TFRoot - The Elixer

by The Elixir (v1. 0) [lit]

  "I'm so sorry,” said Dr. Bloodworth quietly, putting a consoling arm around her.

  "Oh Richard, my darling Richard!” she wailed. “I am so sorry! I have failed you miserably!” She kissed his lifeless lips with a frightening urgency.

  "Please, my dear,” said Dr. Bloodworth, patting her back soothingly, “you must not blame yourself. There's nothing you could have done; there's nothinganyone could have done.” He sighed. “None of us can deny death forever."

  Lucinda turned her face toward Dr. Bloodworth, her tear-filled eyes locking with his. “Ihave denied death, doctor!” she hissed, removing herself from his grasp. “And I will ... forever!"

  Dr. Bloodworth nodded gravely “I have no doubt you will succeed, my lady.” He straightened up and walked away from her and began to collect his surgical instruments into his small black leather case. “My only doubt,” he muttered to himself, “is whether you should ever try.” When he had finally finished he once again approached Lucinda, who was kneeling at the side of the cot, still caressing her dead husband. “Take your time,” he said to her, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Now Lucinda, never forget that I shall always be here to assist you, in any way that I possibly can.” He paused, and then added: “including bringing Cunningham to justice.” He scowled. “The arrant knave shall surely hang for this. Of course, he deserves much worse."

  Lucinda lifted up her head. “Oh, I assure you that he shall have it—much, much worse!"

  "No doubt;” Dr. Bloodworth agreed, “for Divine Retribution is far harsher than ours."

  "No,” said Lucinda, “I'm not talking about that. I'm talking aboutmy retribution, here and now, on this earth.” She stood up to face Dr. Bloodworth. “Do you still have it—my husband's trophy?"

  "You don't mean..."

  Lucinda nodded affirmatively.

  Dr. Bloodworth's expression grew very dark. “God knows I have never judged you, Lucinda. But I bid you remember, just because we possess the knowledge does not make it just to utilize it."

  "Can I have it, please?” she asked, impatiently.

  Dr. Bloodworth reached into his case and pulled out a small object wrapped up in a handkerchief and handed it to Lucinda, who took it from him and opened it to reveal the already-decaying tip of Cunningham's ear. “I know not what sorcery you propose, dear lady,” said Dr. Bloodworth, “but verily, I submit that that filthy vermin deserves whatever it may be."

  A wide grin creased Lucinda's tear-stained face, her intense blue eyes lighting up in anticipation.

  During the wee hours of the next morning, Lucinda stood over the large cast iron pot suspended over the slow-burning fire that provided the only light in her otherwise pitch black house. She had been working there all through the night, methodically mixing together combinations of obscure herbs, some fresh, just harvested from her garden, others dried and many, many years old that she had carried with her all the way from England. “Oh Phantom!” she called out in a singsong. “Where are you, little Phantom?"

  Richard's black cat sauntered over to the fireplace. “Hello my little Phantom,” Lucinda said, reaching down to pet the cat as he rubbed against her leg. “Are you hungry, hmm?” The cat looked up at her, his eyes two green mirrors glowing in the darkness. He mewed softly. “Oh, yes,” she said with a smile, “I'm very happy to hear it! I have a real treat for you.” She dipped her ladle into the pot and fished out a white bundle, the handkerchief Dr. Bloodworth had given her. She carefully unwrapped the bundle to reveal its contents: not the severed tip of Roger Cunningham's ear, but a tiny white mouse. “Well, well,” she said, regarding the mouse with distaste as she held it firmly trapped between her thumb and forefinger, “it seems the eyes really are the window to the soul.” She bent down and displayed the rodent to the cat, who eyed it intently, mewing insistently and licking his chops in eager anticipation. She started to place it on the floor in front of him but stopped herself, straightened up, and walked to the other side of the room. “No, let's make this just a trifle more interesting,” she said, chuckling sardonically. “Richard always told me Phantom was the best mouser any ship ever had.” Then, addressing the mouse: “Well, Mr. Cunningham, let's see if this cat shows you as much mercy as his master.” She then released the mouse, which began to dash around the room, fairly trembling with terror, his cold little gray eyes darting about helplessly.

  Indeed, Phantom was an excellent mouser, albeit a bit out of practice, and it took him about five minutes before he finally cornered, captured, and devoured his prey.Undoubtedly the longest five minutes of his life , Lucinda mused.

  CHAPTER NINE

  "Hello, Carole!” said Dr. Ralph Michael congenially as he walked through the door and sat down across from her in the high-backed leather chair on the other side of the large desk that dominated his consultation room. “Hello Thomas!” he said, extending his hand across the desk to Tom, who was seated next to his wife.

  For as long as he had known him, which was now over twenty years, Dr. Michael had always called Tom by his full first name. Tom and his mother had been among Dr. Michael's first patients when he had first opened his practice here in the little frame house in Little Neck, the area of northeastern Queens just inside the New York City limits where Tom had grown up, and over the years their relationship had progressed beyond merely doctor/patient and into an enduring friendship.

  "Hi, Dr. Michael,” said Tom, rising slightly out of his chair and leaning forward to shake hands with him. Dr. Michael had changed a bit since Tom had last seen him five years ago. While still pleasantly handsome, in his mid-fifties his appearance was no longer as boyishly youthful as it had been for as long as Tom could remember; his hairline having receded noticeably and his compact frame now carrying a bit of extra weight around the middle. The room had not changed much though, thought Tom. It was still furnished with the same desk and chairs and the familiar beige carpeting and light orange curtains. To the old collection of photographs on Dr. Michael's desk of his wife and children had been added new ones of a little girl about three years old and a boy of about two. Tom remembered that the last time that he had seen Dr. Michael he had mentioned to him that his daughter was getting married; presumably she had done so and had wasted no time in starting a family. “It's hard for me to believe that you're a grandfather now, Dr. Michael,” said Tom, referring to the photographs.

  "Yes Thomas, for me, too,” said Dr. Michael, shrugging detachedly. “It's also hard for me to believe that you're married.” He said this in his extremely dry, often cryptic manner, which was sometimes mistakenly construed as sarcasm or, even worse, callousness. Tom knew better, however. He had learned first-hand over the years that, in addition to being a fine physician, Dr. Michael was an uncommonly kind man who cared deeply about his patient's well-being and would always do his best to help them. Besides, for his part, Tom had always found Dr. Michael's lack of outward emotion to be very reassuring. He often thought that if he ever had the misfortune to be on a sinking ship, he wanted Dr. Michael to be with him; there was just something about the man that always put Tom at ease, and helped him to think clearly even in the face of his often roiling emotions.

  Dr. Michael turned his attention to Carole. “All right,” he said, reaching for a cardboard folder on the desk, “let's talk about you first. I have all of your results right here,” he said, opening the folder and placing it down flatly on the desk in front of him.

  At this moment Tom began to feel the familiar, sickening knot forming in his stomach, an involuntary response borne out of years of conditioning. That his wife was experiencing an even greater apprehension was beyond obvious; they had been in this position so many times in the past, and the news had always seemed to range from bad to worse.

  Dr. Michael looked down and reviewed the first paper in the folder for a moment or two, then turned it over and looked at the second, and so on, looking at about four or five papers, each time nodding almost imperceptively. Finally, in a matter of about ten seconds—w
hich to Tom seemed to be about ten minutes—he shrugged his shoulders and extended both of his hands in front of him, palms turned upwards, a gesture that Tom had seen many times before.

  "Everything seems to be just fine,” he remarked blandly, looking up at Carole. “I would say that you're in excellent health. Your scans, your blood work, everything is perfectly normal.” He smiled gently. “How do you feel?"

  Carole smiled, relieved. “Well, thankfully, I feel pretty good right now.” She paused. “But what about my RSD?” she asked with considerable anxiety.

  "I don't think you have RSD,” Dr. Michael said flatly.

  Carole was stunned. “Y-You don't think I have RSD?"

  Dr. Michael took a deep breath. “Okay,” he began, speaking in a manner that was at once coolly efficient and kindly soothing, “according to these records from your doctor in Florida, and from what you told me before, you suffered a fairly severe leg injury about six years ago, correct?"

  "Yes, and that's what caused the RSD."

  "Following the injury,” he continued, reviewing her history, “you complained of severe lingering pain and other symptoms which were consistent with a diagnosis of Reflex Sympathetic Dystrophy, or RSD. You were treated for this condition from that time on. These symptoms were controlled somewhat, although never eliminated, with marcaine injections and oral pain medication until about ... maybe two months ago, when you reported a dramatic decrease in the symptoms?” He looked up at her for confirmation.

  "I felt really bad right after we moved from Florida, but then I started feeling a lot better.” She paused. “Yes, about two months ago."

  "And you stopped taking your pain medication right about that time, correct?"

  "Yes, I found that I didn't need it."

  Dr. Michael nodded. “Okay so you're taking nothing, and you're not in pain?"

  "That's right."

  "Well then,” he continued logically, “the fact that you have none of the symptoms—basically pain—associated with RSD, you haven't had any symptoms for two months, and during this time you haven't done anything, had any treatment or taken any medication that would eliminate these symptoms ... well, to most doctors that would mean there's no reason to make that diagnosis."

  "So what you're saying is that I don't have RSD?"

  Dr. Michael shrugged. “That's exactly what I'm saying."

  Tom could barely contain himself at this, hearing the words that he had so sorely yearned for, the perfect answer to six years worth of prayers. He knew that for the past few weeks his wife had been feeling like a normal person, like the healthy, vibrant young woman she had been before she had gotten sick. And yet, somehow, he still had not been able to fully appreciate this, the fear of what had been and of what still might be lingering stubbornly in the background, like storm clouds in the distant sky of an otherwise beautiful day. After all, until this moment, Carole had been pronounced cured only by Lucinda, that rather strange woman with the fantastic claims about which he and his wife were skeptical at best. Now, however, he was hearing the same thing from Dr. Michael, a man of science, in whose knowledge he had the utmost confidence and faith. If what this man said was accurate, and he had no good reason to feel otherwise, all of his fears—and his wife's—would be vanquished forever. Indeed, it was as if their life were beginning anew.

  "Are you telling me that I'm going to keep feeling like this, this good, and I'm not going to get sick again?” Carole asked excitedly.

  Dr. Michael closed his eyes for a second or two. He shook his head and chuckled softly. “I've never been much of a fortune-teller,” he said, smiling weakly. “What I can tell you is this: I've given you a thorough physical examination, I've sent you for an extensive series of diagnostic tests, I've had the results interpreted by the most knowledgeable physicians I know of,” he smiled, “and I've even looked at them myself, and if you're asking me if there's anything I can see from any of this that would make me think you have any health problems you should be concerned about well, today, at this moment, the answer is no."

  "But you're definitely seeing no evidence of Carole's RSD?” asked Tom.

  "No. To be perfectly honest with you, to look at her now, I would have never suspected that she ever had it to begin with."

  "Is it possible that she didn't?” He turned to Carole. “You weren't diagnosed right away, not until you saw your doctor in Florida. They never picked up on it in New Jersey; could they have been right?"

  "So now I'm crazy, Tom?” Carole snapped, defensively. “You've been with me for three years, and you've seen me when I was sick, and you're telling me that it was just in my mind all along?"

  "No, of course not,” said Tom quickly. “I know better than that. What you felt was real enough, that's for sure. It's just that, I don't know, maybe it was something other than what they thought it was.” He looked to Dr. Michael for some corroboration.

  Dr. Michael shrugged. “Based on the symptoms that Carole apparently experienced, coupled with the previous test results, the diagnosis of RSD seems to be have been completely reasonable. All I'm saying now is that, after examining her and taking all these tests right now, over the past four days, with nothing else to go on, I would have to conclude that this is a perfectly healthy young woman. Look, RSD is very difficult to diagnose. The symptoms can vary considerably from patient to patient, and we don't know for sure what causes it or, of course, how to cure it. Usually it is a chronic condition that only gets worse, but sometimes it gets better, or disappears entirely, for no apparent reason, and that appears to be the case with Carole."

  "For no apparent reason,” Tom repeated.

  Dr. Michael knew exactly to what Tom was referring. “Yes, Thomas, I did have that liquid analyzed by the lab."

  "And?"

  "And it was exactly the same chemically as the sample of Bigelow's chamomile tea that we compared it to."

  "That's it?"

  Dr. Michael's lips curled up slightly into just the hint of a bemused little smile. “I know that you were expecting a bit more, but I'm afraid that's all it is. I have to admit that I was quite intrigued by everything that you told me, though, enough to run the analysis myself. Unfortunately, there was nothing unique about it, just plain chamomile tea, and people have been drinking that long enough that if it had any special curative powers, we'd know about it."

  "I know it sounds far-fetched, Dr. Michael, but it just seemed like it couldn't be a coincidence."

  Dr. Michael shrugged in his familiar manner. “That's exactly what it is, Thomas,” he said definitely, “a coincidence. If in fact Carole actually was suffering from RSD, which according to her previous doctor she definitely was, and if, as certainly appears to be the case now, she no longer is, I have to say that there is absolutely nothing in that tea that could have caused this."

  "So the tea had nothing to do with anything?” asked Carole, somewhat challengingly, as if what Dr. Michael was proposing was patently illogical.

  Dr. Michael shook his head. “No,” he said gently, “it didn't."

  Carole started to speak, but stopped herself, as though unable to find the words to express what she was feeling, a puzzled expression on her face.

  "You seem disappointed,” said Dr. Michael, who obviously had expected a different reaction. He tilted his head forward toward Carole, his demeanor exuding gentle kindness. “All right, if you would prefer to believe that you were cured by drinking some magical tea, well, that's fine with me. In any event, the most important thing is that youare completely cured, and if I were you, well, I would be absolutely delighted."

  Carole turned to Tom, who met her gaze with a blank stare, still unable to grasp the reality of what Dr. Michael has just said. Then the meaning of his words finally sank in, filling the void of incredulity with a wonderful sense of joy and relief. His face broke into his widest grin, which seemed to bring both elation and enlightenment to his wife as well. They both turned to Dr. Michael, beaming.

  Dr. Michael's own smile
now grew as wide as Tom had ever seen. “Actually, I'm a bit disappointed myself,” he said facetiously. “To find something that could cure anything and everything as you told me that woman claimed that this tea could, well, that would make my job a lot easier."

  "You might even get home before midnight once in a while,” Tom countered. He knew that Dr. Michael, being such a thorough, diligent, and caring doctor, spent so much time with each patient that he habitually ran very late, well past his usual hours. “Maybe you could actually spend some time with your family."

  "Everything has both its advantages and its disadvantages,” said Dr. Michael, with a cryptic little smirk. He closed the folder containing Carole's records and set it aside. “Now, about you, Thomas,” he continued, reaching for a second folder and opening it. He scanned the contents perfunctorily. “Well, there's nothing you should be concerned about. Everything seems perfectly normal. How are the allergies?"