by A. A. Vacco
Part 2
1
Millerton, IL, 2014
His shuffling gait slowed him down even more this year. He wasn't the invincible man he once knew. Even back in his fifties, he felt like he could outperform most cocky punks that were half his age. His steely, dark eyes scanned the yard. Overgrown and without much care over the last two and a half decades, he limped toward the shed to see if he could find a rake to clear some of the autumn debris. The wind swirled a collection of red and brown leaves around his feet, and he heard crunching as he stepped over them. It took him notable effort to even reach the shed. Once there, he leaned against the rickety structure to catch his breath. His heart beat rose and he felt the muscles in his chest ache at the added activity. "C'mon," he grunted, hitting his fist over his chest. "Beat, dammit!"
After a few moments, he stepped back and unlocked the shed. The large padlock wore several layers of rust. He half-expected it to crumble in his hands when he jammed in the key and twisted it. It took him a couple of tries, but eventually the worn lock clicked and he yanked it off the door. He reached for the handle and pulled the door open. Inside the shed were all the same tools he had kept there over the past years. They were glazed in rust and he could tell the shed had mildew residing in its back corners. He grimaced when his eyes fell upon the aged rifle. This too displayed some rust. It hadn't been fired in ages, but he could still smell the gunpowder and smoke. The aching pressure in his chest amplified at this recollection. "Damn!” he growled, beating his chest again.
With caution, he stepped up into the shed and reached for the rake. As he did, a searing pain shot through his left shoulder and down his arm. He yelled out and swore again, stumbling backward out of the shed and falling six inches off the elevated platform. He glared around him and tried to catch his breath. The pressure in his chest felt like an iron vice clamping him on either side with increasing grip. He coiled into a ball, clawing at his chest. Within moments, he lost consciousness.
He woke up in the hospital several hours later. His wife stood over him, frail and nervous. He saw her turn when a far-off voice said, "Mr. Gregory Valor?” and then the words, "massive heart attack." Moments later, he slipped out of consciousness to the tunes of beeping, typing, and muffled chatter.
2
Pinecrest Park, IL, 2014
Her blue eyes blazed with rage. She just lost her serve and her competitive drive started to override her enjoyment of the sport. The game wasn't fun anymore; it was plain pissing her off.
"C'mon Genie, get your head back in the game!” she heard her assistant coach, Billy, yell from the sideline.
Genie glanced his way and managed a head nod, then refocused on the volleyball court. Billy paced back and forth, praying Genie’s temper wouldn't cost them the game. For the most part, Genie was one of the calmest girls he knew. But, every now and then, without much warning, it sparked. And when it sparked, Billy knew to give her some space. Still, he felt safer on the sideline and in a position of authority. Sort of. A blur of blonde hair and an emerald jersey whizzed by him as Genie dove for the ball heading into the bleachers. She managed to get it back in play, but another missed hit by her teammate didn't alleviate her fury.
"Time out!" called Billy, and the weary team of high school juniors and seniors dragged their way to the bench. Billy ran down a few plays with them, gave them the inspirational pep talk, and after an enthusiastic, Go Tigers! the team retook the court. Genie heard none of it. She was in her zone. She was ready to win, and if she didn't--
"Got it, Genie?" Billy's grip on her shoulder startled her, and she managed a, "Yea, yea, got it."
"Just make sure it goes to the front right. Beth will set Angie up for a hit, and we're golden."
"Assuming she actually hits the fucking ball," mumbled Genie.
"Watch your mouth and get back out there. Let's do this!"
Genie scanned the semi-packed gymnasium for familiar faces. She didn't see her mom, which she expected because her mom taught night classes at the University. Her dad, on the other hand, might have made an appearance if he closed up the bar early enough. Genie smirked when she caught sight of him, waving and giving her the 'kill' signal with his finger moving across his throat. You got it, Dad, she thought, and took her place in the middle back row.
She didn't mean to take her father's advice literally. On some subconscious level though, Genie may have known what would happen next. Of course, she told everyone it was purely accidental, and most everyone believed her since Genie was usually so even-keeled. But when the serve sailed her way, she lunged and meant to hit the ball toward Beth, ready to go, front right corner. Instead, Genie managed to punch the pass with the front of her balled-up hands. The angle created an impressive line-drive directly into Angie's stupid, smug face.
Genie's hands flew up to cover her mouth, partially smiling at the crimson flourish that sprayed everyone around Angie, and partially agape with shock. She felt sorry, but not entirely sure she regretted it. The rest of the game played out. The Tigers won by just three points in the last match. Angie went to the ER to get her nose examined, and Genie and her father headed home. In all, it one of their better games.
***
Dr. Elle Conway, formerly Elle Carter, made her way to her office early for a Tuesday morning. She liked how the usual suburban traffic quelled considerably if she left before seven. Her office was only a ten-minute drive from her house as long as no one elected to wreck their vehicle and stop up the freeway.
Elle's phone lit up. "Alexander Kingman," flashed with a green and red circle below the name.
"Alex! Talk to me," answered Elle with a smile.
"Hey stranger, just living large here. How're you?" responded the familiar tone of her childhood friend.
"Great! Heading to the office now. I don't have patients scheduled for another half hour, but figured I'd get a head start on some paperwork I keep putting off. I'm professional like that."
Alex laughed. "You? Putting off paperwork? Rebellious. I like it. How's Calvin doing?"
Glancing at her wedding ring with a smile, Elle said, "Ah he's doing just fine. Went into the city today to get some stuff finalized. Some days he gets away with working from home, but not today. How about your family? Cassie and Justin doing alright? How's Cara?"
Cara and Alex got married a couple years after graduating high school. Elle knew of Cara from a few shared classes, but had moved north around the time Cara and Alex started dating. She did stay in close touch, and their families often met whenever Elle and Cal visited town. Millerton was about an hour and a half south of Pinecrest Park. The drive was almost a straight shot on the highway and always worth it to Elle.
"How's Kat-attack? And that oaf of a husband she acquired?"
Elle put a hand over her mouth. "Oh c'mon, Walt's not that bad! He's just a little...quirky."
"Code for someone who's weird as hell but we have to pretend to like them anyways."
"Stop it, Alex. Seriously, they're doing fine. Hopefully Kat comes with me next venture back home."
"Still teaching?"
"Yep, and she loves it. She's got creative writing this semester. Seems to be right up her alley." Elle paused, then added, "And her mini-monster, Genie, is doing great too. Doing the whole high school scene, and quite well, I might say. She's on the varsity volleyball team. Guess they're crushing it, from what Kat's told me."
"So glad to hear it," said Alex. "Speaking of school, I was hoping Cass could talk to you about med school. I know you moved to Chicago to study there and knock out your residency program. You're a great resource. Can I have her hit you up with any questions? She's working on the college applications and I can't answer everything she wants to know."
Now Elle laughed. "What, Sheriff of Millerton, protector of the peace, and enforcer of those ridiculously slow town speed limits can't answer something?"
"Hey you were going fifty in a thirty zone. Sort of forced my hand there, Dr. Lead-foot."
&nbs
p; "Kat was driving, Officer Dimwit."
"Ah. So she was. Well, regardless, can Cassie call you after work?"
"Of course, Alex, anything you guys need. But hey, pulling into the parking lot, so I better go. Stay safe, have a good one!"
"You too, Ellbea. Much love."
Elle hung up the phone and made her way into her office.
3
Millerton, IL, 2014
Opening his eyes, Gregory Valor saw a collection of IV bags hanging to his left, a black monitor with green numbers and lines flashing across the screen, and a TV hanging in the upper corner, close to a window. Outside he could see it was still dark, but he wasn't sure what time it was. He saw his wife standing and making her way toward him. He glanced down and saw that his arm looked as if someone took a five iron to it. In the center of one of the dark bruises was an IV tube that led to one of the bags. He tried to talk, but his mouth was so dry that all he produced was a wheezy cough. "Vickie," he managed to finally say.
Victoria Valor lifted a Styrofoam cup of water to his lips. "Here, Greg, drink." Her voice was harsh and low; her lifelong smoking habit took its toll on her vocal chords and she spoke with a notable rasp. "You look like hell," she smiled.
Nodding forward to sip the water, Gregory choked initially on the cool splash of liquid. He tried again, and this taking down a few, small gulps. He sighed and turned his head from the cup when Victoria offered more. Keeping her tremor as steady as she could, she set the cup of water on the bed stand. She then sat on the side of the bed and held her husband's hand while he took in some more slow, shaky breaths. It was the first time he had been fully conscious since he entered the hospital. "You've been here almost a week," Victoria told him.
He glanced back at her and nodded. "Had this coming. A long. Time."
"No, shhh, no, you didn't, Love."
"I've waited. For this. Finally. My time."
Victoria watched the once-fierce eyes of her husband slowly fill with tears. This startled her, and she felt a lump start to swell in her throat. Shaking her head, she tried to say something comforting, but he cut her off. "Just my time, Vic, Please. Let me...go. I deserved this. Long ago."
She remained silent, and Gregory continued his labored breathing. The monitor started to beep as his heart rate picked up. "You know. You must know." Squeezing his hand, she bowed her head. His trembling voice continued. "Vic. The closet. It's there. Find it."
Then, with another final exhale, Victoria Valor watched a shade of grey wash over her husband's face. The heart monitor shrieked and bells clamored. A swarm of people in scrubs and masks flew into the room. One man ushered her from the room. As she crossed the door frame, Victoria fainted, dropping to the floor.
4
Pinecrest Park, IL, 2014
“Little sister! You made it, thank god. I thought we were doomed!” RJ greeted Elle with his usual, over the top and never fading enthusiasm.
With a smirk backed by more warmth than she let on, Elle greeted RJ with a hug and a dismissive “Yet another day to kick off the week.”
She made her way back to her desk and booted up the computer. Quickly glancing over her daily schedule, she estimated when she’d have time to pour some coffee and review some labs between her appointments. Because she’d been at this clinic for more than ten years, she knew the majority of her patients. RJ popped his head into her office. “How’s the day lookin,' Princess?”
Elle rolled her eyes, but as the nickname was endearing, she let it slide. “Booked with a lot of the usual suspects.”
It was the new patients and ones that didn’t follow up too often that Elle was less at ease with. She had a knack for keeping people on point and making appointments last about twenty to twenty-five minutes, at most. But the unpredictable ones could throw off this flow partly because, well, people were unpredictable, but also because Elle had the hardest time telling people when to stop and follow up for further complaints.
Dr. Randal Joseph Barringer was in Elle’s graduating class back in the days of medical school and residency, or as Elle usually put it, the worst years of her life. Most people saw their education as a launching point that “lasted all too fast” and “they’d return in an instant."
RJ and Elle seemed to be the only two that recalled how hellish their program was. Not that either regretted it-they were well-prepared and highly trained for the real world. But where the program built them up intellectually, it consistently degraded their morale. RJ and Elle always felt the staff cared more about the academic process than any of their students’ mental states. This seemed to change slightly once one student was hospitalized for severe anxiety. When she and several others dropped out completely, the staff shifted their focus. Numbers, after all, were key to a successful program. If most of their students found themselves hospitalized, traumatized, or in another profession, the renowned Weber-Pinkerton University would not be so highly regarded.
Elle and RJ, therefore, became quick friends. Their running joke was that the program let them in as a social experiment. Neither RJ nor Elle were nearly as personality type-A as their fellow classmates. Between wine nights prior to multiple exams and study guides that were odd combinations of cartoons and buzzwords, the two developed a mutual bond based on sarcasm, alcohol, and straight-up misery.
“You have Mary Slashborne at seven thirty," reminded RJ.
Elle paused and looked up at him. “And?”
“You don’t understand, she’s completely off her rocker. Consider this a warning.”
“You say this about seventy-five percent of my patients, RJ. How is this one any different?”
“She isn’t. Just make sure you have your coffee prior to seeing her. Or don’t. Sometimes being mildly sedated works in your favor. She feeds off of any energy source in the room, so if you go in caffeinated you’ve lost half the battle.”
“I’ll keep that in mind," smiled Elle as she reached for a K-cup and an empty coffee mug.
“Oh cute, ignore me and rub it in my face that you are absolutely not taking my advice. It’s hurtful, Ellbea.”
Elle kept smiling and brushed past RJ toward the break room. He called after her, “Hey, Bacon in yet?”
Billy, their medical assistant, earned the name Bacon from RJ when Billy managed to come to work with a second degree burn on his arm from frying bacon. Elle, upon hearing the new nickname, mentioned something about Empiricism and the scientific method. The other two took the liberty of mocking her for being a nerd for the rest of the day. Needless to say, the name stuck.
“No, I’d bet he’s in the break room, though. He’s usually shooting espresso about now. If he could inject it, he probably would.”
“Thanks. Well, catch ya after I brave my first appointment of the day.” RJ waved and headed to his side of the clinic.
“Ta.” Elle set down her mug next to the office Keurig, adjusted her white coat, and made her way toward the closed door of Room 4. The coffee would have to wait.
“Mary, great to see you! I’m Dr. Conway. I see you’ve previously met with Dr. Barringer. What can I help you with today?”
With a deep breath, Mary deoxygenated the room. Elle believed this to be true because she felt her ability to breathe diminish at that same time.
“Where can I begin? I want you to know that I am severely in need of medical attention. My labs weren’t done last visit; I had a lot going on. I care for my own kid and her two little ones, you know? Plus, I just don’t have the hours available that the lab offers. I also want to make note that I am dieting and exercising, but for the life of me I cannot lose weight.”
Her voice was a few octaves too high for Elle’s tolerance. She rattled off thoughts without taking much time to pause in between breaths. Elle became anxious just listening to her in those few moments.
“Seriously," Mary emphasized, “I eat all the right things and do all the proper workouts, but I look like this!” She gestured to her overweight middle section. “I tell you, I think my hor
mones are out of balance, have you heard of such a thing?”
With eyes wild and wide, she focused her gaze intently on Elle, who at this point made up her mind she not only had ‘crazy eyes’ but needed redirection or this appointment would go nowhere constructive.
“That’s always frustrating," Elle cut in.
“I know! I wake up and eat--,”
Elle made a ‘time out’ hand signal. “Mary, if you want my help, please, let me talk so I can figure out what we can do for you.”
Mary nodded, but not without another brief interjection on more personal bullshit Elle quickly lost the rest of her patience for.
“The thing is, Dr. Conway, oh, you need to know my background. Let me give you a quick history.”
Elle felt like her eyes rolled to the back of her head. Whenever a patient uttered “let me give you a quick history," she was certain of two things: it was never quick, and she didn’t need to hear the majority it. It wasn’t a calloused sentiment. It was just that she and her patients had very different views on what constituted as important.
“I was always an anxious child; nervous, but never with an anxiety disorder. I’m not one of those people.” Elle felt herself clenching her teeth at that statement. Mary pressed on, “But I can’t eat certain foods—never could. My little sisters could eat egg whites and yolks, but me? No. I had to have low fat diets, and the doctors couldn’t figure out why. Well, as I got older, I kept trying to advance my diet and then got into a serious car accident.” Mary was almost winded she was talking so fast. The pitch of her voice oscillated between high and shrill, depending which syllables she chose to emphasize.
Elle raised her eyebrows. The tangential nature of this story amused her, but as curious as she was to where it would go, she cared more about Mary’s visit that day.