by Ray Garton
. . . I hope you get so fat you explode, you manipulating slut!
There was a commotion in a far corner of the lobby where two sofas and some chairs were arranged by the large front window.
. . . explode.. explode . . . explode . . .
Oh, God please no, Margaret thought.
The sound was sudden and unlike anything she’d ever heard before. It was an explosive sound, but a muted one, a wet one. It was followed by several thick splashing sounds as something splatted onto the side of Margaret’s face with enough force to knock her sideways.
Margaret slammed into the wall.
The screams became deafening.
Leaning against the wall, Margaret wiped the side of her face and looked down to see that her hand was covered with blood and that a stringy, viscous substance was dangling from her fingers.
She tried to scream, but couldn’t. She had no voice
Margaret stumbled away from the cold wall and turned to it.
It was the mirrored section of the lobby wall against which she’d fallen. Now it was spattered with blood. But she could still see her reflection. Quite clearly. Too clearly.
As she stared at herself, Margaret’s voice returned with a vengeance.
She screamed so loudly that it hurt her throat. Once she started, she found that she couldn’t stop screaming, even when she tried. But she was simply contributing to the cacophony of screams that were rising in the now bloody lobby, and no one paid her any attention.
They didn’t even notice when she finally swallowed her screams and staggered out of the hotel, her arms pressed over the top of her dress to hold it in place, her throat making the sounds of a beaten child . . .
34
“This can’t be,” Dr. Plummer hissed, staring down at his patient.
It was everywhere.
“This just . . . can’t . . . be! The MRI was clear, everything was fine . . . she was fine!”
Lynda’s abdomen was filled with cancer. There was not a fraction of a centimeter of tissue inside her that was not covered with it, that did not have the cancer growing out of it from inside. The tumorous mass of cancer made it almost impossible to make out the intestines, the stomach and liver and other organs.
The cancer not only had returned . . . it apparently had brought reinforcements.
“Blood pressure dropping fast,” the anesthesiologist said.
“I just . . . I don’t . . . I can’t understand this!” Dr. Plummer whispered to no one in particular.
He could do nothing more than stare at the masses of rebellious cells. And that was what paralyzed him so completely, what made his rubber-gloved hands clench into fists as his back became rigid. He could do nothing more than that.
Dr. Plummer could do nothing at all . . .
35
Margaret knew people were staring. Of course they were staring. Who would be wearing a hooded yellow rain-slicker in Arizona? Especially in an Arizona hospital? But she didn’t — she couldn’t — care.
The rainslicker had come from the trunk of her car. She always kept one there, just in case, along with her spare tire, jack, some flares, a jug of water and all the other things that safety-minded people kept in the trunk when they traveled often. This was the first time she’d had to use the slicker . . . and instead of protecting herself from the rain, she was hiding herself from other people. She found that odd, like something Erma Bombeck might write, if the woman had a sick sense of humor and a twisted imagination.
The hood did a fine job of concealing her face, but it also made it hard for her to see. In fact, the slicker made movement awkward because it felt so heavy and seemed so enormous.
Walking as quickly and as steadily as she could, Margaret headed straight for Lynda’s room. She’d cried all the way to the hospital, driving very slowly, not trusting herself, and now her eyes were still stinging and sticky from tears and everything looked rather blurry, but not so blurry that she couldn’t recognize the door of room 406.
She stared at the door, wondering what she would say to Lynda, how she would explain herself. Deciding to deal with that later, she pushed through the door.
Margaret thought for a moment, as the door closed behind her, as she stared at Lynda’s bed, that her heart had stopped.
The bed was empty, and dark with blood.
“Lynda?” she asked, her thick voice cracking. “Oh, God, Lynda? What’s happened, Lynda?”
She began crying again as she staggered to the bed, nearly falling onto it. Her sobs were erratic and made her sound as if she were choking.
“She’s gone,” a frail voice came from behind the drape around the other bed. “Who’s there?”
Trying to pull herself together, Margaret made her clumsy way across the room and ripped the drape aside.
“What’s happened to my sister?” she asked the old woman lying on the bed.
A frown grew slowly on Mrs. Watkiss’s face as she looked up at Margaret from her halo of thin white hair spread over the pillow. She seemed to sink into the mattress, to deflate beneath the blankets.
“Oh, no,” the old woman breathed, shaking her head slightly. “No, no, not you, honey. I thought I’d told you. Maybe I didn’t say enough, maybe I wasn’t . . . well, I’ve never been very good with words, so — ”
“What’s happened to my sister?” Margaret hissed, leaning forward over the bed, her hands on the side rail.
“I didn’t know at first. But now . . . I think I do. You went sour on the gift, didn’t you?”
“Would you quit talking that crap and just tell me about Lynda?”
“She felt it, too . . . you souring on the gift like you did . . . however you did it.”
Margaret burned with an anger she was now too weak to express fully, but she reached down with her right hand and closed a fist over the thin material of Mrs. Watkiss’s hospital gown, just beneath her shoulder.
“Dammit, would you answer my question, old woman?”
Mrs. Watkiss chuckled, but it was a sad sound, with no fear. She kept chuckling, but she did not smile. “I’m not so old, like you think,” she said quietly.
Still clutching the old woman’s thin gown, Margaret took in a deep breath and spoke as she exhaled. “Just tell me what happened to Lynda.”
After a moment, Mrs. Watkiss said, “She got very sick. Started vomiting blood. They took her to surgery.”
Margaret released the gown and leaned forward, her forearms on the siderail. “Oh, my God. How could that be? She was . . . doing so . . . well.”
“I told you. But maybe I wasn’t clear enough. Like I said, I ain’t so good with words. It’s probably my fault. See, you can heal . . . or you can hurt. Can’t do both. The gift don’t let you. You gotta decide, see, that’s the thing. I didn’t know. Least, not till it was too late. I suppose you can kill, too, ’cause it’s a powerful thing, the gift. I didn’t go that far, thank God, but not for lack of tryin’. I hurt some, though. Yeah? I hurt ’em bad. Didn’t even realize I was doin’ it at the time, but that’s what I did. And that’s why I tried to warn you. But I . . . well . . . guess I didn’t do so good, huh?”
“What . . . what are you talking about?”
“You fixed your sister’s cancer. That was good. But then, you did something else. I don’t know what. But it was bad. Fixing your sister was good . . . you did something bad — to somebody else, prob’ly — your sister suffered for it.”
Angry again, Margaret stood straight, hands on the side rail. “You’re just a crazy old woman,” she said wearily.
“If I’m crazy, how come you look like that?”
Margaret put a hand to her face, first to touch it, remembering what she’d seen in the mirror.
“And by the way, I ain’t no old woman?” Mrs. Watkiss whispered.
Margaret heard the door open, heard soft footsteps come into the room.
“I’m only thirty-eight years old.” Mrs. Watkiss smiled, showing her long, yellow teeth. She whispered, “I’
m like this ‘cause I went sour on the gift.”
Margaret folded her arms over her breasts suddenly, tightly, and stumbled backward, suddenly feeling very cold. She bumped into someone and spun around.
“Can I help you?”
It was a male nurse. Probably Derek, the one Lynda had told her about.
“Where’s Lynda?” Margaret asked, forcing the words up from her chest.
“Are you a relative?”
“Dammit, I’m her . . . I’m . . .” He’d never believe that she was her sister. Never. “I’m . . . a friend.”
“Oh. Well, I think it would be best if you spoke to her doctor. That would be Dr. Plummer. If you’d like, I can — ”
“I don’t want to speak to Dr. Plummer!” Margaret said, her voice raspy. “I want to know what’s happened to my sis — um, to my friend, and I want to know right now!”
“Well, ma’am I really can’t talk to you about that. See, that’s the doctor’s job, and I can call him for you if you’d like.”
“No, I wouldn’t like, Goddammit!” Margaret shouted, swinging her fists through the air in frustration. The sudden movement made the hood fall back slightly, revealing her face.
The male nurse’s eyes widened and he pulled his head back a bit. His lips twitched slightly, but he said nothing.
Seeing his weakness, Margaret reached up and pulled the hood back completely as she backed away from him toward the door of the room until she thumped against it.
The nurse’s eyes were wider now and he had a sort of wincing expression on his face.
“I’m not moving from where I stand until you tell me what happened to my sister,” she growled.
“Your . . . sister?”
“Lynda Donelly, you idiot! What the fuck happened to Lynda Donelly?”
He swallowed a couple times, licked his lips. “It’s not my job to . . . I mean, I’m just a nurse, and — ”
“Are you going to tell me, or not?”
“She . . . passed away. Just a little while ago.”
Margaret released a gush of breath, as if she’d been slugged in the stomach. “What . . . how . . . how could that happen? They said . . . the cancer . . . was gone?”
“It, um . . . well, it seems it came back. Suddenly. But I really think you should talk to Dr. Plummer and — ”
Before he could finish, Margaret turned and pulled the door open, stumbling into the corridor. She wanted to run, but she couldn’t. Not anymore. All she knew was that she had to get out of the hospital.
She did not know where she would go or what she would do with herself.
Margaret knew only one thing. She had killed her sister . . .
36
It was a small ceremony in the chapel of the Evergreen Mortuary, which was located on the edge of the Evergreen Cemetery, where Lynda Donelly was to be buried.
The man standing at the pulpit over the casket, the top half of which was open, was Pastor Gerald Craney, pastor of the church that Lynda had attended before becoming ill. The pews in the small chapel were scattered with friends and co-workers and members of the church.
Pastor Craney was speaking softly of the coming resurrection when Christ would return and take up His followers, when someone walked through the double doors in the back.
It was someone small and hunched over, someone wearing a yellow rainslicker with a large hood that swallowed the head of the person wearing it.
The pastor faltered for a moment, then continued.
The figure made its way down the center aisle between the columns of pews, zigzagging the whole way, staggering, but in a hurry.
Finally, Pastor Craney stopped, frowning and stiffening as the figure reached the front of the chapel and threw itself onto the open casket.
“I can help you!” the figure cried in a voice of sandpaper and gravel, leaning over the open half of the casket and wrapping its hands around the corpse.
Panicky voices rose from those in the pews.
Pastor Craney said into the small microphone that curved toward him from the back of the pulpit, “Please, please, I understand your grief, but if you’ll just — ”
“I can make it up to you!” the figure shouted. “I can bring you back! I can! I really can! I healed you! I can bring you back! Please don’t go away because of what I did! Please don’t! I can bring you back!”
Members of the small gathering moved in, but the figure only turned around and began to pound them with small, frail fists and kicking again and again.
“Someone please call the police,” Pastor Craney said gently into the microphone. “And perhaps an ambulance.”
The hood of the yellow rainslicker fell away as the figure struggled and a few people gasped.
The face was that of a very, very old woman. Impossibly old. And it was covered with large, chocolate colored lumps the size of marbles. They were everywhere, even on her cheeks, which were so hollow that she seemed to be sucking them in. Her head was mostly bald, with thin, straggly strands of white hair of various lengths extending from the exposed scalp in a frazzled, mussed way.
“No, please, don’t take me away!” she cried in her hoarse voice, which was becoming more and more frail as she spoke. “Please don’t! I can help her! I put her there! I can bring her back! I can bring her back, really, it sounds crazy, but it’s true, I promise! I can . . . I can . . . bring her back! . . . I can. I . . . can. She’s my . . . my sister, and I . . . I love her. I love her . . . my sister . . .”
The police came, followed by the paramedics. The babbling old woman had no I.D. on her, and she was incapable of doing any real harm . . . but she was definitely crazy.
The police turned her over to the paramedics, who put her in the ambulance and headed for Sisters of Mercy Hospital.
All the way there, she babbled on and on. Something about killing her sister and being given some horrible gift . . .
CHOICES
For Randall Terry, Pat Robertson . . . and their families
The whole family was up early because it was Friday. Friday was a special day for the Holts and they were all wide awake in spite of the intrusions on their sleep.
There had been an explosive summer storm late the night before with thunder so loud it shook the house and rattled the windows and woke the whole family. Summer storms were not uncommon . . . but something about this one was most uncommon, indeed.
In fact, the thunder had been so spectacular it sounded more like bombs dropping nearby, like a war had broken out outside. And the lightning! It had flashed an electric blue, sending its light through the closed curtains and across the floors. And sometimes . . . just for a heartbeat every now and then . . . the blinding blue had become a strange reddish-orange. Al and Nita had reassured the children it was just God’s own nature reminding them of His strength, protection and love. But Al was so concerned, he walked through the dark of the house in his pajamas and stood by the front window looking outside.
From the north, a silver bolt of lightning cut through the clouds; from the south, a reddish-orange bolt clawed its way through the sky.
A strong wind blew as the lightning changed the night sky from black to blue to a blood-like color, flooding over the other houses in the neighborhood in torrents. Trees tossed this way and that.
But no rain fell.
At the time — although it would not occur to him in the morning — Al found it odd that no rain was falling . . .
But now it was a bright summer morning and school had been out for nearly a month. Al was pleased the kids would be able to participate today. It was something they enjoyed every bit as much as a church picnic, so they were especially boisterous this morning, the first ones at the breakfast table.
Al was a little late to breakfast, though, as was his habit on Friday mornings. After showering and dressing, he spent more time than usual in Bible study and prayer, preparing himself for what was ahead, sitting on the edge of the bed with his back straight, his King James Bible open on his lap. The bedr
oom door was always closed and locked during this time, this very private, quiet time.
When he was finished reading, he closed the Bible reverently, set it on the nightstand and knelt beside the bed, back still straight, folded his hands on the bed, bowed his head and closed his eyes. He prayed aloud.
“Dear Lord, thank you for this new day You have given us. Thank you for our fine family, our beautiful children, and for showing us the truth and wisdom that so many others have chosen to ignore. Be with us today as we go out to do Your work. Guide us as we to try to hold back the tides of sin, to prevent sinners from making their condition worse by killing innocent and helpless human beings. Speak through our lips, use our hands as tools, and let our work make a difference in bringing an end to the holocaust perpetrated by wicked and hateful agents of the devil. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
Then he stood and went to the kitchen, which smelled warmly of eggs, bacon and coffee.
“Morning,” he said cheerfully.
Both children — eight-year-old Matthew and nine-year-old Ruth — returned the greeting happily. The food was on the table, their empty plates before them, and they waited patiently; no one ate until Father had seated himself at the table and the blessing had been asked.
Nita was still in the kitchen, getting the rest of the food. She was nicely dressed and a bit more made up than usual: lipstick, a dab of rouge, a touch of eye shadow and a little mascara. Once she was seated at the table, all of them automatically bowed their heads.
“Dear Lord, we thank You for this food,” Al said, “and for our loving Christian home. We ask that You march with us today as we go forth as soldiers for Your cause to stop the murder of unborn babies and expose the worldly, misguided women who kill them to Your Word and Your will. In the name of Jesus — ”
They all said “amen” together, raised their heads, then Nita began moving around the table, serving up the food.
Al noticed a folded newspaper on the table beside his plate. “Is this yesterday’s? I didn’t get a chance to read yesterday’s paper.”