by T. Ainsworth
He rang the doorbell and waited.
When the door opened, Morgan’s trim beard made for a dramatic change in his appearance. Surgeons at the hospital weren’t allowed to have beards because whiskers could fall into the sterile field, but Morgan wouldn’t be back for several months, so it was okay for now—just different.
It seemed odd he was dressed in only a T-shirt, running shorts, and leather sandals, because it was fourteen degrees outside. Maybe he kept his place warm, but that warm?
Morgan remained in the doorway. He tugged the speaker buds from his ears while the wind blew on his bare legs. Annoyed he let Merrimac come inside.
“Got any coffee?” Ross asked, seeing the mugs scattered around the living room.
“Got no cream,” Morgan responded without enthusiasm, heading for the kitchen. “Only sugar.”
“No problem.”
Merrimac studied the room. The awards, photographs, and bric-a-brac that lined the shelves and mantle were gone except for a book wrapped in white cotton. On the floor nearby was a cardboard box with a hand-drawn red heart on it. Numerous maps lay strewn on the dining room table. On the seat cushion of an armchair a phone book had slips of paper jutting from the yellow pages. There were pads of legal paper everywhere, each top sheet covered with handwriting and dog-eared pages beneath. The coffee table had a pile of travel books; Morgan’s laptop computer sat nearby. Before Merrimac could see the website that was open, it switched to screen-saver mode.
The furniture, shoved close to the walls, created space for a weight bench.
“Whatever you’re up to, you’re doing what you do best: multitasking.” Merrimac was beyond curious.
“Going through all my old shit,” said Morgan flatly as he gave Merrimac the coffee. “It accumulates.”
That was interesting too. Morgan wasn’t known to be a pack rat.
“Mind if I sit down?” Merrimac asked.
“I’m really busy. But for a few minutes, I guess,” said Morgan.
Moving farther into the room, Merrimac found the single chair that wasn’t stacked with books. Morgan stood leaning against the mantle, his unambiguous posture broaching disinterest.
Pointing at the bare shelves, Merrimac had to ask. “Where’d all the things go?”
“Redecorating,” Morgan replied.
A quick excuse.
“Not a bad thing.”
Merrimac wasn’t convinced. He saw a bath towel on the floor placed at a strange angle to the room’s corners.
“See you’re working out. Good for you!”
“Trying to,” Morgan said.
“Nice beard, by the way.”
“Thanks.” Morgan hated the thing but was learning to live with it.
“Why did you grow it?”
“Running,” Morgan said. “My scarf.”
It sounded legitimate.
“How’s your mom doing?”
Merrimac was working hard to get Morgan away from simple sentences.
“Lizzie fell again.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
Morgan shook his head. “She’ll be gone soon.”
Even when talking about his mother, Morgan seemed disconnected. He had every reason to be numb—all that he loved in life had met tragic ends.
“We did a transplant the other day. Kid’s doing super!”
Ross hoped mentioning Morgan’s passion might lift his funk.
“Glad to hear it.”
“Spoken to the Pruitts lately?”
“After the memorial service, in Cay’s condo.”
That was the truth. Morgan adored Jon and Connie but he didn’t want to talk to anyone. All distracting entropy had to be controlled and eventually would be.
“So you’re doing okay?” Merrimac got to the purpose of his visit.
“Fine,” said Morgan.
“Where I come from, saying fine too many times doesn’t mean jack, brother. So…are you actually fine?”
Merrimac’s push for a deeper answer yielded only, “Yes…fine means fine.”
“I don’t believe you,” said Merrimac.
“Believe what you want,” said Morgan.
“Come on, friend. Talk to me! I’m your brother!” Merrimac’s frustration grew to concern. “Are you okay? Did you see the shrink yet?”
“I have an appointment next week.” It was a lie but might get rid of him quicker.
“Well…let me know how it goes.” Merrimac put his cup on a side table. “I miss you, man. We all do. We need you back. Abby hasn’t been the same.”
“Tell her not to worry. Tell everybody that.”
Morgan’s wristwatch beeped. Instinctively, Merrimac looked at his. It was 1:08 in the afternoon—an odd time to mark. Morgan gave him the unsubtle hint it was time to leave.
“Ross…I just need my space right now.”
“Okay, Wes.” Merrimac wasn’t satisfied but could do little more. “Stay in touch, will you?” He gave his friend a hug but Morgan reciprocated only weakly. “I’ll be going, then.”
Morgan opened the door. “Thanks for checking on me.”
One more try.
“Maybe dinner sometime?”
“Could work.”
Wouldn’t happen.
When the door shut, Morgan stared at the lock. “Fuck me,” he said. “I don’t need this.” He walked over to the towel, stuck the earbuds back in, and sat down on his knees.
Several minutes later he opened his bedroom door.
“Glad this shit was in here.” Stacks of cardboard boxes were everywhere. “Time to get rid of this crap asap.”
He noted it on a yellow pad then went to the table covered with the maps. For an hour he measured distances, performed a series of calculations and added the information to specific months of a calendar.
Morgan looked out a window. Snowflakes drifted past. That was good. Nobody would be out in this weather. He put on his long underwear, running suit, and knit cap, spun the dial on his iPod to the next program he needed, grabbed his gloves, and went for an eight mile run.
Jon Pruitt called. Caroline’s condominium had a sales contract.
“Wes…” he said, “You can walk through one last time, if you’d like…see if there’s anything more you might want that you missed.”
The sadness in Jon’s drawn voice worsened Morgan’s trepidation. The fresh confrontation with the grim reality that ruined his life would be unpleasant, but he’d go. There was one thing he’d forgotten and wanted even more now.
Morgan felt sick as he parked the BMW outside Lake Point Tower. He got out of his car.
“Good to see you again, Dr. Morgan. Are Mr. and Mrs. Pruitt doing better?” asked Robert. He’d been so kind and helpful, escorting them after a hug to Cay’s condominium.
For an hour after struggling with what to take, the Pruitts and Morgan each had a full box. Connie used a marker to draw a red heart on Morgan’s.
“Here’s the key, sir.” Robert handed it to him and said, “Would you like me to go with you?”
“I’ll be all right…only take a minute.”
Morgan knew neither was true but got into the elevator alone anyway.
His fingers shook when the key moved the tumblers. When he opened the door, the air was stale.
Her scent lingered everywhere.
Morgan went to the window and drew one set of drapes. Immediately he saw the forgotten smudges on the glass. They were Cay’s fingerprints.
Morgan sighed. She was so excited when the Fourth of July fireworks exploded over Navy Pier. She pointed at each brilliant burst of color. Later that night when the moon rose, she saw her handiwork and said, “I’ll get those in the morning.”
She forgot.
Morgan walked into the kitchen, passing the remaining furniture lining the bare walls.
“Goddamn it!”
His fist slammed on the counter. With the vibration, a cabinet drawer slid open. It was empty.
“I loved your cooking!” His teeth gro
und. “God, how I loved your cooking…” With his eyes closed he inhaled deeply. “I can still smell every meal…”
Even late at night when he came from the hospital, Cay never seemed to mind feeding him.
“Forever bred in the soul of a Southern girl,” she disclosed once with pride. “Keeps you coming back, doesn’t it?”
Every step closer to her bedroom became a struggle.
Morgan paused outside Cay’s office. Her drafting table was gone. So was the orchid terrarium he had given her for Christmas. He had searched throughout Chicago for the antique copper and glass container, and the blue orchids inside. They were wilted but still alive.
“They’ll be fine,” Jon assured Morgan, while watering the plants. “I’m a pro with these,” he said and took the terrarium to his car.
A slash of red on the floor caught Morgan’s attention. He went over and picked up Cay’s reading glasses. They had been stepped on.
“You were so irritated when you wore them to bed.”
“You never saw these,” Cay had said as they vanished from her face.
The few feet into her bedroom stretched for miles. Morgan finally lay down on the bare mattress and gently rubbed his fingers back and forth where her body slept.
“Thanks for loving me,” he said to where her head once rested.
For several minutes the tears flowed.
Morgan rolled to the floor and groped under the bed until he touched the braided fibers of Caroline’s climbing rope. As he carried it back to the living room, his watch beeped.
He turned on his iPod and stared east through the window toward the lake’s gray horizon. Standing on his tiptoes, he crammed his face against the glass, trying to look straight down. He held up the rope, gripped its coiled loops with both hands, and tugged hard. He looked east again.
“Motherfucking asshole,” he said.
He closed the drapes and went to his car.
He’d never go back in there again.
Lizzie Morgan died three weeks later. She’d been in her facility’s hospice unit after the recent fall. When Morgan received the call, he went and held her hand for an hour as her breathing slowed, then kissed her forehead.
“You’re a great mom,” he said as she slipped away.
He would do as she asked and donate her body for medical research. Years before, she had made him promise, despite his protest.
“Wes, what good am I to others if I’m in a box?”
She thought what she said was funny.
Morgan thanked the staff then found a private room and called his attorney. Ridding himself of another detail, Morgan had transferred executor powers to the lawyer at the first of the year.
“Whatever’s left goes to her nursing home,” Morgan reminded him.
“Will do,” the man said. “I’ll send your thank-you note when the time comes.”
Morgan said his final goodbye and went outside to stand in the bright January sun. He put on his sunglasses and waited for the bank clock across the street to display the temperature.
-9 °F.
Morgan looked high in the crystal sky.
“Mom…” he said quietly, “I hope I don’t…disappoint you.” His teeth rubbed over his lips. “Say hi to Cay. Tell her I love her very much and…I’m sorry.”
He made another phone call and went to his car. They’d be waiting for him at the DuPage County airport in an hour.
The air was smooth when the plane leveled off at nine thousand feet. Morgan was oblivious, lost in his thoughts.
With mom gone, I can move on it now…
His jump instructor opened the fuselage door. Morgan didn’t hear or feel the rushing air.
Tapping her fingers on his helmet, his jump instructor shouted, “Hey…you in there?”
“Sorry. Thinking about things.”
“Start thinking about this, okay? First solo isn’t child’s play!”
Counting his heartbeats, he was amazed. Each time he jumped, the rate decreased more.
“Get ready!”
The cold wind was fierce.
“Really want to do this?” she yelled. “Wind chill’s makes it thirty below out there!”
“Spring weather!” Morgan shouted. He made certain his face mask covered his nose then gave a thumbs-up.
“Now remember…pulling earlier is better than later!” his instructor shouted back. “But never forget three thousand feet is a hard floor! Don’t wait a second…”
Morgan jumped. He’d pull when he was ready.
EIGHT
March 2002
“Will they ever stop bothering me?” Morgan grunted, cradling the bar in the weight bench uprights. Glistening in sweat after finishing his third set of ten reps, he grabbed a towel to wipe his face.
“I’m coming!” he shouted when the doorbell rang another time.
Ross Merrimac invited himself in when Morgan opened the door.
“Wes, time to talk,” he said.
Morgan wiped his face with the same towel he had used for weeks.
“What do you want?”
No pleasant banalities were exchanged.
“You know what it’s about.”
“I said I’d see the shrink,” Morgan said. “I’ve been busy.”
“For three months?” asked Merrimac.
“So?”
“You’re running out of time! Plan on abandoning your career?” Merrimac’s voice rose.
Morgan was silent.
Merrimac looked around the room. There were now barbells and weights scattered everywhere. The bookshelves were still empty—that hadn’t changed.
“Are you trying out for the Olympics?” Merrimac asked.
“I’m able to press over two twenty-five now.”
“I don’t care! You’re supposed to be in therapy! Is this”—Merrimac’s arm swept over the living room—“the prescribed treatment?”
“Ross, I don’t need you bitching me out. I’ve got things going on I need to take care of.”
“Like what, pray tell? Is this going to be your new normal? What are you planning on doing…coming back to work looking like a buffed Hippocrates?”
“Enough!” Morgan said.
Merrimac could tell by looking at his friend’s face that his attempt to be humorous backfired.
“I told you I’d see the psychiatrist, and I will.”
Both men were losing their patience.
“Look, Wes,” said Merrimac, “I know Caroline’s death…this whole thing’s pissed you off. It’s pissed me off. In fact, it’s pissed everybody off. It’s going take time.”
He put his hand on Morgan’s shoulder. The muscles were thick from some serious physical training. “Will you do it for your friend…please? If you need longer, take it! You can teach when you come back. But please get help.”
“Fine.”
“You know what I’ve said before about that…”
“Ross! It’s time to go! I said I’d take care of it. I can look out for myself.”
Merrimac debated saying more but held back. There was nothing he could do. The demise of a successful physician’s career was a terrible thing to watch. Merrimac wanted to Baker Act him, lock him up in the psych ward and get his brain fixed, but Morgan didn’t sound suicidal. He was acting weird but not crazy. Merrimac would have to wait. That would be difficult. Wes was his friend.
“Can I check in with you maybe in a week?”
“I’ll be on it by then.”
“Good. I’ll call you.”
Morgan locked the door.
“One week. Shit…”
No more procrastination! He got his cell phone and called his attorney.
“Sell the townhouse,” Morgan told him. “Take the best offer you get within sixty days. I’ll send you the papers this afternoon.”
The man couldn’t talk him out of it.
“I’m also going to be sending you a cashier’s check in a few days. Please hold it in your trust account.”
“W
es…why are you doing this? Want to come in and talk for a while? Maybe have dinner and drinks?”
“I’m okay. Just simplifying. Life’s short. Got things I need to do.”
“I’ll call you when the town—”
“No, I’ll call you,” Morgan replied. “Don’t fret. If you need to get me, best to drop me a note.” He gave him a PO Box number and address.
“Wes…I know you’re not crazy.”
“No, I’m not…just pissed.”
Morgan waited in line at the post office to mail the documents. When the clerk called for the next customer, he didn’t realize quickly enough she was speaking to him and a voice behind said loudly, “Move, goatfuck.”
Morgan smiled. The insult was trivial, but a milestone nonetheless. His appearance was becoming more convincing.
His watch beeped and he glanced at it, thankful for the reminder. Pausing five times a day took effort, but eventually it would be ingrained in his head, as would everything else. Finishing with the clerk, he put his earbuds in, walked back to his car, and drove home.
He ran north that afternoon to Rogers Park. As he came back along the lake, he kept his eyes trained on the distant black silhouette of Lake Point Towers. He stopped once, staring east for several minutes, then continued running, his pace quickening until it was a near sprint. He wasn’t tired, wasn’t out of breath. He just kept going and thinking until he got to Diversey Harbor. He veered off the lakefront trail and went under the bridge, where he made his last cell phone call.
“I’ll take the apartment. See you tomorrow at nine.”
He dropped the cell phone into the dark water. The possibility of being tracked through it eliminated, he’d use a prepaid phone card to contact others, and only when necessary.
The next morning Morgan signed a contract for a tired third-floor studio in a Rogers Park walkup. He paid cash, adding a hefty security deposit that would make the building manager forget about him. Utilities were included, isolating him more. The L trains rattled the sash windows incessantly, but drapes bought from Goodwill would buffer some of the noise. A canvas cot went in a corner, while a metal chair and two long folding tables took up most of the room. Several cheap lamps would add light, and an old television would give him the news he needed while he ate microwaved food. His weights arrived next, then he brought the boxes of CDs, books, maps, and some clothes from his car.