Season of Waiting

by Jim Christopher

  “No!” Wes flushed. “Really,” he pleaded, “I went back to check, saw them on the floor, and grabbed them.” He placed the medication on the bed tray. “I just … I didn’t want some kid to find them and … you know.” Christ, even he didn’t believe what he was saying.

  “Get out,” Irene huffed. “Just fucking leave.”

  “Wait, what?” Wes stuttered. “No, I wouldn’t keep them!” He turned to his father. “Pop, look, you know how hard I’ve been working at this. You’ve seen the progress, right?”

  His dad looked into the wall, his eyes glinting. Wes turned to his sister. “Irene, no. Don’t throw me out. I swear to fucking God or whoever. I took the meds to keep them safe. There just hasn’t been a chance to bring it up with you guys, okay?”

  Something clicked in Wes’s mind. He was right. They hadn’t discussed the meds yet. So how did Pop know? His stomach flipped. His brow unfurled. “Holy shit, Pop! Did it show you? Did the voice show me taking it? Like Irene’s ass tat?”

  Pop remained silent and still.

  “No, no, come on! This is huge!” Wes bellowed. He turned to Irene. “Even you see that—”

  Irene interrupted him with a fist to his mouth.

  Chapter 14

  Irene

  Her ears closed. Wes’s mouth moved. She couldn’t hear what he said. Wes’s fat face turned to her, eyes begging. Her fists balled. His gums flapped, excuses dripping from his tongue. She couldn’t do this. Have Wes go off the rails while she needed to focus on her father. Her knuckles landed square on his mouth. His head snapped back, and his body followed it to the floor.

  “Get the hell out of here!” Irene screamed. Wes scrambled backward until he reached the armchair. “Get out!”

  He raised a defensive palm. “Goddammit, Irene, stop! Let me explain!”

  “Oh, fuck no!” she spit. She stepped toward him, and he cowered toward the floor.

  “I know how this looks, but—” he started.

  “But nothing!” she hollered. “It is always exactly how it looks with you!”

  Wes backpedaled up the armchair, finding his jacket. Irene sidestepped him, grabbing handfuls of his collar and waist. She heaved his bulk forward, moving his fat ass toward the door.

  Wes didn’t resist, but pleaded, “Irene, I swear, I was just trying to help!”

  She shoved him into the closed door. The smack of his face against the heavy metal frame indulged something ugly inside of her. She did it again, harder. Her rage tempered with a sickening pleasure.

  “All right!” Wes cried. His hand flapped against the door’s handle, pulling it open as Irene yanked him back. She shoved him through the threshold, releasing her grip to let him tumble to the hallway floor. He turned over and gaped at her.

  “Go!” Irene roared. She stomped toward him, raising a hand. His awkward feet found the floor, and Wes stood. His face was wide, his eyes wet. He stumbled a few steps, avoiding staff and equipment in the hallway. Irene felt a wave of righteousness radiate from her belly. It exploded out of her mouth. “Get the hell out of here!”

  Wes ran down the hall. His sneakers squealed as they bounced off the tile floor. He wiped a hand across his eyes as he disappeared around the corner. “And don’t come back!” Irene bellowed after him.

  Every eye in the hallway bored into her. Doctors, nurses, staff, and patients took her in with confused faces. Irene felt a flush of shame at the shitty dynamics of her family bleeding into a public space. She shook it off as fast as it came. As long as Wes stayed away from Dad, the embarrassment was worth it.

  She turned back to Dad’s room. In her periphery, she could see someone approaching her at a wobbling jog. She stopped in the doorway as the round form of Dr. Cass closed in.

  “I’m sorry,” the doctor began in a clipped tone, “but, Ms. Allard, this is unacceptable. This is a hospital, not a wrestling ring.”

  Irene gathered her calm before responding. “I’m sorry, Doctor. That was my brother I chased out of here. He’s a train wreck.”

  “Regardless, I’m going to have to call somebody.”

  Irene smiled. “Please do. Let’s get security down here. They can make sure that asshole doesn’t come back—”

  “No,” Dr. Cass insisted, “that’s not what I mean. Ms. Allard, what I’ve seen over the last twenty-four hours has me very concerned.”

  Irene’s dander went up. “How so?”

  The doctor cleared her throat. “Your father. He is showing signs of psychological distress.”

  “Sure,” Irene laughed. “A fucking car ran into him, and he’s already dying.”

  Cass shook her head. “He hasn’t been able to explain how he ended up in the street. His explanation was ‘I fell down,’ which I find suspect.”

  Irene’s brow curled. “What are you saying, exactly?”

  “You and your brother obviously have different opinions,” the doctor continued, speaking over her. “He doesn’t think the Final Release is right for your father, does he?”

  A hole opened in Irene’s chest. “No, now you wait—”

  “I’m not convinced your father isn’t trying to isolate himself from you. To protect himself. I have to ask if that’s why he walked into traffic, yet sustained such trivial injuries. And then why he hurt himself, requiring sedation. I have to consider the possibility that he doesn’t want to go home with you. So I’ve called social services, Ms. Allard.” Cass’s face hardened, her lips a tight line as she raised her chin to Irene in defiance. “I feel that there is a genuine risk that your father is being pushed into a medically enabled suicide. And I cannot, in any good conscience, allow that to happen.”

  “Oh, fuck.” Irene had intended to keep the thought to herself.

  Dr. Cass raised an eyebrow at the colorful language. “Indeed,” the doctor sneered. Her round face expanded in a chilly smile as she turned back toward the nurses’ station. Irene’s gaze stuck on her squat form as her mind raced through this fresh problem.

  Her research into the Final Release had been extensive. There were three requirements to avoid criminal prosecution. First, Dad had to have a terminal diagnosis from a qualified medical professional. That was covered; no one could make an argument that Dad wasn’t dying.

  The second requirement—he had to activate the Final Release by his own volition. No one could do it for him. It had to result from his own will, rather than stemming from a seizure or other involuntary movement. Physically, Dad’s right hand could push the button. After the seizures she saw today, could Dr. Cass build a case that he might not have the capacity to execute voluntary activation of the device?

  Irene knew why this part of the law existed. There was a heavy backlash around the first iteration of the Final Release program. Stories of people murdering invalid parents for inheritance. Spouses looking to ditch their sick partners. Most of the stories proved unfounded. Enough of them made headlines for the public to push policy in a more conservative direction. The state mandated a witness—someone outside the family who could monitor the event and ensure the patient acted on his or her own behalf. Their hospice nurse would sign as that witness. Since Dad wasn’t wealthy or famous, nobody should have given a shit.

  But Dr. Cass had inserted herself, changing the dynamics. What should be a quiet moment of sorrow and relief for her and her father had become everyone’s fucking business. Irene backed through the threshold into Dad’s room, turning around as the door closed behind her. Dad slept, no doubt drained by the emotional ordeals of the day.

  She remembered more stories as she watched him sleep. The comatose or elderly wasting away in front of their families for years. One device rested in their still hands, waiting to end their suffering. Another pumped nutrients into their body to keep them alive. Righteous volunteers from local churches rotated in and out of the room around the clock. They wanted to ensure that the family didn’t perform one last act of mercy for someone they loved.

  Governmen
t policy and social acceptance orbited each other for years. They collided in a place that was not perfect, easy, or caring. Hell, it was barely workable. At least now there was a safe, if obtuse, path through the program.

  Irene wanted none of these troubles for her father. Getting through this was hard enough without these new indignities. She watched him, and her breathing synchronized with the tide of Dad’s rhythmic rattle and sigh. The shackle fixed Dad’s arm to the bed. She imagined the Final Release device just out of his reach—him unable to use it, her having to let him suffer or go to prison herself. If Dad’s disease had to run its course, how long would that take? How many mile markers of the living would Dad pass rotting in bed before he could rest? Would Irene remember the better things when it was over? Or would the scars left by the sharp teeth of these awful moments be the thing she carried away?

  None of it mattered, because of the third legal mandate—mental fitness. Dad must be capable of describing the results of his choices and actions. Dr. Cass could cause trouble, depending on what she had seen today. Irene’s eyes traced Dad's arm to his bruised ear and the barbed stitches there. The bleeding was dry and brown now, flaking off in plates onto his pillow as he snored.

  For a moment, she considered suffocating Dad with the pillow. Give him that mercy, to hell with the consequences for her. The pillow was there, next to Dad’s head. Just pick it up. Lean over him. Let him sleep until he’s gone. Irene had no idea how long it would take. She would need to research it first. She didn’t know how awful the experience would be for him. What if he woke up? How much physical strength would she need? The idea dissolved into unknowns.

  Irene needed help. She unpeeled her feet from the floor, eased open the door, and padded into the hallway. Time of day meant little in the walls of a hospital, but even after the fight with Wes, there was a calm indicative of night. Irene passed the nurses’ station, ignoring the side glance from the night nurse at the desk. She found a quiet corner away from the patient rooms and scrolled through her contacts until she found the one she needed.

  “Molim … um, hello?” Dr. Pav’s voice was groggy as he answered his phone. It was later than Irene had thought.

  “Dr. Pav, this is Irene Allard. I’m sorry to call you so late. I don’t even know what time it is.”

  He cleared his throat. “Do not worry about the time. I’m happy to hear from you, Irene. Is everything all right?”

  She sighed, “Can you come to the hospital tomorrow?”

  Chapter 15

  Caleb

  Caleb stirred at the sound of the door clicking into its latch. His hands clenched around the blanket in his lap. He worked his body to a seated position. A stab ripped from his gut as he felt his tumor grind against one of his ribs. He adjusted the pillows to allow his body to lean to the side, relieving the pressure.

  The constant hum of silence pressed on him, broken by the beep of a monitor. It reminded Caleb to breathe.

  He swallowed, the wet clicking sound filling his head. “Why is this happening to me?”

  Caleb’s face contorted as the voice arrived.

  Because I need your help.

  It didn’t hurt like before. Instead of a pressure, Caleb felt a mild vibration in his skull. The effect didn’t spread to his other senses. He could breathe through it without issue.

  “That was a rhetorical question,” Caleb murmured. He shifted his weight off his side. “Who … what even are you?” he asked.

  I’ve been trying to reach you for a while now. We haven’t really had a chance to talk. Like I said, I need your help, Caleb.

  “What could I possibly do to help you? What would you need from a terminally ill accountant?”

  It will take some explaining, but I promise that you have a rather grand purpose, Caleb. Our time is running out, for obvious reasons.

  Caleb snorted. “What does that even mean?”

  It means that despite spending your life counting beans and cross validating columns, you can still have a significant impact. Even this close to your death, you can still affect the fate of everything and everyone.

  Caleb stared into the wall. The lack of another face in this conversation was uncomfortable. “How?”

  Are you willing to help me?

  He sighed at the coy responses and demands. “I don’t know. What the hell do you need me to do?”

  That’s fair. I’ll show you the problem. Then you can decide.

  The sensation was familiar. The pop in his head. The unfolding of the room. Caleb filling in the space. The growing awareness of every nuance in the moment as he left his body in the bed. Threads wove through him, passing into the walls and floor. They joined with others, lines connecting everything by choice. Even his daughter, down the corridor from his room and on the phone with … Caleb followed the thread … with Dr. Pav.

  What was he doing back in this strange space?

  This is the only way I can show you. This moment you’re in, this is now.

  He understood. He didn’t see any problem, though.

  We’ll get to the problem soon. You’ve already figured out how to follow choices into new moments. You did it before, with the television remote, remember?

  Caleb remembered.

  Good. I need you to do it again. Forward from here. See the possibilities.

  The space was a tapestry, fibers leading off in directions without names. Which one should he follow?

  It doesn’t matter. Just pick one.

  Caleb latched on to a thread weaving from the plump doctor in the hallway. It was the woman who’d worked on him when he first came to the emergency room. He didn’t remember her name, but in this space he knew it was Marybeth. Dr. Marybeth Cass. He traced the fiber out, feeling it branch and split into thousands of directions. Which one was he supposed to trace?

  Can you do all of them?

  He couldn’t.

  I can help you. You okay with that?

  He was. He wanted to understand. A shimmer formed at the edge of this moment. More dimensions folded into it, and Caleb’s perception changed to make sense of it. The room, the hospital, earth, and everything beyond it collapsed into a point of light. Countless other brilliant sparks appeared with it. An infinite field of stars bathing itself in a bottomless glow.

  This is … well, I guess this is also “now.” Each light is a “now” that could have happened. Can you still see the threads? Leading away to the next moments?

  No, all the light made it difficult to see anything. Caleb felt he was looking into the night sky with no dark. No air. No ground. Only stars.

  Focus a bit. Like the numbers on the television.

  Caleb’s mind centered on one glowing spot. He tightened his attention around it. The ambient light of the surrounding field tapered away. With some struggle, Caleb found it, buried deep in the fluorescence. A single translucent cable.

  There, yes! Follow it. Follow it forward to one of the next possible moments.

  Caleb had no trouble moving along the cable. Threads split away and branched off into the light around him, weaving into another point of light. Another moment, a universe of detail condensed into a gleaming barb.

  Don’t stop. Carry forward.

  For how long? Caleb wondered.

  You’ll know it when you see it.

  Caleb traced the thread ahead, through a moment, another star of light. And then another. They came faster, Caleb skipping from one point to the next without thinking now. It was easy. The field of stars smeared together, a burning mosaic as his mind flew through this alien space. He passed seconds, minutes, days. Then years scrolled by, and he reached forward with greater ease, through greater distance. Decades past him. Centuries. Epochs.

  And then Caleb stopped. Not because he wanted to. The thread spiraled into nothing. Where there was light before, Caleb floated in boundless space. His mind scoured the black for something on which to focus. Anything. He found no gradations, no edges, no de
tail at all.

  This is why I need your help.

  Caleb realized the thread was missing too. He flailed in the void. The lack of depth and difference left him adrift. Falling. What happened to the stars?

  They’re gone. There are no possibilities here, Caleb. No choices. No more moments to come.

  How could that be? What could extinguish so much light?

  This rift in the cosmic tapestry? This nothingness? This is where all threads are heading.

  But, why? Why would this happen?

  Will you help me?

  The voice pressed, the endlessness around him stifling. Caleb couldn’t understand. What did this emptiness mean? What was the voice asking him to do?

  Caleb, this is the end. This is the end of everyone and everything. I’m begging you to stop it from happening.

  Caleb felt the darkness fold around him. A flash, and he was back in his body. Warmth. He was in the hospital bed, clutching the blanket in his lap. He took a moment as his vertigo waned. He tried to hold on to the experience, but something about being in that strange space was impossible to process. And yet, it was real. It left Caleb with authentic emotions. Exhilaration. Liberation. And abject terror.

  So? What do you say? Will you help me?

  Caleb’s hands relaxed their grip on the blanket. The familiar pain of his illness returned. His breath was steady, marked with a phlegmy rasp. “What do I need to do?” he asked.

  Well, first, tell me what time it is.

  Caleb shrugged and pointed at the clock on the wall. Incredulous, he said, “It’s six thirty-eight?” As he sat up straighter, Caleb’s brow tightened at the discomfort in his gut. “How can you not …”

  Okay, that’s good. Any chance you get the History Channel in here?

  Caleb’s hands went up in irritation. “I … I don’t know. I feel like these are things you should know already!”

  Sometimes a list of channels is taped to the remote. Or the bed tray.

  Caleb pulled the tray closer, finding a list taped neatly on its surface. “Okay, yeah, it’s channel fifty-four.”