by Chris Ayala
Dr. Harper looked on the verge of tears. It must've been difficult being a surgeon, knowing that a patient couldn't survive; no matter the skill training. He scratched his head, even though he had less than a dozen gray hairs to scratch. "I've removed several female pregnancy clips, but without the proper equipment –"
"You did your best," she assured him.
"The infection," Adam spoke up with a quivering lip, "has gotten so far out of control. We just don't have the medications here."
Seeing all these watery eyes, Janice suddenly realized how loved she actually was. Adam and Gerard hovered over her, both with those same sullen eyes. That even with the news of her approaching death, they seemed more stressed than her. "How long do you think I have?"
That sort of question to a doctor always got an exaggerated response, because any medical professional knew it better to tell a patient too little a timeframe than too long. Too little meant the patient got this invisible will to live longer and often strived to fulfill it. "Days. Weeks maybe."
Strangely, Janice hoped to hear she only had hours to live, then there would be an eventual relief to this incredible pain. She tried to sit up, ignoring her husband's visual pleas not to. Head against the cold concrete wall, Janice could almost feel where the infection in her uterus planned to end her time on Earth. It pulsed between severely hot to moderately hot.
Now propped up, she could ask for something to drink or perhaps some food. But she could only think of one request. "Can I see my baby, please?"
Matley, the medicine woman, with long dreads and even longer neck beads, walked in carrying the sleeping infant. Janice remained strong instead of letting the tears form in her eyes. She grasped her child, pleased that he was always so obedient and quiet; it didn't hurt that he slept so much. Active minds needed rest. She wished she didn't have to let him go, but her shaky arms could barely hold the weight. Matley could see the distress. "Let me hold him, child. You need the rest. We gonna get you the medicine. Get you better."
Cherophobia is a medical condition where the patient literally feared happiness. Janice read about it after Victoria died and she became motherless, wondering if she suffered from this rare phobia. She lacked the will to see things on the bright side, even though love surrounded her daily. Hearing the positivity gave Janice no further hope, because she none to begin with. For months, knowing something was wrong with her, she allowed the sickness to worsen.
"Someone else is here," Adam smiled. Nelson entrance. Holding tightly, she could feel her adopted father sinking into her. All this was too much, staying strong became a struggle. Janice's eyes watered. Nelson never cried, spouting that Presidents never cried. Sniffling, he turned his face and put his cheek on her shoulder. "I can't lose all my children."
He sat up and she used her thumb to wipe a tear traveling towards his beard. "You of all people should know, family isn't just blood. Isn't that what Mom used to say?"
Nelson nodded.
Janice confirmed, "Everyone here is family. That's what so great about this place. It's all love and respect for each other."
They shared grasped hands and a moment of silence, before Adam whispered, "Not all your children are dead yet. Marcel Celest isn't –"
"That's not my son," Nelson abruptly interrupted. "I saw him. Aboard the naval ship. He's…changed."
"He's the only obstacle we haven't solved yet," Adam reminded them. "He certainly can't be killed. It's his fate. He'll always survive."
"So then," Janice added, "the question is: how do you stop him?"
Gerard intervened, "I've already said that I will take care of him."
She lifted her body up while Nelson put a pillow behind her back so she could lean against the bed frame comfortably. "So Marcel can control minds, conjur weather, heal quickly, and slow time. And what's the plan? Kill him?"
Adam sat on a stool, cleaning his fingernails nervously. "But…in my vision of the future, Marcel specifically said he would have to die in order to weaken the darkness."
"Wait a minute," Gerard shook his head trying to make sense of it. "You can see the future?"
"It's very complicated," Janice said, still trying to wrap her head around the fact that Adam was technically seeing visions transmitted from a future form of himself.
"It was the whole basis behind Servo Clementia." Nelson explained. "Secretary Declan helped build a terrorist-style network to target and kill people that would bring about Armageddon."
Gerard rubbed the spot between his eyebrows, "Okay, so you saw Marcel alive in the future, so that means he doesn't die?"
Adam clarified, "I found out the future can be changed. He said we have to stop him from absorbing all the darkness, free it, then kill the darkness with light."
"What on earth are you talking about? None of this makes a lick of sense. We kill darkness with what…a flashlight? And what does that even mean? I'm telling you guys, I've been there. I've seen what Marcel can do. He can't be killed. He can't be stopped. Marcel decides his own fate…not any of you." Gerard slumped down in a chair, holding Janice's hand. "Whatever connection he has with this other side, he kept mentioning Brent. He said Brent haunted him all the time. And I don't think it's the drinking. I think he really sees him. He even mentioned he saw your mother."
Janice's eyebrows raised. Even Nelson stood. "He saw them? Like ghosts?"
Gerard didn't answer, perhaps he couldn't find an answer. Adam took a breath and asked, "What happened to her? It was kept out of the papers. Just said a car accident. Nothing more."
Giving a massively bitter look quickly, Gerard said, "Seriously? You've got some nerve."
Nelson added, "We don't talk about it."
Feeling cornered, Adam crossed his arms after placing the hood of his sweater over his head. It reminded Janice of how he showed up to her class, practically every week, in a hoodie. He was shy then, fearful he would say something stupid. Students like this often had a point, maybe things that shouldn't be discussed…should. Coming to his defense, Janice said, "Maybe we should. Some memories need to be relived. Even the awful ones. Adam, I'm going to tell about the night Victoria Celest, the nation's First Lady, died December 24th, 2039."
I've relived this moment so many times in my head. Not because I had to, because I wanted to. Because not only did she die that day…we all did. Christmas Eve, 2038. I remember specifically realizing that after seven years as First Daughter, I never fit the title. We were at a gala. Dozens of men eying my dress more my face and dozens of women prettier than me. Confidence extinguished any form of awkwardness in a room of unfamiliar politicians. As I sipped on a glass of champagne, Marcel spoke to a group of tycoons, bankers, and congressman. They always looked alike. As much as women strived to attempt different styles and gowns, men just stuck with the traditional tuxedo and bow tie. That night, Marcel's idea of the Union proposal started floating around. He created quite a following as campaign manager for my father. Before he could create hypnosis with his mind, he did it with his charm. People loved him. Handsome, smart, and wealthy. While others suggested a run for President, Marcel insisted on something larger.
On the other side of the room, instead of speaking to exquisite men, my brother Brent spoke to exquisite women. He always seemed determined with some type of purpose when he had no purpose; Marcel had a bright future with the U.N. and I was a professor for Baltimore University. But Brent had no degree, no goals, and no concept of his future. That always fascinated me. Knowing what I do know, it was all an act. Brent, at the time, was an assassin for the terrorist organization Servo Clementia. For all I know, he could've been researching a target that night, with his commander Secretary Declan in the same room.
I took another sip of champagne, remembering that I didn't enjoy the taste of alcohol or enjoy the loss of control. Before I could take another forced swig of the bitter drink, a delicate hand placed hers on mine. My mother, stunning as always with a floor length white dress and silk top decorated with floral designs, sai
d, "Getting drunk on champagne gives you the worst headache. Here try some white wine." The First Lady Victoria Celest said in her slightly hoarse voice that sounded strong and calm simultaneously, handing me a glass of sparkling white wine and it tasted sweet. "It helps me get through the night," she whispered, bumping me on the hip. "You see Senator Kelly over there? Bad breath, which makes no sense that a six-figure-a-year senator can't afford a decent dentist. Senator Madison? Well, he's obliviously to the fact the comb-over look died sixty years ago. Right there is business tycoon, Mrs. Swanson with over a billion dollar net worth and stinks so bad it's like she uses bug spray for perfume. And over there…Secretary Declan has packed on thirty pounds in the last couple months and finished all the hors d'oeuvres we had tonight. But none of that bothers me, you know what bothers me?"
I shrugged, realizing that my shoulder strap had been dangling on my purple gown making me look sleazy. My mother quickly fixed it. "What bothers me, sweetie…is that the most gorgeous individual in this room, with good breath, a nice set of hair, smells nice, and isn't hogging all the food…is just sitting in this corner talking to no one."
With my cheeks blushing, she spun me around to look at my dress. "My God. Lilac is your color." She wrapped her arm around mine and lead me towards the ballroom. "Keep me company. These people scare me. I'm afraid, at any moment, they'll rip their masks off to show their androids. Seriously, it would make sense. They lack character. They do and say only what their voters tell them too. When I had children, I decided to let you embrace your differences. And I was going to love you, no matter what."
I felt a lot less intimidated with her there. She introduced me to several men and women, always calling me her "daughter" even though we both knew I was adopted. Everyone in that room knew I was adopted. But I was a Celest, just as much as her.
Marcel's posse of ass-kissers eyed me up and down with either contempt or attraction. They carried on about his wonderful idea of a unified government. One of the politicians, dead now, specifically said it was time for simplicity in this world. I remember Marcel touching my arm, like I was his date to this party. His soft hands stroked my bare arm. It felt good. "Where's your husband?" He had asked. I never answered, because I had none besides the typical Gerard is busy excuse.
The night livened up, I met several people thanks to the confidence of my mother. I watched her with curiosity, like they way you can watch a freeway and wonder how there can be so much calm in such chaos. Mom out-shined Marcel's charisma at every corner. People acted different around her, more genuine smiles and shy handshakes.
Joining our group, arm around Brent, was our father. No, he wasn't drunk. Drunk in happiness perhaps. He joked. He laughed. He was the most important man in the room. We were the most important family in the room, planets orbiting our star for life and direction…our mother.
The time was 10:32 pm. I know the exact time, because this is the time the truck driver passed the weigh station at mile marker 22. It's barely visible from I-495. Trucks pass it everyday.
"What's next?" Brent said excitedly.
"National Cathedral," Marcel answered, always in charge of the family schedule, "Christmas Carolers are going to love a visit from the First family."
Victoria clasped her hands. "Oh, the little angels are so cute."
I always enjoyed these little meetings before leaving. Placing coats on and Secret Service briefing Dad about new routing procedures. It felt like a huddle right before the first ball is kicked in a football game.
Marcel continued his conversation with Dad, "We have several supporters on this idea. I'm telling you, a unified government could work." Noticing his father's skeptical smirk, he turned to my mother. "Don't you think so, Mom?"
Putting on her fake fur coat, she refused to wear anything with real animal, my mother answered, "I think simplicity leads to peace and complication leads to chaos. If there's anything I want more in this world, is that feeling I share with my family. No hate, only love." She said pinching Marcel's cheek.
My father said, "It's Christmas Eve. Let's just concentrate on what's it's about. This is the day we celebrate our savior Jesus Christ. He was born this day. We have a lot to be thankful for. No politics or unified government talk. It's all about God's son tonight."
With that, they said goodbyes to several people. I shook hands and received hugs from people I'd just met, but I could never get sick of it. It took me years to accept being First Daughter and took even longer to embrace it.
Dad grasped my mother's hand, looking at her through relaxed eyes. "Brent, when you going to find the right woman?" He asked my brother, without losing his gaze on my mom.
Brent snorted, "No way. I'm perfectly happy being single."
"But," my father said, eyes drawn to Mom, "you don't know what this is like. Looking into the eyes of the one you love and feeling complete."
My mother rested her head on my father's chest and he closed his eyes to hold her. All those years together, and they just couldn't get sick of each other. I remembered being so jealous, because my bond with Gerard, our marriage, didn't seem so omnipotent.
As we made our way outside, waving to the crowds past the barriers, that truck unknowingly carrying too much weight exited the freeway, taking the wrong intersection.
"I think we should change seating," Marcel said. He probably lives with that regret everyday, because those words altered the future. "Instead of us riding together, how about you two take the second limo?"
Sarcastically, Mom answered, "Good idea. Let the men talk about their boring sports or whatever." After quick kisses on both Brent and Marcel's faces, she grabbed my arm and waved. The crowd cheered and Secret Service yanked us away before Mom and Dad could have an embrace. They never got the chance to say goodbye. I didn't realize that until now.
Before we got in our vehicles, I heard Marcel instruct the drivers to take an alternate route to avoid traffic jams. None of us objected considering we were running behind schedule. I wish one of us had.
The semi-truck, carrying over 40 thousand pounds of sand, pulled aside realizing his GPS was taking him the wrong way, according to his later account.
We were off in minutes. After all the waves, my wrist felt numb. I sunk into the cool leather seats, removing my gloves as the vehicle began to finally warm. "How do you do it?"
Already understanding what I meant, my mother answered, "Because they look up to us. To these people, we are the future. We can make the changes they so desperately need. I'll smile, wave, give them confidence all day if that's what it takes. It's a little price to pay."
"And…how do you do it…with Dad?" I asked, twirling my hair and staring out the passenger side of my window.
"Oh," Mom smiled, "You can't get him off your mind, can you?"
"Is that a bad thing?" I responded.
About that time, 11:18 pm, the truck driver returned to the road and began the ascent onto a fourteen percent grade hill, vastly steeper than recommended for a vehicle that size.
"Well," Mom answered, "to be honest, sweetheart, it's a great thing. Means he's really the one for you."
Sometimes I caught myself speaking to her like a best friend instead of a mother. "But how do I know if he's the one for me? Especially when I can't keep my eyes on him."
"Hell, there's nothing wrong with looking at the dessert menu, as long as you keep ordering from the same entree." She paused to pat my hand. "Have you ever jogged around Lake Montebello?"
"No," I replied.
"Well," she said, "it's about six and half miles around. Quite beautiful and the landscape is spectacular. But, Lord knows, I'm in no shape to be running that. I told our personal trainer to start me off easy, that trail was too long. I'll never forget what he said to me. 'It gets easier'. Well, I told myself, let me just try just a brisk walk. The first day, my brisk walk ended half way. Oh, I felt so light-headed from the summer heat and exhausted. I told myself, never again. Then one morning, I told myself 'it gets easier'. I pu
t on my pink running shoes and jogging clothes. And again, halfway through, I gave up. All those years of smoking and battling lung cancer finally ruined me forever. But no, the next morning I reminded myself that 'it gets easier'. Fourteen tries later, I could briskly walk that lake and enjoy the nice breeze every morning. Now…I can jog it. You know why? Because I forgot all the pain, anguish, and fear that trail put me through. It's true…it gets easier."
About this time, the tractor trailer began its descent down the steep hill. With all that weight, the brakes began to overheat only a quarter of the way down the two mile hill. Smoke bellowed out the back end, the driver recalled slamming his brakes several times but the truck didn't stop. That was about the time we made our final turn towards the freeway.
I remember the last advise Mom gave me. "Don't over complicate life, stick with what you're familiar with and get damn good at it."
Secret Service noticed the vehicle barreling down the hill and immediately took it as a threat, halting our limos and firing at the incoming truck. The driver, unintentionally becoming a death trap, ducked the bullets and lost control of the tractor trailer.
From the passenger seat, all I remember were the lights. The lights so bright, that they seemed like some aura glowing around my mother.
The truck smashed into us, flipping us three times before crashing into a set of trees on the side of the road. After a crash, you don't get up right away. It's because you are so confused. I didn't understand what was going on. Blood dripped off the side of my head, and being so disoriented I thought it was ketchup. I was thinking, did I eat something and drop ketchup on my head? Vision being so blurred, I stared at my right hand wondering why I felt a stabbing sensation. A glass shard had penetrated clean through it.
My hearing was muffled. I kept listening to a word being repeated except I didn't know what I meant. It sounded like "jump on". Jump on? Jump on what? Once the sound came closer, did I realize that word was "Janice". That was me? Or was that…
Mom.