The Anatomy of Perception

by AJ Rose

  “Oh hi, Chief,” I said, studying the board. “I know what you’re going to say.” I held up a hand, not to cut him off but to reassure him. “But before you do, no, Dr. Kingsley hasn’t cleared me for surgery, and I’m not looking at the board to barter onto a surgery. I’m trying to see which surgeons might need help with prep work or pre-operative testing.” It beat doing the scut work of dictating charts and prepping papers for the billing department, and there was a danger of going into the pit and landing a surgical case if an emergency plowed through the doors. “I’m not trying to overstep or overwork. I just can’t stare at those four walls anymore.”

  With shrewd eyes, Noble studied me. “Has Dr. Kingsley done a follow-up? Is she satisfied you can work a shift?”

  “Yes,” I said. “First thing she did when she saw me. I have ibuprofen for any headaches and I’m not making patient care decisions, Chief. I promise. But I can’t be home anymore.”

  I didn’t want to tell him it was because I was afraid if I hadn’t gotten out of the loft, I’d have been too scared to leave ever again.

  Fixing me with a stern, fatherly glare, he put his hands on his hips. “Now, son, work-life balance is one of the things I know we doctors fail at a lot, but it’s important. Is your boyfriend okay with you being here?”

  “Of course, sir.” Or he would be if he knew I was here. “He understands the work is going to keep me from going insane. I did promise him I’d come home if I couldn’t handle it.”

  Chief Noble’s face softened, the lines in his forehead smoothing out. “Okay. It sounds like you got a good head on your shoulders, Perry. But take care of yourself. I don’t want to lose such a talented surgeon.”

  I flushed with pride at the compliment, watching as he moved on to speak with Dr. Dearborn, who was standing a few feet away, studying the boards. Behind them, a pair of police officers walked up to the nurse’s station. I moved closer to ask someone to page Clower or Getty to see if they had anything I could do to help them. I was avoiding Sabrina. God knew what favor she’d demand for having behaved herself with Craig two nights before, after the mugging. I didn’t get the chance to ask for that page, though, because I heard the police officers say they were looking for me.

  “I’m Dane Perry,” I answered, and they turned to me. Both of them were young and chiseled, and I perked up. They looked very serious, and I hoped they had good news, that they’d found George. I wanted to tell him his brother’s surgery was being handled free of charge, and that Johnny would be fine. I’d already decided not to press charges. He’d stolen sixty bucks and scared the shit out of me. And gave me a headache. I’d had worse.

  “Is there somewhere we can speak privately?” the cop on the right, whose nametag read K. Jarvis, asked.

  “Um, yeah. Let’s go in here.” I took them across the hall to a small conference room used by surgeons collaborating on multi-specialist surgeries. Thankfully, it was unoccupied. “What can I do for you gentlemen? Did you find George?”

  They looked at each other, puzzled. “Who?”

  “George. I assume his last name is the same as his brother’s, Johnny Dawson, but I don’t honestly know for sure.”

  The other officer, whose tag read R. Russell, spoke. “We’re not here for that matter, Doctor. We’ve been contacted by the police department in Bridgeport, West Virginia.”

  The blood drained from my face at the mention of my hometown. I had to stall. Whatever they had to say, the gravity of it was in their expressions, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. I wasn’t sure, given how shaken I still was from the mugging, if I could take another problem, especially with my dad.

  “Please, Officers. Sit. Can I get you water or anything?”

  “No, sir, but thank you.” Russell said, clearly intent on getting whatever they had to say out. “Your brother is Dylan Perry, married to Sherrilyn Keyes?”

  I started with surprise. “Dylan got married? Wow, no, I wasn’t aware of that, but we’re not particularly talkative. I mean, we love each other, but there are reasons we usually only text every couple weeks or months. Bastard could have told me he got married.” I grumbled that last bit under my breath.

  “And your father is Davis Perry, of 1503 Woodland Drive?”

  Now my hackles were up. “Yes. Is everything all right with Dylan?” If there was a problem with my father, I didn’t give a damn, and if there had been, my brother was the one who always called or showed up. Not the cops.

  “Dr. Perry, I’m afraid we have some bad news.” Jarvis said, leaning forward on the shiny surface of the conference table and clasping his hands as he looked at me with an earnest, sorrowful expression.

  “No,” I whispered.

  “Your brother was found dead by his wife at your father’s house, and your father is missing.”

  My world pinpointed to my fingers on the table, and I picked at my cuticles. My brother was dead. My indestructible brother, the only rock of support in my family, had been found dead. Flashes of our childhood played on the silver screen of my mind, Dylan standing between Dad and me with a heavy paperweight in his hand to protect me when he was just ten years old. Him teaching me how to play catch on a day when Dad had passed out early, so the sun still shone and we could see the ball. Dylan promising me that even though he was leaving, he wasn’t abandoning me, with a quick but fierce kiss to the crown of my head before he walked out.

  “How?” I rasped.

  “Dylan suffered blunt trauma to the head. The police in Bridgeport would like very much to speak with your father to find out what happened in his home.”

  I sneered. “I can tell you what happened. My brother probably went into the house to leave some actual food instead of the science experiments our father grew in the fridge, and steal a few bills from the table to pay them. My father has a habit of pickling his liver with his disability check instead of keeping the power on. He also doesn’t take too kindly to having anyone think he can’t take care of himself, so Dylan probably went when he was sure Dear Old Dad was passed out.” There was pressure in my chest building to a near-unbearable level. I would usually say these words to no one, yet I had the feeling if I didn’t voice them, I would blow up, so much red mist to splatter these cops and the shiny lacquer of the conference table. “Only I’m betting the fucker wasn’t totally unconscious. I’m betting he picked something up. His bottle, a bat he used to threaten us with, or hell, maybe even the one he used to give me a concussion when I was in college. I think that bastard hit Dylan on the head because his fucking pride couldn’t take being helped, even though Dylan and I had every right to walk away, but Dylan didn’t turn his back. That bastard probably killed my brother, and then oopsie!” The pressure mounted, and with it, my hysteria. “That’s the second person he killed in our family, and what’s he gonna do? Last time, he ran into the bottom of a bottle. This time? Probably just ran.”

  Russell had taken out a small notepad while I’d spoken, taking notes. “You know any of this to be fact, Doctor?”

  Wearily, with the relief of a bubble having popped behind my sternum, I shook my head, rubbing my chest like I had indigestion. The pressure subsided now that the words were out. Telling someone helped, and who better than the cops, who could convey how important it was to find my asshole father? “No, but the pattern was one I grew up with.”

  “You said second person he killed. Who was the first?”

  I leveled them with an annoyed look. “My mother, back in 1987. Dad had a couple drinks at dinner, enough to impair his reaction time. Wrecked the car and killed my mom, ruined his back. No charges were ever pressed because the hospital lost the blood work that showed he was drunk. Took his grief out on us, until Dylan moved out. Then I left, and it’s just been Dylan taking care of things and me sending money when I could to help him cover expenses. But I haven’t been back to West Virginia since I was eighteen, so no, all of this is just a guess.”

  “Has Davis been in contact with you?”

  The pain i
n my chest bloomed again, only this time it spread insidiously up my neck, through my limbs and down my torso, branching into my legs until every bit of me, from my scalp to my toes, was frozen with dread.

  “No,” I whispered. “Do you think he will?”

  “It’s certainly possible,” Jarvis said. “You’re his only living relative, unless you count Sherrilyn, but according to her, she’d only known where Davis lived because she saw the address on the bills Dylan brought home to pay for your father. She’s never been introduced to Davis.”

  Oh god. All those years of running. All the times I said I was safe in New York, that the crowds were my friend.

  It was all being put to the test right now.

  How far away is he now? Is he in the city? Did I hide well enough? I should have listened to Dylan and changed my name.

  I put my head on the conference table surface. “So, what happens now? Can I get, like, a protective detail or something?”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Russell said, sounding genuine, “but we don’t have any evidence your father is after you, and you let your restraining order in Maryland lapse. You never got it transferred when you came to New York.”

  So they’d known. The police in Bridgeport had checked my background—hell, some of them may have remembered when my mom was killed and had suspicions of their own—and discovered our volatile history. And when they’d called the NYPD, the officers sent to notify me of Dylan’s death had been briefed on what was going on without me ever having had to open my mouth.

  “He killed my mother. He just killed my brother. He’s missing now. I’m his only living relative, I have a history of being stalked and attacked by him, and you’re saying there’s no evidence he’s after me? Does he have to kill me, too, before you guys will do anything?”

  Jarvis leaned forward, speaking sympathetically. “Dr. Perry, we know how difficult this must be. Here.” He pulled out a pen and began to write on the back of a card, which he then slid across the table. “This is our number, and if you need immediate assistance, nine-one-one always works. I wrote my direct line and my cell on it. If you need help, and you don’t get anywhere with those other numbers first, you call me.”

  I took the card between numb fingers. Maybe I should go home for the rest of the day. I was pretty sure this, plus the concussion, qualified me for another sick day. But no, work would distract me and keep me from checking over my shoulder constantly. Work would be my salvation.

  My brother was gone, and the last time I’d seen him in person, I’d spent twenty minutes sewing his arm back together and disregarding his concerns, telling him I was fine.

  I was so not fine now.

  Dylan, I’m so sorry. We both should have gone somewhere together and started over with new identities. At least we’d have been able to talk more.

  We all stood, and I followed the officers out the door and down the corridor toward the hospital’s main entrance. The closer we got to the outside world, the more anxious I got. Was my dad out there now, closing in on me?

  “You know, perhaps we should swing by the security desk,” Russell suggested. “At least alert them of the situation so if Davis Perry does attempt to make contact with you, they’ll be aware and can take steps to keep you secure. Have you got a photo of him?”

  I shook my head. “I left at eighteen and never looked back. The last thing I would have is his picture.”

  They both nodded in understanding. “We’ll check with Bridgeport and see if he’s got an arrest record. Maybe there’s a mug shot we can forward to the head of security here.”

  “That would make me feel better,” I said, mainly to appease these men. They were doing their best while still following protocol. I didn’t honestly expect hospital security to keep my father out if he was intent on entering. His persistence when I was in college showed how far he was willing to go, and if it was true he was the one who had taken a blunt object to Dylan’s skull, he’d be desperate and looking for absolution, or a place to hide. He never did take responsibility for his actions, so why start now?

  They spoke briefly with the security officer manning the information desk, and they exchanged information. I didn’t pay attention to what was being said, because I was too busy staring at the lobby doors, waiting for Davis to come through them. All the glass made me nervous. The windows were so big, and I don’t think I’d noticed that before. Anyone could see inside.

  I couldn’t take it. I pretended my beeper buzzed at my waist, and I took it off and squinted at the blank display. “Officers, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go. Please let me know if he’s captured.”

  “Of course, Dr. Perry. You’ll be the first call after the Bridgeport PD.”

  They each shook my hand and I turned to leave, moving so fast my white coat flapped behind me. I couldn’t stand being in the fishbowl of the lobby any longer.

  I worked. It was all I needed: sutures, taking pre-op patients for testing, sitting with them, answering questions about their surgeries the attending physicians on their cases may not have had the chance to address. That was what kept me in one piece for the rest of the day. I sent a text to Craig, asking him if he’d be home that evening. He promised that yes, he wasn’t on a project, so he’d be home at his normal time.

  Craig: The job wearing you out?

  Me: You have no idea.

  Craig: Well, if you hadn’t been in a rush to go back so fast, you probably wouldn’t be tired.

  I rolled my eyes. We’d already had this argument. It’s why I snuck out to come to work.

  Me: How’d you know I came to work?

  Craig: Puh-lease. Six years together, I know your MO.

  Me: Pretty sure you don’t want me getting cabin fever. I’d go off the deep end.

  It was a while before he replied, but when he did, I couldn’t help laughing.

  Craig: All work and no play…

  Me: I love you, C.

  Craig: Getting sentimental on me, D?

  Me: Maybe.

  My brother was dead and I’d always thought we’d have plenty of time, as soon as the old man wrapped his car around a tree and put us all out of our misery. I was sick of life’s unexpected curveballs. They were frequent and vicious.

  Craig: Ily2.

  His shorthand “I love you, too” told me he was busy, and I needed to let him be. But at least he’d answered me back. We may have been testy lately, but we were still solid. That, I could count on, if nothing else.

  I walked out of a patient’s room to find his attending and get an update on the surgical schedule when it happened.

  I ran smack into my father.

  The blood drained from my face with such gravity I was surprised there wasn’t a puddle spreading from the soles of my shoes across the tile floor. I gaped at him, then closed my mouth so he wouldn’t see how shocked I was. I shouldn’t have been. Hours had passed since the police had warned me of this possibility, and here he was. Something in me snapped.

  “Ah, the prodigal drunk returns.”

  “Dane, you have to help me,” he said. I backed up, but he followed me, and I hit the wall at the hallway’s dead end. “I done something real stupid and I need your help, son.”

  “I’d rather die. And hey, since you’re responsible for the death of everyone else in my family, wanna do the honors? I’m sure I can scare up a scalpel for you.” I tilted my head and studied him. He didn’t smell of alcohol, which was a surprise, given the cloudiness of his blue eyes. They were a flat blue, not the icy blue my mother had bequeathed to me. His were almost gray, like a bruise, and they were wide with fear. “But head injuries are more your style, aren’t they? Let’s see if we can find you something heavy. A patient’s vase of flowers oughta do it. Lucky for you, I’m recovering from a concussion. Should be easy for you, if you can manage the swing with your bad back.”

  I knew I was rambling, but so many things to say crossed my mind. So many insults and questions and hate-filled invectives jumbled my thoughts, I h
ad to fall quiet for being unable to detangle them all.

  “Dane, I’m sorry,” he said, taking a tentative step toward me. “I’m so much more than sorry, but I don’t have time for the head games. They’re after me.” He actually looked over his shoulder then.

  I crossed my arms over my chest, not believing his apology for a minute. Besides, it was about twenty-five years too late. Not that he was even an iota sincere.

  “You deserve it. You deserve to be caught and sent to prison where some faggot ass-fucks you every day and you have to let him because he’s your protection. Hope they have lube.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You know something about lube and ass fucking, boy?”

  A smile danced across my lips and disappeared as quickly as it came. “Yeah, if it means you don’t want anything from me, not even help hiding from the cops since you’re in the biggest shit of your life. If it means you’ll walk away, I do know about ass fucking. All about it.”

  “Who is he talking to?” I heard a nurse ask from the desk ten feet past my father.

  “I don’t know,” another woman murmured. “Call the chief and maybe security. He looks really upset.”

  “All Dylan wanted was to help you, though I never could figure out why. You should have just let him help you.”

  It was Davis Perry’s turn to sneer. “Can take care of myself just fine. Been doin’ it since I was sixteen.”

  “Yeah, you’ve done an admirable job, inmate.” I did lower my voice, since we were beginning to cause a scene. I tried to see how I could get past him without coming within striking distance, but I wasn’t sure it would be possible, and no matter how big I sounded, the concussion had weakened me considerably, and I should have gone home a couple hours earlier.