“Thanks,” I said, feeling deflated.
“Are you working on one?”
“On what?”
“A book. I mean you’re a natural. The doctor himself? I can’t believe you haven’t been propositioned.”
“I’ve had calls,” I said. “But that’s not where I’m at. Maybe one day.”
“As long as it’s after mine,” he said, and we shared another laugh.
“A book, huh? Good for you.”
“Thanks,” he said. “And I mean that. When you think about it, I owe it all to you.”
“No. You don’t. You owe it to Howard. And to his donor. I hope you’ll do right by them.”
“I will.”
My pager started to beep. I pulled it from its small plastic holster and pushed the button. It was a phone number I didn’t recognize.
“You need to get that?”
“I don’t know it,” I said. “Probably a competitor of yours or an attorney or someone else out there who wants a part of me.”
“Or a book publisher,” he said.
“Doubt it.”
We ordered dinner and more drinks. My pager went off again. Same number.
“Someone wants to talk to you,” said Hueger. “You ought to call them back.”
“If I called everyone back who left me a message I’d spend my entire life on the phone.”
“Yeah,” he said, “but who would be paging you at this time of day?”
“Good question,” I said, and agreed that I should see who it was.
I borrowed Dave’s cell phone and dialed the number. A voice I didn’t recognize answered.
“Hello?”
“This is Sidney Bernstein. Has someone there paged me?”
“Oh yes,” said the voice excitedly. “Hold on.”
A different voice was in my ear now, my wife. “Honey, is that you?” she said, sounding frightened in a way I’d never heard her before.
“Yes. Amanda, it’s me. What’s wrong? Where are you?”
A thousand things rushed through my head. She’d been attacked. Something had happened to Stephen. There’d been a car accident. Someone was in the hospital. Whatever it was, it wasn’t good.
“I’m at the neighbors. The house is on fire!”
* * * *
Hueger drove me to my neighborhood. In shock, I was in no state to drive. How had it happened? How bad was the damage? Was everyone okay? Where would we sleep tonight? What about our clothes? My notes? What would we be able to salvage?
Hueger tried to comfort me as we made our way across town.
“Don’t worry,” he said.
I heard him, but didn’t pay attention. I stared out the window at the black streak of smoke across the sky that I’d seen from the restaurant. It was getting closer. My house. My life. Was this someone’s idea of a joke? Maybe this was a dream. That was it. I’d wake up any second, sitting upright in bed, sweating. It wasn’t really happening, was it?
It was real. We turned down my street, and a horrendous scene unfolded. My house was engulfed in flames. Smoke was billowing out of every window. Police cars and fire engines were blocking the way and dozens of firefighters were on the job, cordoning off the area and aiming thick ribbons of water at my home.
We had to park two blocks away. I got out and ran down the sidewalk. An officer stopped me. I told him who I was, and he pointed across the street to where my wife was standing.
Amanda was terribly shaken.
“It happened so fast,” she said, crying. “I couldn’t stop it. I was downstairs and I heard Stephen yell and I ran upstairs. The drapes were on fire in his room. He got hold of a lighter this time. He was saying, ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ over and over, and I just grabbed him and took him away. I tried to get it out. I had a pot of water, but it didn’t help. It spread like you wouldn’t believe. So fast. So fast.”
“It’s all right,” I said. “It’s all right.” I took her into my arms and held her as she wailed. “We’ll be fine. Shhhhh.”
I walked with her into the neighbor’s house where Stephen was sitting on a couch, his hands folded in his lap. His face went white when he saw me, and he started to cry. I sat next to him and put my arm around his small frame. I didn’t say anything, just sat there with him until he stopped crying.
“You okay?” I asked.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and started crying again. “I’m sorry. I don’t know. It just happened.”
“Things happen,” I said. “Things happen.”
32: Evelyn Meadows
In all my years of nursing I have only become personally involved with two patients.
The first was that angel Jesus Almondo, his first name the beautifully breathy Hey Zeus. He was twenty-three and young and so incredibly strong. He spoke rarely, though when he did it was always eloquent and somewhat feline. He called me Nursey and endeared himself to me.
Jesus was brought to the hospital many years ago when I was a bit slimmer. He had a crushed vertebra from a bicycle accident. You’d never know that he was in pain, his attention always focused, his gaze, sparkling, always a bit through you. He had a large extended family that was with him a lot of the time, parents and sisters and brothers and lots of friends who visited during the first few days.
But a lady friend never called on Jesus with regularity. I notice things like that. Can’t help but. I can’t tell you why I was riveted by Jesus. To me at that time, he seemed like the perfect human being. He was so polite. Asking how I was doing. Always taking time to say thank you.
I said one day, “I haven’t seen your girlfriend here in a while.”
“Don’t have one,” he said.
“Oh,” I said, pushing ahead and through the conversation. “I don’t know. Just wondering. Never mind.” I went about my tasks without so much of a hint of having heard him.
He said, “You are a nice lady.”
That was a close as we ever got. He was released that afternoon, and I never saw him again. I don’t know why I was infatuated with him. I’ve known scores of patients better and over longer periods of time. But I lost something when Jesus left. I don’t think he ever truly knew. I kicked myself for allowing myself to be so drawn in, knowing nothing would ever come of it. I think about him often but am not exactly sure why.
The other patient? Howard, of course.
I don’t think anyone ever really needed me more than Howard Lavery. I have never been more essential to any other person. Ever. And that brought me so very close to him. I could read the tone, reflection and emphasis in his “voice.” And I never pictured him as a brain in another person’s body; I always viewed him as a whole person. When I was first caring for him, I didn’t know he was two people. I failed to consider the possibility of a transplant. It never crossed my mind.
What I wonder about most is why they didn’t bring their own private nurse, one who was aware of the situation. They could have controlled everything. It would have greatly reduced Dr. Bernstein’s exposure.
I asked the doctor about this the other day when our visits to the house coincided. He told me, “Either way we were running a risk. For timing and financial reasons, we simply weren’t prepared and couldn’t perform the surgery at a private facility. We needed the hospital. And we didn’t want to attract attention by disrupting the personnel on the ward.”
It doesn’t matter now. Chance is a funny thing. So is change. They came together on the day I was chosen to take care of Howard. Since he came into my life he has dominated every second of my mind.
He’s been talking about death a lot lately, so this morning I asked him about it again.
“Do you really want to die?” I asked him.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe.”
“Why?” I asked, knowing that he couldn’t easily answer the question.
“I don’t know,” he said again. “Today’s a good day. I’m feeling great. But on bad days I feel as if I’m through.”
His answer
will always be indelibly before me: I’m through.
Through with life. Ready to move on.
What a marvelous thing to be able to say at the end of your life. I should be so lucky. How many people are fortunate enough to be able to say that at the end? It’s a perfect life that can be judged as being fruitful. In fact, it’s heartening to know that it’s possible. It’s enough to almost justify life—it’s a reward to have reached the peak, accomplished everything and know it so honestly that you can say you’re through.
“Tell me, Evelyn, if it was time for me to go, would you help?”
I knew what he was asking, and he didn’t have to say anything else. I would do anything for him. If it meant going to the ends of the Earth for him, I’d do it without a second thought.
* * * *
I last saw Howard during my regularly scheduled visit this afternoon.
When I walked in, Catherine Lavery was in the hallway putting on a jacket.
“Oh, Evelyn,” she said. “I’m was hoping you’d be early. Do you mind if I run out for a while? I have some errands.”
“Please go and don’t think twice,” I said. This was something she had done the past few days. In a way, I was respite care for her, giving her the chance to get out of the house and on with her life. I didn’t mind; I wanted to help.
“I’ll be back in a little bit. Thanks so much,” she said and was out the door.
Howard was listening to a CD when I walked in.
Softly, I whispered, “Good morning,” but he didn’t respond. He might have been sleeping.
I was going to ask him if he was in better spirits and if he was still thinking about death, but I decided not to bother him. It was better that way. My gift to him. I loved him too much to deny him.
I opened my bag and took out the full syringe I had prepared earlier. I removed the cap and pointed the needle toward the ceiling to free any trapped air.
I rubbed the inside of Howard’s arm with alcohol and let it dry for a second. Then I gave him the injection, patted his arm and kissed him.
“Oh, my Howard,” I said and knew that he was on the way to someplace very far away. A better place. A heaven of lights and fanfare and waves and waves of all-embracing, unending love.
Epilogue: Howard Lavery
I’m listening to Reigen silger Geister, a stirring work by Christoph Willibald Gluck that always relaxes me, taking me away from the incessant, blinding thoughts that bombard me. For some reason, the piece sounds grander and more personal than ever, as if it was written just for me and is being performed for the first time.
Today has been easy and satisfying. Catherine sat with me for a long time and read me some short stories by John Cheever, her sultry voice lending warmness to Cheever’s stark middle-class morals. Neil spelled her for a while and we played mental chess. I let him win a game.
But now I grow weary. Maybe the music is putting me to sleep. I feel it wrapping its soothing arms around me and drawing me into the distance. It’s nice to drift off like this, my thoughts keeping time with the soloist’s soaring flute that lifts me up and puts me down well and whole on a pristine white beach. I walk along the shore and let the water lap my toes. I lift my face to the calming sun, and when I look down again Catherine is there beside me. I kiss her, taking her tongue into my mouth and inhaling the heady essence of her love.
The music’s methodical, steady tempo melts the sand, and I find myself naked and walking the floors of my gallery. I look for Catherine, but she’s gone. I touch a painting by Earl Baldwin, a work I’ve never seen before yet recognize at once. My hand sinks into the canvas, and then I fall inside, writhing in a thick, unfathomable pool of mauve and teal oils. I cry out, terrified, and suddenly Neil is there, leaning down through the painting to rescue me, his strong, assured grip endlessly comforting.
He pulls me into a boat on a tranquil sapphire sea. It’s a beautiful calm day, perfect for sailing. I turn to Neil with a smile, so proud of him and exhilarated to be sharing this moment, but he, too, has disappeared. I’m alone. Without warning, the air becomes brisk and colder, so I pull my collar up and aim the bow into the now rising waves. Heavy dark clouds appear above me and begin to turn an angry purple. A thick mist creeps in from somewhere.
The music begins to retreat. I can barely hear the playful woodwinds any more. Far in the distance, vague as ghosts, I can make out immense white shapes. Icebergs? Mountains? Something is waiting for me there, I’m certain. I hold to my course, unafraid. Then a bitter wind fills the sails and carries me forward into a vast and welcoming stillness.
Author’s Note
I am indebted to Paul Witcover, my editor at iPublish.com, who understood my vision and helped me refine it. Paul offered majestic and insightful ideas that made this novel sing, and I am profoundly grateful for his guidance. I would like to thank the members of my immediate and extended family, past and present, who have supported and believed in me. I would be remiss without confessing to my enduring admiration of Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley and her original creation, Frankenstein, without which this book would certainly not have been possible. In addition, I want to acknowledge the many able pilots of this nation’s airlines, on whose planes almost every word of this story was composed.
* * *
Visit www.iPublish.com for information on additional titles by this and other authors.
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