How dare they interfere with the important.
His driver glanced at him in the rearview mirror, but he stared straight ahead without a fleck of change in his steely eyes.
Pak Song-ju knew he looked the part of the oldest son of the Vice-Chairman of the National Defense Commission, Pak Song-nam, one of the most powerful men who controlled North Korea’s vast army. At thirty-eight, Pak Song-ju’s chiseled features and good looks came from his mother, Song Hye-suk. He kept his coal-black hair trimmed close to the scalp and wore a tailored suit, in drastic contrast to the drab clothes worn by most officials, including his father. His sense of style was acquired in France where he studied in Paris, and it was yet another personal trait that irritated his father.
Pak tightened his jaw as he thought about his father ordering him to change his appearance when he returned from Paris. “Homosexuality is punishable by death. You look like a woman with that long hair.” Pak was not gay. In fact, he prided himself on his virility with the girls.
If he only knew how prolific I am.
Finally, he and his father had come to a compromise. Pak was allowed to wear his suits, but not to any official functions, lest he stand out.
Pak reached for a crystal glass from the middle console, took a sip of water, and replaced the glass.
North Korea has to catch up to the rest of the world.
Most people were not allowed to own a television or even a radio. Only if they were one of the upper most echelon in society could they own either, and then they were restricted to the State’s broadcast and nothing more. A typical North Korean had never heard of the Internet nor seen a computer. North Koreans were totally isolated from the rest of the world.
Lest their eyes and minds were opened.
Pak wondered how the people would handle freedom.
Would they embrace it? Or, like a caged animal, be afraid to leave the safety of their shelter? It was only a matter of time until they found out.
“Should I pull to the back of the building?” the driver asked, although he already knew the answer.
The building was a drab, two-story building with no windows. The Korean writing on the front indicated that it was a medical research facility. Pak exited the car and quickly entered through the back door. He was there to make a deposit.
CHAPTER 6
* * *
A Time to Mourn
Nick had never been very good at socializing. He avoided cocktail parties and hospital fund-raisers. He’d rather watch a ball game alone than make idle chatter with strangers and acquaintances. Public speaking frightened him, and he shied away from serious discussion. He was particularly anxious about speaking at John’s funeral the next day. That, combined with the grief of losing his friend, made him exhausted, and he fell back on the hotel bed.
He stared at the ceiling, letting his thoughts drift. Even though he had devoted so much of his life trying to keep people alive, he had spent little time thinking about death. He had experienced the deaths of some of his elder family members—a grandmother and two uncles—and he had witnessed the death of patients, but these events had rarely impacted him. John’s death hit him hard.
Was that it? Was that all there was of John’s life?
Nick pulled a blanket around his neck. The last time they had talked on the phone was over a year ago, and he remembered his frustration. All John wanted to talk about was his faith and the miracles he and Maggie had witnessed in Guatemala. It was like he and they lived on separate planets and spoke different languages.
Nick had hung up with a strange sense of jealousy. John had married an incredible woman, and now he had this amazing, adventurous and fulfilling life.
They always competed, but how could he compete against that? And now he’s gone.
Nick wiped a tear from the corner of his eye and cursed aloud.
It had been many years since his shadow fell anywhere near a church. Growing up, he and his family had attended the Episcopal Church where he was an altar boy. His years of education and focus on science-based work had led him to agree with those who thought religion was for the weak, but he was learning that it was a thin and permeable membrane that separated science from faith.
In his exhausted delirium, the words of an ancient creed filtered through his veil of rational science—We believe in one God, the Father, the Almighty, Maker of heaven and earth Something, something. Came down from heaven, by the power of the Holy Spirit, became incarnate from the Virgin Mary. Whatever that means. We look for the resurrection of the dead and the life of the world to come.
Then it occurred to Nick. It was the Nicene Creed the church recited every Sunday. It stirred something within him. Maybe it was just a longing for simpler times when God was in His heaven and all was right with the world, as they had told him in Sunday School.
But was there really a heaven?
Maggie and John seemed to think so. Nick decided he probably believed in some sort of after-life, but heaven, he wasn’t sure of.
Most surgeons compartmentalize pretty well, he concluded. They had to, to be able to do the work. Four days ago, he had accompanied the general surgeon to the surgical waiting room to deliver the news to a waiting family that their son had not made it through surgery. The motorcycle wreck had broken both legs, but the lethal blow was to his chest and had transected his pulmonary artery.
That had been emotionally difficult, but this was physically painful. Nick pushed on his sternum. He couldn’t decide if he was having chest pain or a sour stomach. Waves of anxiety washed over him. How was he going to stand up in front of people and talk about his friend?
He sat up and walked into the bathroom, pulling off his shirt. He turned the faucet to warm and ran the water into the sink, then splashed some over his face. He grabbed the hand towel and dried off. Then he paused, resting both hands on the counter. He looked in the mirror and felt old. His forty-two-year-old body was still in fairly good shape despite call nights, day-old tuna fish sandwiches, and diet Cokes from the fridge in the surgeons’ lounge. He was getting a few crow’s feet in the corners of his eyes and patches of gray at his temples. But those weren’t so much age as badges of experience to give his patients confidence that he had been around the block a few times. Still, he felt old and used up.
Nick pulled off the rest of his clothes, dropped them on the floor, and fell on the bed, pulling the blanket over him. He needed sleep badly, and was almost past the point of exhaustion, but he couldn’t turn off the memories of John.
* * *
John and Nick grew up together in Whitefish, Montana. “A stone’s throw from where Maggie grew up,” as John liked to say. Nick reminded him it was a really, really long stone’s throw over the vast Rocky Mountain range and Glacier National Park, but John believed distance was relative.
Even though he and John were best friends, they competed at everything—starting with marbles, on through track and grades, and finally as physicians. John claimed Nick had wimped out by taking the path of least resistance, going into orthopedic surgery to deal with bones. Nick, in turn, told John that there is something wrong with a guy that likes to play in someone’s bowels and other orifices with foul-smelling secretions. But they both were excellent at what they did; some had said they were the best.
Whitefish was, at that time, a blue-collar town where logging and the railroad were the main industries. Only half of the high school graduates ever went on to college and only half of those finished. So, when John and Nick were both accepted to medical school from the same class, it was big news.
Once the local ski area was discovered, old Stumptown, as it was called from its logging days, turned into a resort town. The same slopes on which Nick and John had raced began producing Olympic champions like Tommy Moe.
With memories of winter skiing and summer camping, Nick fell into a restless sleep.
* * *
Maggie lay in bed, curled in the fetal position on a pillowcase twice-soaked by her tears. She, too
, was exhausted and restless. She’d fall asleep, only to waken with panic and loneliness known only those who have lost a spouse. She felt as though the darkness would swallow her up and spit her into a bottomless pit over and over again. Her body ached as much as her heart. She felt the warmth of her sister, Julie, laying close to her, still supporting her, lightly touching her back, sometimes praying, other times gently singing to her, and, at times, weeping with her.
Since John’s death, nighttime was the worst: lonely, cold, and empty. Her family forced her to go to bed; they’d even asked the family doctor for sleeping pills. Of course Maggie refused to take them; she’d dealt with strife, and she’d do it again. She’d remember the nights with John. Like all marriages, theirs had had its ups and downs, but nighttime had always been their solace. It was their time to put the anxieties and pressures of the day behind them and lay naked, spooning as one, their hearts in perfect harmony.
Maggie shuddered in pain. They would never again beat in harmony in this world. John’s heart had been ripped out, and her heart was ravaged in agony. Maggie didn’t think she could survive. She wasn’t sure she wanted to.
“Oh my God, help me,” she cried, sobbing so hard she gagged. “I love you so much, John. I love you so much,” she repeated over and over, lost in grief and oblivious to her sister’s nearness.
Julie turned. “It’s going to be okay,” she whispered.
“I have never been this afraid in my life,” Maggie cried. “Who could have ever done this to him? I keep having visions of John being so alone out there. When they…” Once again she was overcome by sobs.
* * *
In the morning, Julie and her mother helped Maggie to the shower. They then twisted her long hair into a bun, put on a thin camouflage of make-up, and dressed her.
“There, darling. You are so beautiful.” Maggie’s mother cupped her daughter’s cheeks with both her hands.
Maggie wore a simple black skirt and jacket with a purple silk blouse. John had always said she looked beautiful in purple.
The memorial service started at 11:00 a.m., but Maggie was in no hurry. She hoped that the longer she put it off, the more this would all be a bad dream and John would come back to her.
Her mother understood and consoled her. “This will be the worst of it. I know John is with you. Try to feel him with your heart.” She wiped a tear from Maggie’s eye. “We are here to help you through this, my dear child. Your Heavenly Father is here, too. I know you know that.” She wiped a tear from her own eye and looked up. “Lord, give your dear child strength.”
Maggie’s older brother entered the room and without saying a word wrapped his strong arms around his baby sister.
Maggie took a deep breath, stifled her grief, and straightened up. She found the strength to face their friends. “We better go.”
* * *
The service was held in the Christian Life Center in downtown Seattle, a mega-church best suited to fit the expected crowd of well-wishers. When they were home, John and Maggie had attended a small, intimate Bible church in North Ballard, but Pastor Evans of the Christian Life Center graciously opened the doors for this service. John and Maggie’s good works were well known around the city after being featured twice in the Seattle Times. Even Channel Eight once came to Guatemala to do a piece on the hospital and orphanage. John hated the spotlight, but he knew it would help the kids.
When they pulled up to the church, Maggie watched the people pour in.
“The Pastor told us to take you to the side door so you wouldn’t have to face everyone beforehand,” her older brother said, pulling the black suburban the funeral home had loaned to them around the corner.
He would have hated this, Maggie thought. All the fuss that people are making over him.
Both Pastor Evans and their own pastor, Chris O’Reilly, met them at the door.
“Hi, Maggie,” Pastor Chris said giving her a big bear hug. A rotund man, he smelled of pipe tobacco and exuded the love of the Father. He had been with Maggie and her family all week and was a great source of strength, comfort and even joy.
“Thank you for being here for John,” Maggie said, hugging him back.
Pastor Evans stepped up and gave Maggie a hug. “I’m so sorry, Maggie.” He had a kind smile. “John was so loved. Our church holds 6000 people. I’m not sure there are many open seats. He has touched many lives in ways I’m sure we can only imagine.”
Maggie nodded and patted his arm in thanks.
“We will escort your family up to the front. We are all here for you. If you need anything.” He motioned to the ushers. “Okay, let’s go in.”
Maggie wanted to scream. Her legs would not move. Her head was swimming, and for the first time in her life, she felt like running away. It seemed like forever since she had to do anything without John at her side.
Sensing her difficulty, her brothers came to her aid, grasping her arms, and practically lifting her for the walk down the aisle. Her younger brother kissed her cheek, and she and her family filed in.
As they entered the sanctuary, Maggie saw the floral display on the slightly elevated stage at the front and froze at the sight of the huge screen projecting pictures of her life with John. It was meant as a celebration of their life together, but she was too numb to celebrate. Their life together was over, in spite of the pictures. Still, she looked at them as she moved slowly on the arms of her escorts. There was a photo of their wedding, one of John trying to dance at their reception, one of John standing with Nick on a mountain top, another of John standing by a stream with that goofy hat that he loved and his favorite fishing pole, and still another of the two of them painting the inside of the hospital. So many pictures, so many memories. She wanted to shut her eyes and make them stop. She wanted the service to be over. She wanted to curl up alone in bed and fly away to heaven to be with him. She didn’t want to be here. She didn’t want to be in this place.
As they drew near to their seats in the front of the church, the slideshow mercifully stopped on a black and white photo of John. It was one that Maggie had taken. It was her very favorite.
There was John squatting on his heels in the middle of a slum in Nicaragua. The people were living in some of the worst conditions Maggie and John had ever seen, each family barely surviving in huts made of palm branches, tin and anything else they could find. Hurricane Andrew had destroyed their homes. Death and sickness swirled thickly in the air. There was John, wearing his Nike hat turned backward and his signature Hawaiian shirt, putting the end of his stethoscope on the belly of a naked five-year-old child, a belly that was huge and probably full of parasites. The wide-eyed child was mesmerized by this tall, thin white person, full of life and at the center of his godly destiny. John smiled gently at the boy.
Pastor Chris stepped to the pulpit. He stood silently for a moment, then turned slightly, extending a hand toward the screen behind him. “I picture Jesus that way,” he began, his voice breaking as he drew a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes.
Pastor Chris briefly introduced John and Maggie’s families and read a portion from an article in the Seattle Post. Then he invited Maggie’s sister to sing one of John’s favorite songs, Holy, Holy, Holy.
Maggie’s father and older brother shared some thoughts. Her father spoke in his native Blackfeet tongue, and her brother translated. He said it was the only true way he could express his feelings about John. Even then, no English words could do justice to the tenderness with which he spoke. He said that he could never have picked out a better husband for his little Maggie. He spoke of the Blackfeet’s definition of a man: strong, honorable, and courageous. John was a true warrior at heart.
Nick was next to share. When Maggie’s father called him to the front, Nick stumbled to the pulpit and shuffled his papers, inadvertently dropping them. He opened his hands and looked up to heaven. Then he half-smiled at the congregation. “I’m sure John loves to see me looking clumsy,” he said, releasing the tension as the crowd c
huckled.
“I could tell some real stories on my best friend John,” he began, glancing up again. “No worries, mate. I won’t destroy your sainthood.” He tried to smile through his anxiety.
Nick’s faced flushed as he clearly struggled with emotion. He cleared his throat a few times. “John and I sure had some times together,” he said, unable to choke back tears. He dug in his pocket for a handkerchief and blotted his eyes.
He looked over at John’s folks. John’s mother sobbed, her head pinned to Pops’s shoulder.
Nick blinked and cleared his throat. “Mom and Pops, I was always thankful for your family. Pops, I was always thankful that you forgave John and me for sinking your boat in Flathead Lake.”
Nick seemed to relax as he told the tale about taking Pops’s boat out on a sunny Montana afternoon.
“The boat was a beautifully restored wooden motorboat. Pops had spent many years restoring it and only reluctantly gave us permission to take it out by ourselves. After we got the boat in the water, we were cruising along on a beautiful day on Flathead Lake. We hadn’t been out but a few minutes when the boat began to act funny and become more and more sluggish. John and I looked at each other with a sense of panic as we realized that in our exuberance to get the boat out, we had forgotten to put the plugs in the back of the boat. We were sinking.”
The congregation chuckled.
“Our only hope was to try to get back to shore, which we almost did.” Nick shook his head and smiled. “Twenty feet from shore, the boat slipped underwater. It was slow motion: John and I staring at Pops on the dock, Pops staring back at us, the boat sinking lower and lower, and Pops’s face getting redder and redder.”
From the pulpit, Nick watched Pops shake his head and manage a smile as the crowd laughed.
MAYA HOPE, a medical thriller - The Dr. Nicklaus Hart series 1 Page 5