by Andrea Ring
***
Cyrus Brooks takes the only chair in the lobby while I pour myself some coffee and try to stall to think about this situation. I don’t offer him any coffee, and he doesn’t ask.
I decide I have to at least be confident and a little bit hostile about him gathering intelligence on me.
“You’ve entered stalker territory,” I say to him as I start brewing a fresh pot.
“I’ve done my research,” he says. “I will do anything to have Olivia back.”
“And you’re banking on the fact that I’ll do anything to have my girlfriend stay in town,” I say. “You’re too late. The house is lost. Erica and Tessa are moving in with me and my dad.”
“Then why have Erica’s parents cleared out the spare bedroom and inquired about schooling for Tessa?”
I clench my jaw and pour a cup of coffee from the half-brewed pot. “I don’t know and I don’t care. That’s not happening.”
“It is,” he says decisively. “But I can prevent it. I can purchase the house outright today, for cash, and Erica’s pride will be intact.”
I turn around and face him. “What do you want in return?”
“Olivia, whole and unharmed.”
“Impossible,” I say. “Even if I can get her to wake up, she won’t be unharmed.”
He waves his hand. “That’s debatable. Fine. You won’t reveal all of what you can do, and I’m not asking you to. I want Olivia to live from this injury. If she passes away, I don’t want it to be from this.”
“Why?” I ask.
He sighs. “Horses were her life. I can’t take knowing she died while doing what she loved. Anything else, I could understand. I just don’t think the Lord would want her to die this way.”
“God has nothing to do with it,” I say. “He doesn’t intervene, as a rule. Accidents happen.”
“Not to us,” he hisses. Then he laughs. “Look at me. So arrogant. So prideful. Because I have dedicated my life to Him, I believe I should be treated better. My human failings abound.”
I lean back against the wall and sip my coffee. “It is human to love someone so much that we sin. One of our better failings, in my opinion.”
“A sin is a sin,” he says. “There’s no gray area in Heaven. I want to save my daughter, and in the process, I’m making it worse.” He sighs again. “But in this, we can help each other. I have the earthly means to help the Halters. If it helps Olivia in the process, why not? We both win.”
I stare into my cup. “Look, I’m not even sure I can do what you’re asking. I may try and fail.”
Cyrus Brooks looks at me, and there’s something manic in his eyes. “All I ask is that you try,” he whispers. “I’ll help the Halters regardless.”
“This week,” I say. “You’ll purchase the house this week. And you’ll give them thirty days to move out.”
“Yes.”
“And I need to get through the next couple of weeks. My grandma’s funeral, stuff at home, I need two weeks. I’ll visit Olivia a week from next Tuesday.”
Cyrus stands and clasps my hand tight. “A week from Tuesday. First thing in the morning. At our home.” He hands me a card with his address and contact information.
“Olivia’s at home?” I ask.
Cyrus nods. “It’s been…expensive, yes. But what’s the point of having money if I don’t have my daughter?”
And he leaves through the doors with a whoosh.
***
“I do not like that man,” Kate says when I come back into the office.
I sit down heavily in my chair and sigh. “He’s not that bad,” I say. “He’s just desperate.”
“Desperate people do desperate things,” Kenneth says. “What did he want?”
I go over our conversation and what I agreed to do. They both frown at me.
“I should have our lawyer draw up paperwork,” Kate says. “The standard patient-doctor stuff. And one of us needs to be with you at all times. Since you’re our employee now, we need to be there.”
“Whatever you need me to do,” I say. “That’s fine.”
“Both of us should go the first time, and then we can split duty from there. We should also go over what you’re gonna do,” Kenneth says. “Maybe practice a few things.”
“No,” Kate says. “Thomas, you can’t practice without a purpose. If you’re using up your life every time you heal, you can’t practice.”
“This has a purpose, Kate,” I say. “I’ll be bringing a teenager back to life. What greater purpose is there than that?”
Kate shakes her head. “You’re right. Just, make sure every move counts.”
“How about this?” Kenneth says. “I want to work on a protein shake, or a pill, something with super nutrients and calories to take the strain off your body. And we can work up a plan for healing, what order you should do things in, so they go smoothly. Unless you think you need to practice?”
“Actually,” I say, “that sounds great, but I do have some other things I want to work on, too.”
“Right,” Kate says. “The torture.”
I laugh. “More like self-defense training.”
Kenneth grabs a yellow pad and pen off Kate’s desk. “You have specifics in mind, I’m betting,” he says.
I mentally snort. Kenneth has no idea.
“First, I need to work on the sleeping issue. My body shuts down and forces me to sleep pretty much every time I heal something major. I understand why, but I need to be able to delay it, ideally for five or six hours.
“Second, I need to try to use my abilities while I’m impaired—I’ve never really had the opportunity before.”
“Impaired how?” Kenneth asks as he scribbles.
“With alcohol, drugs…even unconscious.”
Kate frowns. “Are you drunk often?”
“Only once,” I admit. “But you never know. Do you guys know of any drug someone could inject me with that would produce a similar effect to alcohol?”
“That would be just about all of them, with the right dosage,” Kate says. “If you’re set on this one, we need your dad’s consent. He should even be here during the trials.”
I sigh. “That’s fine. He’s onboard. I’ll talk to him.” Maybe.
“What else?” Kenneth prods.
“Unconscious,” I say. “Any idea how to do that one?”
Kenneth pinches the bridge of his nose. “This one really depends on the cause, on how you are rendered unconscious. If it’s a drug, you can metabolize it. If it’s a blow to the head, it’s going to depend on the brain damage.”
“I’m thinking of something like general anesthesia, definitely a drug. If I’m conscious, yeah, I can get rid of the drug, but what if I don’t do that fast enough and I pass out? I’d like to bring myself out of it, and also see if I can still use my abilities while I’m under.”
“We know a few anesthesiologists,” Kenneth says. “I think that’s the safest option. I’ll work on it. Next.”
“The fun stuff,” I say, grinning. “Limb regeneration first.”
Kate grimaces. “Only if you promise not to stand in this office and slice your wrist off. We only do it under controlled surgical conditions.”
“Of course,” I say. “I think I can get to the point where I can grow a few limbs every day. If that’s the case…I want to grow them for wounded vets. I’ll hook them up myself.”
Kate’s eyes tear. “That’s an amazing goal, Thomas. But one step at a time. Let’s make sure you can grow them safely first.”
I nod. “Then I have this idea…but I haven’t really had access to the stuff I need to do it.”
“Do what?” Kate asks.
“I want to build a chip to record memory. I mean, essentially we already have that chip in our brain, but I think I can transfer it to something a computer could read, so you could actually see my experiences as my brain records them.”
Kenneth tosses his pen on the desk. “I know a guy in Canada who’s been working on s
omething similar, a type of video camera to record what the eye sees.”
“Does he have anything yet?” I ask.
Kenneth smiles. “No. But he swears it can be done.”
“The problem is that there needs to be a biological component to the chip and its interface with the brain. I’ve already got that part worked out. It’s the mechanical components I don’t have access to.”
Kenneth reaches for his pen. “Do you know what you need?”
I give Kenneth a list, and he grins. “How many more of these experiments do you have brewing in your head?”
“Eighty-six,” I say.
“Time to prioritize,” he says. “Sleep and nutrients first. Olivia’s stuff second. Drugs third. Then we do the fun stuff.”
All of it’s fun to me.
We spend the rest of the day theorizing about how to fight my body’s urge to sleep and discussing what nutrients my body uses when I heal.
I only think about Grandma 132 times.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Dr. Rumson opens the church office door for me and pulls me into a hug. “I’m so sorry,” he says.
I cling tight and nod into his shoulder. “Me, too.”
“You want to talk about what happened?”
We settle on the couch and I tell him about our evening.
“So she committed suicide,” I say sadly. “Do you think she’ll still go to Heaven?”
“Of course,” he says. “You’re grandmother was a good person. The pain of living without awareness, of being dependent on people…it was too much for her. I respect that.”
“You might respect that, but what about God?” I ask. “He gave her life. Shouldn’t He be the one to take it away?”
“Being in pain is not a sin, Thomas,” he says. “Do not worry about this. Your grandmother is in Heaven right now, right where she belongs.”
I nod, and tears sting my eyes.
“You want to talk about the rest?” Dr. Rumson asks.
“Just…my dad. I think he’s dying. And I don’t want to care. I know that sounds horrible, but I don’t think he really cares about me, so why should I care about him? But I do.”
Dr. Rumson purses his lips. “Thomas, you grew up with a wonderful mother for the first six years of your life. She taught you things, gave you room to grow, supported your extraordinary abilities, hugged you every day, and told you how much she loved you. Your dad, in stark contrast, was Disneyland dad. He did fun things with you. He wasn’t around to parent and didn’t even bother trying when he was around. Then your mom died, and you wanted your dad to be your mom. But he wasn’t. He isn’t. That doesn’t make him wrong.”
“You think I can’t appreciate him because he’s nothing like my mother?”
“It’s one possibility. Must people be outwardly affectionate for us to feel their love? Must they profess it ten times a day? Must they relate to us in the way we want them to? If they do those things, great. But the absence of those things doesn’t mean they don’t care.”
“You make me sound needy and petty,” I say. “Like I’m a stubborn brat who wants things his way or no way.”
Dr. Rumson just looks at me sympathetically.
“You think I’m just being a brat?”
“No,” he says. “I know I’ve simplified things a great deal. You don’t trust your dad’s love for you because you don’t trust him, period. But I want you to really think about that for a moment, your trust in your dad. If Tessa became pregnant, would you go to him?”
I nearly choke on my tongue. “That’s impossible.”
“Good answer,” he says with a smile. “But seriously, would you go to him for help?”
“Yes,” I say reluctantly.
“If you developed a brain tumor that you couldn’t heal, would you go to him?”
“Yes.”
“If Tessa were in danger, would you ask him to protect her?”
“Yes.”
Dr. Rumson smiles wide. “See? The most important things in your world, and you’d trust your dad with them. All is not lost.”
I smile back. And then I cry, a few tears at first, and then a river pouring down my cheeks.
Dr. Rumson scoots close and throws an arm over my shoulders.
When I’m done, Dr. Rumson removes his arm. I wipe my eyes on my sleeve and lean my head back against the couch.
“Grandma was so damn funny,” I say, closing my eyes. “Did I tell you about the time she told me I could make my breasts larger by shifting around the fat in my body?”
Dr. Rumson chuckles and shakes his head. “No, but I remember when she was first losing her memory, and she brought you in for one of our talks, and she and Mary Kate got to talking about a recipe, and before Mary Kate could react, your grandma started writing the recipe on her arm. And when she was done, she tried to give it to Mary Kate. Her arm, I mean.”
I laugh. “She would call me out every time I farted. Even if I were alone in my room, and she was at the other end of the house, she’d say, ‘I heard that!’”
He laughs. “Remember the time she swatted Mr. Newall upside the head when his son’s phone rang in the middle of my sermon? She caused more of a disturbance than the phone did.”
We trade stories about Grandma all evening.
I only think about Dad twice.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
At Grandma’s funeral, Dr. Rumson gives a beautiful eulogy, which we wrote together, and I speak a bit about Grandma’s selflessness and generous spirit. I asked Tessa ahead of time to stand at the podium with me and hold my hand for support, and she does, even though she is hiccoughing from crying and trying to stifle it so as to not interrupt me. Halfway through my speech, I pause and look at Tessa. Her entire body shakes from the effort of keeping her emotions under control, and a wave of love for her spreads from my heart to my fingertips. “Come here,” I whisper, and I fold her into a tight hug.
The whole crowd sighs as we hold one another. Normally, I would find such a pause awkward, maybe uncomfortable to watch, but it feels right today. This show of emotion is for Grandma. It feels good just to feel it, to let the world know how much she meant to us.
After the service, I find I’m at peace with Grandma’s death. I don’t like it, and I miss her terribly, but I’ve thought a lot about the circumstances under which I would want to end my life. Having dementia would probably be a deal-breaker.
I understand her decision.
***
Tessa comes over the next morning before school, and I get my hug and a few extra kisses.
“How are you?” she asks.
“Good,” I say, and I mean it. “I’m getting there.”
“Good,” she says. “I have awesome news. Can you hear it?”
“I could use a little awesome,” I say, and Tessa squeals.
“Someone bought our house!”
Shit. I forgot all about that. It’s great news, awesome news, but I didn’t even think about my reaction. I mean, do I tell Tessa how it came about? I don’t want Erica to know, but at the same time, I don’t want to lie.
I am not my father.
“That is awesome!” I say, hugging her tight. And then I step back. “About that. I already knew.”
Tessa raises her eyebrows. “Don’t tell me you bought it.”
I shake my head. “No, but I know who did. I agreed to try to heal his daughter.”
“You’re doing it for me?” she asks.
I nod. “And me. Us.”
“I won’t tell Mom,” she says. “And before you accuse me of lying, I’m not lying. Just omitting.”
“I agree,” I say. “We can come clean after you graduate. She doesn’t need to know right now.”
Tessa pulls out a chair and sits at the kitchen table. “Will it be dangerous?”
“Not much,” I hedge as I sit across from her. “Maybe a little.”
She takes my hands. “Promise me you’ll stay safe. No matter what. Promise you’ll come back.”
I squeeze tight. “I promise.”
***
After Tessa leaves for school, Dad comes out, ready to head to the Attic as I’m packing my lunch for work. He leans back on the counter and watches me.
“What’s up?” I finally ask, creeped out by his silence.
“It was you, wasn’t it?”
I busy myself in the cheese drawer, trying to avoid the conversation. “Maybe.”
“Erica thinks it was me.”
“So tell her it wasn’t you,” I say, slamming the fridge door shut and stuffing a yogurt in my paper lunch sack.
Dad cracks a smile. “You could have at least let her get the house on the market,” he says. “She’s driving herself crazy trying to figure out how Cyrus Brooks knew her house was for sale.”
“There are lists out there, of houses when they go into foreclosure,” I say. “Tell her his real estate agent suggested he make an offer.”
“I did.”
“And?” I say.
“She’s not stupid,” Dad says, “and neither am I.”
“He just did it to get to me, Dad,” I say. “So now I’ll feel obligated to help him.”
“Cyrus Brooks isn’t stupid, either,” Dad says.
“What’s your point?” I say, cranky and eager to get this over with.
Dad pulls a folded sheet of paper from his back pocket and places it on the counter. “Just don’t forget the big picture.” He walks past me towards the front door. I scowl behind his back and grab the paper. Dad turns around. “Oh,” he says. “And nice work.” He has the audacity to wink at me as he heads out the door.
I crumple the paper in my fist and hold it over the sink. The big picture…
Now that he’s mentioned it, there is no big picture. I wanted to save Tessa’s house, or at least keep Tessa from leaving. I want to heal. Damn it, that’s really all I’ve been thinking about.
I open my clenched fist, pull out the piece of paper, and smooth it against the edge of the counter. It’s a copy of a newspaper article from September 2001.
Lora Paradis, actress and daughter of late filmmaker Arthur Paradis, died today from injuries sustained when a car hit her last week. She was 32 years old.