkshake and her party dress was a hand-me-down. And now this, hit by a car, her blood on the street. Strangers staring. Her father crying. Life was cruel.
The crowd parted and the ambulance rolled to a stop. Two men scrambled out carrying a stretcher, a third carried an emergency aid kit.
"Got her,” one of them said. I moved aside. My hand was sticky with a sheer red glove of blood.
They loaded Angela into the ambulance and sped away with lights flashing and the siren screaming. The crowd shuffled away, dragging me with it. The ambulance was swallowed by traffic while my old familiar numbness returned to my neck, back, and legs.
The pharmacy assistant patted me on my shoulder. “Good thing you were here.” She nodded toward the front door of the drugstore. Inside, the pharmacist leaned against the counter, swallowing again and again as if trying to hold back vomit. “He hit a jaywalker with his car a couple years ago. Killed him.” She patted me on the shoulder again. “You okay?"
"Yeah,” I lied.
I hadn't been okay in six years, alternating between anger and numbness. Sometimes the anger startles me and makes it difficult to respond to anyone with a calm, tolerant voice. The numbness makes me appear uncaring.
I had often made conversation with co-workers, patients and neighbors, gave injections and baths, took blood pressures, administered prescription drugs, detected fevers and even diagnosed illnesses in time to save lives, but I had done it all with a detachment no nurse should have. I was either angry and shooting my mouth off, or numb and going through the motions, looking like I didn't care. No wonder the hospital put me on probation.
My attention was drawn to something in the gutter at my feet, a dark blue button. I squatted and picked it up. Angela's missing coat button gleamed in my palm like a beveled jewel. I squeezed it tight and suppressed a sob.
As I stumbled back toward my apartment I whispered the things I'd sacrifice for Angela's survival. A soft voice inside my head asked, even Derek?
He's already gone anyway.
Your profession?
I'm not such a great nurse.
Your own health?
Who cares?
Happiness?
What happiness?
The Bible says one cannot bargain with God, but that has never stopped me from trying.
When I reached the steps to my apartment building, I paused, looked up, and studied my darkened fourth floor windows. The thought of unlocking my door, opening my refrigerator, and smelling Jesse Frenault again made my throat hurt. I didn't want to think about Jesse or Angela or Derek. Numbness or the anger would be better; I was accustomed to both.
I kept walking.
An hour later I found myself at another intersection with another corner pharmacy, this one newer and larger. I studied their window display of bath mats, shower curtains, towels, washcloths, security railings, hot water bottles, thermometers, and bed trays.
Inside was a fifties-style lunch counter with six red vinyl-covered stools, one occupied by a man sipping coffee from a bisque-colored mug. Half a sandwich remained on a matching plate. The sight made me yearn for shelter from the cold wind, and to wrap my hands around a cup of hot coffee.
I claimed the stool at the opposite end of the counter near some swinging double doors. The waitress raised the coffee carafe and her eyebrows. I nodded and she brought another bisque-colored mug and a matching pitcher of half-and-half.
She halted, openmouthed, carafe in mid-tilt. “Oh, are you hurt?"
My bloody hand rested palm up on the counter. I flexed my stiff fingers.
"No, a pedestrian-car accident. I just applied pressure to the wound."
"A little girl?"
I nodded.
The waitress filled my mug. “They're looking for you,” she said.
"Who is?"
"Not sure. The police. The hospital. It was on the radio but I didn't hear it all. Are you sure you're okay?” Pop music played in the background.
I exhaled as if I'd been holding my breath a long time. The waitress and the other customer were both staring at me. I nodded again.
"Here.” The waitress wrung out a soapy wet towel and handed it to me. It was hot and it felt good on my cold hands. The white terrycloth turned reddish brown as my skin turned beige again.
The bell above the front door clanged and a gray-haired African American couple entered. They went straight to the prescription counter.
The pretty pharmacy assistant eyed their prescription and nodded. “It'll be about ten minutes,” she said.
The old couple sat down on a green vinyl sofa beside the self-serve blood pressure machine.
A Pakistani woman entered dressed in an aqua blue sari with silvery trim that didn't look warm enough for the blustery weather. She laid a prescription on the counter and left again. Before the door closed behind her, two grade school-aged boys entered. They dropped their backpacks on the floor and knelt beside the magazine rack.
Another minute passed as I studied my reflection in the stainless steel backsplash behind the sinks. My reflection appeared elongated and blue gray, but my short brown hair looked neat, considering the wind outside.
Other than the accident, I couldn't remember any details from my walk. I didn't recall passing anyone, although I must have, and couldn't remember crossing any streets, but I had to have crossed numerous intersections.
A familiar sounding voice caught my attention. “Thanks for stocking these. This brand is hard to find.” It was Dr. March, the pediatrician on staff at the hospital—the one responsible for my probation. His voice made me angry. His words replayed in my mind: “It's hard to believe you're an educated woman with that mouth of yours."
We made brief eye contact in the polished metal. I looked away but I knew he recognized me and that he was going to say something.
Screw you, I was ready to shout, but when I looked again the front door opened and closed and he was gone. At first I felt relieved, and then insulted. Leave them wondering what you would have said.
The bell above the door rang again. A man wearing jeans and a buff-colored jacket entered. His dark windblown hair covered his forehead and ears. He paused, studying his own feet, as if trying to recall what he had come in for.
The waitress refilled my mug. “Want a menu?"
I shook my head. “No, b
ut maybe I should call the hospital,” I said, and she nodded.
Bang. Her forehead disappeared. Strands of blond hair and pink matter dotted the stainless backsplash. A piece of scalp and hair fell with a plop into the murky dishwater and she collapsed like a marionette with severed strings. The coffee carafe popped like a big light bulb when it hit the floor.
"Huh?” The other customer at the counter slammed his mug down.
Bang.
He jerked as if he'd been kicked from behind. He slumped forward, tipping his mug over and spilling black coffee across the counter. I turned on my stool. The man in the buff-colored jacket pointed a gun at the elderly couple on the vinyl sofa, pulled the trigger twice, and the man and woman slumped together like Siamese twins joined at the cheekbone. Their mouths fell open. The man's false teeth dropped into his lap, followed by a glistening trail of spittle.
A man wearing a greasy apron shoved the swinging doors open, tripping over the waitress on the floor. He straightened, straddling her body.
"What the...” He wielded a meat cleaver in one hand, and then there was a loud pop and blood spurted from a hole in his throat. His eyes bulged as he dropped straight down beside the waitress. He gurgled for a few seconds and then fell silent.
The gunman aimed the gun at the pretty young pharmacy assistant. I stood up. My stool made a loud wobble-wobble sound as it spun in crooked circles. He jerked his head in my direction as the assistant ran past him and out the door. He turned all the way around, as if considering a shot at her through the window, but the pharmacist came through a doorway behind the prescription counter and bang, he took the bullet instead.
The gunman walked toward me but halted five feet away when the dead man with his face in his coffee spiraled off his stool and toppled to the floor. His head bounced once on the glossy linoleum, his ears full of blood.
The eerie calm was broken only by the sound of Bobby McFerrin singing “Don't Worry, Be Happy” over the radio. A strong diesel smell emanated from the gunman as he drew closer. He was in his mid thirties and hadn't shaved in at least a week. Above the stubble his gray eyes looked blank. He cradled the gun in black-stained hands, aiming it at my face.
"What has happened to you?” My voice sounded calm even to me.
He shook his head as if it were an impossible question. Then he raised the gun to his own temple and pulled the trigger, splattering brown hair, white skull, and pink brain confetti over the two boys crouched at the base of the magazine rack. They scrambled to their feet and ran out the door, leaving their backpacks behind. Sirens wailed in the distance.
I lowered myself to the stool on shaking knees.
* * * *
Emergency Services and the local newspaper labeled me a hero.
"I simply applied pressure to the wound,” I explained.
The police said I had saved three lives at the pharmacy. The survivors’ names were listed below the victims in the newspaper article. The pharmacy assistant said I distracted the gunman so she and the two boys could escape. The boys were interviewed for the evening news with their parents sitting beside them. They didn't say much. Mostly, they just nodded or said, “uh-huh.’”
I refused to be interviewed, but people kept thanking me in the days that followed even though I tried to explain. “I simply stood up. My stool wobbled."
Heroes risk their lives to save people. They run into burning buildings, or confront terrorists. All I did was press on an artery and stand up from a lunch counter.
The hospital called. I have a full-time job again in the emergency room, graveyard shift. It's a foot in the door. A second chance.
A few days later the newspaper ran another article, with Angela's photo. I still have her coat button in my jewelry box. I forgot to take it with me when I visited her and brought her new crayons and a coloring book.
The town fathers awarded me a thousand dollars, along with a framed document signed by the mayors of the adjoining towns. It's on top of my refrigerator. I haven't hung it up. I might not. It reminds me of that day, like old refrigerators will always remind me of Jesse and like girls with light brown, wavy hair and freckles will always remind me of my dead baby and of Derek.
* * * *
Last week I rounded a corner with a cart full of surgical tools hot from the autoclave and almost collided with Dr. March. I had never noticed before how much he looks like Derek. They could be brothers.
"Welcome back,” he said.
I wanted to reply, but my throat muscles cramped and I couldn't say anything. Instead, I nodded and pulled the cart out of his way.
Maybe I yelled at him that day three years ago because he reminded me of Derek, and thinking about Derek makes my throat cramp. Thinking about Derek makes me remember Angela. I don't know, maybe that's not so terrible.
Derek didn't want children. He suggested the abortion, but ultimately it was my decision. Three months later he left me anyway.
* * * *
I've started keeping a journal. I wrote, How many people witness an accident, save a life, and then wander into a pharmacy where someone with a gun starts shooting people? What are a person's chances of experiencing a day like that?
Writing things down helps me cope. I'm sleeping and eating better. I'm hardly ever angry and haven't felt numb in a long time.
I also wrote, It was a bad decision, but I believe my Angela has forgiven me.
* * * *
Something surprising happened, another strange coincidence, really. Vincent Reginald Frenault checked into the hospital for a CAT scan. Turns out he had a large benign tumor on one kidney. I'm a surgical coward myself, and I wondered if Vincent was terrified or in pain. I wasn't certain what he'd say if I visited him, but the day after his surgery I went up to the third floor, just for poor old Jesse's sake.
Vincent lay on one side, hugging a pillow in a private room with a view of the foothills and mountains. An ostentatious bouquet of red roses in a Waterford crystal vase monopolized the corner table. I'm certain Vincent ordered the flowers himself so that he wouldn't appear neglected. He looked surprised to see me.
"You'll be okay,” I told him. “Lots of people live long lives with one kidney. You'll just need to watch what you eat and drink, avoid alcohol, and don't take any drugs unless it's something your doctor prescribes."
He stared, saying nothing. He wore a serious expression and I felt sympathy creeping into my heart, so I stepped to the side of his bed and patted his hand. He took my hand in his and returned gentle pressure to my fingers.
"Ready to come back to work for me?” He winked and licked his lips. Then he lifted the covers and patted the mattress.
"Jeez, Vincent! You'll never change, will you?” I walked out without looking back, but I heard him chuckling and then moaning as if chuckling hurt.
As the polished brass doors of the elevator closed behind me I glanced down at my hand, still sensing the brief pressure of his fingers on mine, as if he had taken my blood pressure, or applied pressure to a wound. And for the first time in seven years, I laughed.
Copyright (c) 2008 Sherry Decker
[Back to Table of Contents]
Fiction: GRAVE TROUBLE by R. T. Lawton
* * * *
Kelly Denato
* * * *
Even though it seemed to be a relatively simple plan, Yarnell had to admit to himself he wasn't entirely in love with the total concept. It also made him wonder why he bothered to have a partner at all. To his way of thinking, his reluctance to accept the results of Beaumont's brainstorming stemmed from a phobia he, Yarnell, had recently acquired during a job which had gone horribly wrong. His head doctor referred to this condition as closet-phobia, or some medical term along those lines. In any case, Yarnell now had trouble with being trapped in small, confining spaces. A definite drawback when your main profession was burglary, partner or no partner.
Consequently, Yarnell's hesitation about the proposed joint venture dealt with the very simplicity which Beaumont claimed
was the beauty of his idea. As Beaumont put it, the jewelry store owner had only alarmed the doors and windows of the store. There were no motion detectors or heat sensors on the inside. Therefore, they—Yarnell and Beaumont—would merely park their van in the alley out back of the jewelry store, pry up the manhole cover, drop into the city's storm water sewer system, walk a short distance through that round cement tunnel, and then knock their way into the basement of the old building that housed their intended target.
"No alarm, no trouble, easy picking,” exclaimed Beaumont. “Pun intended."
"I got that part,” Yarnell muttered. “Now just how small is this sewer tunnel?"
"With your size, you'll only have to stoop over a little bit, but don't worry, there's plenty of room to swing a pickax when we get to the right spot."
"Humpf."
Yarnell's practical side felt a slight twinge of warning as he looked at Beaumont, who was now grinning like a used car salesman closing a deal on the car lot's longtime special. But there was no way to ignore the man's enthusiasm for his own project.
"I already memorized a map of the sewer, so this'll be like a walk in the park."
Yarnell tried to stay focused. He'd been on walks in the park before, but somehow he didn't think stooping over so far that your knuckles dragged on the cement floor of a culvert was the same thing. Maybe if he asked the right questions, he could find a way out.
"Is there water in the bottom of this sewer?"
"Only when it drizzles, but this is late October, almost Halloween, not really what you'd call the rainy season."
Damn. He'd forgotten Halloween was tomorrow night; that meant less than sixty days left till Christmas. His extended family would be expecting lots of presents under the tree about then. Well, that clinched it. He needed quick cash, else come out looking like Scrooge's twin brother. Not much choice here.
Yarnell grudgingly nodded his acceptance.
"One thing,” continued Beaumont, “the store has security cameras mounted inside on the ceiling. They're supposed to discourage shoplifting during business hours, but the owner may leave the cameras running twenty-four seven. To be on the safe side, we'll have to wear masks."
AHMM, December 2008 Page 8