The Forging

by Jeffrey Hancock

  Pound. Pound. Pound. The pain is blinding. I can’t think. I am still missing something, but I didn’t know what. In the pandemonium all around me, I could hear a distinct voice calling out.

  “Daddy.” My daughter’s voice sent an electric jolt to my soul. I knew what has been nagging me. In all that happened, I had forgotten my own family was on their way to the corner. Walking home together is something we do every day after school, and it had slipped my mind. If I had my wits about me, I would have tried to escape and lead Mark away on a merry chase. Now my wife and daughter are in danger too.

  In my mind, the headache appeared again. It is a monster indescribably large and hideous. It is dark and billowing like a Texas tempest. Pieces of my memory churned throughout it. They are distorted and twisted. In my mind’s eye, I saw myself standing before the agonizing gale. I felt no more significant than a grain of sand being tossed about by the whirlwind. I reached down into myself for strength to the very pit of my being and screamed at the storm. I hurled the force of my will and pushed the migraine back. I pushed it, again and again, further and further until it was the grain of sand and I the whirlwind.

  Mark Galos’ head turned in Moiraine’s direction, and a smile of realization came to his face. Time slowed down. Time stopped as he swung his arm around to aim. As the end of the barrel passed my head, I reached out and grabbed his wrist. I pushed his arm up as I heard a shot ring out. A part of me prayed the bullet would miss its mark as we wrestled for the gun. Somehow, I seized the revolver around the cylinder and prevented it from spinning around to the next bullet. Despite his looking sick, this man is freakishly strong. He is throwing me around like a dog with a rat in his teeth. I held on to the gun with all I am worth, but it isn’t enough. My grip is slipping, and soon, he will have it free. In the distance, I heard a siren. The sound is growing louder as it approached the corner. Someone must have gotten a call off to the police. The cavalry is on its way. He must have heard it too because he paused for a moment and looked in the direction of my approaching rescue. He redoubled his efforts and finally managed to leverage the gun away. I am on the ground with him above me. The siren is growing louder.

  He said, “I’m looking forward to our next little party, Nate,” he turned and ran away.

  I started to stand. I forced myself to look in the direction where my daughter’s voice had come from. She is alive and crying. At her feet is my wife. She is crumpled up in an awkward position. I scrambled on all fours, not taking even a moment to regain my feet. Dear God in heaven let her be alive, I prayed.

  I quickly checked her, and she is still breathing, but only barely. Her pretty white blouse is quickly being stained red with her blood. I can hear Mo crying. I want to grab her up in my arms and rock her. Tell her her mother would be fine. I want to comfort my daughter. I want her to comfort me. If Charlene’s life is to be saved, I can’t waste any time comforting Mo or myself. I ripped my wife’s blouse open. The buttons shot in all directions like empty phantoms of the bullet which mutilated her body. I found the entry wound. I am not sure, but by its position, it looks like she took the round in the heart. I yelled for help, but no one came to my aid. I pulled out my cell phone dialed 911 and put it on speaker. The siren started fading. The police car must be on a different call. Only the wildest of luck had interrupted Mark and chased him away. I hope I haven't use up all my luck. I am going to need all the luck I can muster.

  Over the speaker of my cell phone came “9-1-1 operator, what is the nature of the emergency?”

  “My name is Nathan Embers. I am the crossing guard at Greentree Elementary School. There has been a shooting with one victim. Send the police and an ambulance as fast as you can. The shooter’s name is Mark Galos. He left the scene traveling westbound on foot. He’s five feet ten inches tall with bleached blond hair. He is wearing a dark wool peacoat. The victim’s injuries are severe. Please, send help as fast as you can,” I could hear the operator begin to ask questions, but Char didn’t have time for questions. I turned my attention back to my wife. Blood is spurting out of the wound in time with her heartbeat. I tried putting pressure on the wound, but it didn’t stem the flow. I kept upping the pressure until I was sure any more would break a rib or two. And if I broke a rib, it could puncture a lung. An idea came to me. It is a wild, crazy Hail Mary Pass of an idea. I wasted no time because I have no options.

  My daughter is crying and calling for her mommy to wake up. I have to help Moiraine, almost as much as my wife. “Mo, I need you to listen to me. Hold your mommy’s hand and tell her you love her. I want you to say it over and over again. I want you to look at your mommy’s face and don’t look away,” I didn’t want her to see what I am going to do next.

  I took the index finger of my right hand and inserted it into the entry wound in my wife’s chest. I probed around with the tip of my finger going deeper and deeper until I felt what I am after. I started to feel the lub dub of her beating heart. I could also feel a warm pulse of blood. I probed deeper and found the hole the bullet made in my wife’s heart. I reached deeper into her chest and plugged the hole with my fingertip.

  Charlene’s face is still pale, and her breathing is shallow. It feels like her heartbeat is slowing. It is hard to tell for certain through my finger. I need to do something more, but what? “Char, listen to me. You have to fight. Don’t give up. You have two people here who need you to stay with them.”

  I heard Mo chime in with, “Yes, Mommy, I need you.” That’s my girl.

  “Damn it; fight. Hang on with all you have. You listen to me. You have never backed down from a fight before, and you’re not going to back down on this one. Fight! Tell your heart to beat stronger. Tell your lungs to take in air. Will your body to heal itself,” faintly in the distance I heard a siren. Hurry up damn it. Get here already. My wife needs you. This is taking too long. How long has it been? No more than a couple of minutes for sure. All of a sudden, my focus expanded beyond my wife, my daughter, and myself. I realized we are not alone. I could hear the soft cries of children and murmurs of “Mrs. E” all around us. One of the parents present, I didn’t know who, place a rolled-up jacket or sweater under my wife’s head. As soon as I thought, “Damn it, someone get these children away from here. They shouldn’t see this,” parents started pulling kids away.

  “Daddy, I’m scared. What if mommy dies?”

  “Don’t say that. Don’t ever say that,” I screamed to Moiraine, “Your mother is not going to die,” I looked at my wife. She is all too pale. I screamed at Char. “Do you hear. You’re frightening your daughter. Now fight to stay here with her. When the doctors said you could never conceive, you fought them. When you were carrying Moiraine, the doctors said you could never safely carry a baby to term; you fought them. When they said to save your life, you had to terminate the pregnancy; you fought them. You won those battles. You proved you are strong. Use your strength now, and fight for your life. Damn it FIGHT!” I’m not sure, but did her expression change briefly? Did she have a glimmer of determination on her face? Maybe I am deluding myself.

  I feel drained, and my hand was starting to cramp up. Through my fingertip, Char’s heartbeat feels a little stronger and a little more regular. The color in her face is returning; Moiraine noticed her mother’s improvement also. She stopped crying but kept up her talking. The paramedics and ambulance arrived. Everything started to become a blur of questions and movement.

  Once the paramedics determined Char was stable enough for the ride to the hospital, we all loaded up in the ambulance. To keep my finger where it is doing the most good required a feat worthy of Chinese acrobats. I ended up on the gurney straddling my wife. It is awkward, but it works. My daughter rode upfront with the ambulance driver. The short drive took forever.

  The Emergency Room is a blur of organized chaos. A flurry of doctors and nurses began giving and taking orders. I didn’t listen. I kept all my attention on Charlene. I spoke to her. I relayed what the doctors are doing. I told her about al
l the weird dreams I’ve been having. I talked about how our daughter is growing up to be a fine young lady and a better than average stand-up comedian. I told her I love her. I tried to be strong. Oh, God how I tried, but a phantom of doubt grew inside and started to torment me.

  The doctors did all they could for Charlene in the E.R. They had to take her up to surgery. I took another free gurney ride; only this time, it is up an elevator. They pushed us right up to the Operating Room’s door.

  “Okay, folks. We are going to do a little ballet here,” the lead doctor said. “As soon as Mr. Embers removes his finger from his wife’s chest, we move. Take her into the O.R. stat. Don’t waste time prepping her. I want to crack her chest and see what we have. Does everybody know what their job is?” General murmurs of agreement came from the surgical team. “Let’s get ready. Someone help Mr. Embers off the gurney. Are you ready, Mr. Embers?”

  “Ready as I’ll ever be,” I whispered what I hoped would not be a last I love you to my wife.

  “Mr. Embers, go. Remove your finger.”

  I hesitated for a second, then removed my finger. Instantly all sorts of alarms went off on the monitoring equipment connected to my wife. The surgical team moved like clockwork. They rushed my wife into the O.R. and left me standing there with my bloody and cramped hand. I stood there a few moments trying to understand everything that has happened in the last hour.

  I went to the nearest restroom to wash my hand and work the cramp out as best I could. My hand ached. I have to find the ambulance driver who is watching after Mo. I returned downstairs to the E.R. and wasted no time searching. “Moiraine!” I yelled out and got several dirty looks from both patients and staff. I don’t care. I heard her reply immediately. I made my way toward the sound. I found her sitting next to the ambulance driver hugging a teddy bear. When she saw me, she came running for all she is worth. We hugged and cried.

  “Is mommy, okay? Can I see her? Is she coming home tonight? Why did the man hurt mommy?” Moiraine said without pausing to take a breath.

  “Of course, your mommy is going to be fine.” I had lied to my daughter for the first time. I don’t think she can handle the ugly truth. I don’t know. If Charlene doesn’t pull through, I will pay for the lie many times over. I left her other questions unanswered for the time being. I hugged her again and stroked her hair. Am I comforting her, or is she comforting me?

  The ambulance driver stood up and said, “I have to be getting back to work. I hope your wife recovers quickly.”

  I stretched out my hand to shake the driver’s hand, “Thank you for staying with my daughter. You went above and beyond for her. I owe you one. Moiraine, Honey, you need to give the man back his teddy bear. Another little girl may need it.”

  “Sir, she can keep it. They are donated to the city for such occasions. It helps the young ones deal with tragedies like this one,” he turned and started walking back to his ambulance.

  My daughter called out, “Jerry.” He turned and watched as my daughter ran up to him. While holding tight onto the teddy bear, she crooked her finger motioning for Jerry to bend down. Jerry did as he was instructed. Moiraine wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged him, then she kissed him on the cheek, “Thank you.” I could see tears welling up in his eyes. The raw emotion on the man’s face showed he has not gotten so jaded from witnessing this kind of tragedy while on the job. A little girl with a simple kiss, and thank you can still touch his heart.

  A little pang of jealousy hit me in the pit of my stomach. Another man has been a hero to my daughter. I feel sad, but mostly, I feel ashamed for being jealous. While Mo is saying her goodbyes to Jerry, I made a call on my cell phone to Charlene’s father. I told him Char is in the hospital and he needed to be here. We made arrangements to meet in the surgical waiting room upstairs. I grabbed Mo’s hand. I took her to the Hospital’s cafeteria for a snack and to kill some time while Char is in surgery. I tried to talk Mo into having a banana and a glass of milk, but she wanted Cheetos and Hawaiian Punch. I don’t have the strength to fight her on it.

  With snack and teddy bear in hand, we rode the elevator up to the surgical floor where we began our vigil in the waiting room. It is a plain room painted in Navajo White. The chairs have no padding and are upholstered in a grayish fabric. All the magazines are well out of date, a few by years. An old television is sitting on a rickety stand. The temperature is too cold, and the whole room smelled of disinfectant. We picked seats which gave us a view of the TV. Mo sat quietly and ate her Cheetos, offering a few to her teddy bear and then to me. I have to smile. After all she witnessed and all the Hell she has endured, she can still be a little girl. I prayed she doesn’t have to grow-up for a time yet. I also know if circumstances turned ugly, she would quickly learn a lesson in grown-up life.

  “Thank you, Mo,” I took a couple Cheetos and ate them robotically. I didn’t even taste the enriched corn meal, ferrous sulfate, niacin, thiamin mononitrate, riboflavin, folic acid, vegetable oil (corn, canola, soybean, and/or sunflower oil), cheese seasoning, and assorted other ingredients. Note to self; I should never read food packaging. No peace of mind can be found there.

  It wasn’t long before John, Charlene’s father, showed up in the waiting room. John is a man from the greatest generation, which is to say he had fought at the tail end of World War II and in the Korean conflict. He had an air of an unspoken sorrow about him. He is a smallish man of only five-foot-six and walks with a little hunch which only exaggerated his short stature. His gray hair, which is cut close, is only evident on the sides of his head. He is wearing brown slacks and a white short-sleeved dress shirt. Moiraine saw him and immediately went running into his arms.

  “Grandpa,” is all she said before the tears started anew. John held her and consoled her as only a grandparent can. They had always had a special relationship. Along with a huge amount of spoiling, John had given her unconditional love all her life. Once the tears had faded, John turned on the TV and sat Mo back down in a chair.

  I stood and walked to him. We shook hands. He still has a firm grip from years of working with his hands. John is a craftsman of the old school. He made fine furniture with hand tools and sweat.

  We sat down and spoke in hushed tones, “What in the blazes happened to my girl? Tell me everything.”

  I started at the top with the robbery. I worked my way through the trial and ended with the shooting. I told him everything without going into such detail my perfect memory would overwhelm me. I don’t think I could relive the events of today without breaking down. John took it all rather well considering his only daughter is on a knife’s edge between life and death. I think if our roles were reversed, and Moiraine had been shot, I would be screaming in agony. After our conversation, we sat in silence each of us alone in his thoughts.

  We had waited in purgatory for about two hours when two doctors dressed in clean scrubs, thank God there is no blood on them, came into the waiting room.

  “Mr. Embers, could we talk to you outside please?” The lead surgeon asked. He is a man of mid to late fifties with grey streaks through his black hair. He was shorter perhaps five-foot-six or seven. He has an aura of command about him, which gives him the illusion of being taller. He is a man accustomed to giving orders and having them obeyed without question.

  I started to stand, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw John starting to rise also. When he was about halfway out of the chair, he sat back down. I guess he thought I had the right to know first. John and I have never had what you would call a close relationship. I give him the respect due to the father of my wife. He tolerates me, the man who stole his little girl, and give me the respect I am due. Hanging around together and being best buds had never been in the cards for us.

  I walked out into the hallway with the doctors. We all moved out of earshot of the waiting room. I am glad they don’t want my daughter overhearing our conversation.

  “Mr. Embers, I am Dr. Gastil, and this is Dr. Hazer. Your wife is out of recove
ry and is in the intensive care unit. If there are no further complications, I believe she will make a recovery. We were unable to save the fetus, however.”

  I saw Dr. Hazer grimace slightly at hearing the term fetus. I nearly exploded in a cloud of bone, blood, and bits. A flood of emotion rushed into me. Char is pregnant again. Two miracle babies? Char is no longer pregnant? We lost a child we never even knew was there. My wife is still alive. I didn’t know what to feel. Should I feel joy Char is still alive? Should I feel sorrow our baby never had a chance to live? My emotions are being tossed about like a mobile home in a tornado. I tried to hold on to my sanity. I barely did. I told myself to deal with what is in front of me. I could grieve later. “I’m sure you did everything you could to save the baby,” I told myself to hold on, just hold on.

  “There was nothing we could do. By the time it was apparent your wife was miscarrying, it was too late,” Dr. Gastil replied with no emotion in his voice.

  “Are you telling me you didn’t even try to save the baby?” Such anger began to build in me. I am beginning to loathe this little man. I started to shake. I clenched my fists so hard my nails cut into my palm. I felt drops of blood dripping from my hands. It is all I could do to keep myself from tearing into him.

  “Mr. Embers, if I had diverted my attention from your wife in a hopeless attempt to save the fetus …”

  In a low growl through clenched teeth, I said, “If you say fetus instead of baby one more time, I swear here and now I will rip your throat out with my teeth and spit the ravaged piece back in your face.” I startled Dr. Gastil with my words, and for an instant, I saw fear in his eyes. My feelings of raw hatred are building. I am a pressure cooker filled with emotion with more being pumped in every moment. I am beginning to frighten myself.