Second Chances

by P. D. Cacek

  He paused to give them a moment to ponder his words and while they did, Jess looked at his wife and daughters sitting in the front pew. He winked and the girls smiled back. Sitting on either side of their mother, they looked like slightly mismatched bookends. Abigail, on the right, wore a flowing lavender and yellow floral dress and looked taller than her sister because Jessica, in a plain white blouse and tan jumper, had a tendency to slump.

  He caught his wife’s eyes and she gave him a nod before surreptitiously elbowing Jessica gently in the ribs. Because of the nature of his sermon, as well as his position, Jess had to look away when his namesake’s posture immediately improved. It wouldn’t be proper if the congregation saw their spiritual leader smile at such an inopportune moment.

  One crisis averted. He turned back to the topic at hand.

  “From God alone do miracles occur and let me assure you there still are miracles in the world, but they are real miracles…not rumors, not tabloid gossip and certainly not the fabricated videos from some internet site. If you are a true believer you know where miracles come from, and we are true believers. We come together every week to bear witness to the fact that we believe in God and the miracles he alone has fashioned. As is written in Mark 10:27: ‘With man this is impossible, but not with God; all things are possible with God.’ So is it possible that what we’ve been hearing on the news and reading about is true? Of course, it’s possible, because all things are possible with God, but is it likely? No. Why would God do that? Why would the Lord God, who gave each one of us a soul, suddenly decide to switch things around?”

  Jess smiled as the congregation chuckled. He’d learned from experience that the more powerful the message he wanted to get across, the greater the need for laughter in order to cleanse the spiritual palate. Without it, he knew there was a good possibility that even the most faithful could be reduced to glassy-eyed automatons that would Amen at all the right places, keep in tune during the hymns and tell him how much they loved the sermon without remembering a single word.

  “Between you and me, the simple truth is he wouldn’t. But, for the sake of argument, let’s just say he did – do you think it would be something as obvious as spontaneous resurrections? Or, instead of prophets, he’d use reporters from the National Enquirer?”

  Someone near the back of the church started to giggle and then another voice began to guffaw, and soon the entire congregation was trying very hard to stifle themselves.

  Jess smiled sheepishly as if he hadn’t realized what he’d started.

  “Okay, that probably wasn’t the best example,” he said, and laughter rose to the arched ceiling.

  Jess shrugged and looked at his family. Jessica was trying so hard not to laugh she looked like she was about to burst. Go on, he mouthed, and his daughter’s voice joined the others. Abigail, on the other hand, just looked embarrassed. They were so different, like night and day.

  His wife looked at him and shook her head.

  When the tide of laughter began to recede, Jess leaned closer to the lectern’s microphone and cleared his throat.

  “But regardless of my verbal eloquence –” twitter, twitter “– your laughter proves these rumors are just what they seem. Rumors. No one would laugh if these were true miracles. Now, I know there are a lot of people out there, and possibly some right inside this church, who might still wonder ‘but if this is only a rumor, then why are all the news stations and, oh my gosh, the internet, which we all know is the bastion of fact –’” giggles, guffaws “‘– saying this is really happening?’ Because, my dearest friends, they can. It’s as simple as that. They can say anything they want.

  “Just the other night I watched a ‘Special Report’ about a little six-year-old girl in the former Soviet Union who, according to –” Jess raised his hands and made air quotes “– documented reports, froze to death when she wandered into a snowstorm, but who, upon being revived, claimed to be Sofia Kovalevskaya, a famous Russian mathematician who died of influenza in 1891. To prove it, they showed the little girl completing what was supposedly Kovalevskaya’s final equation. Did anyone here see the program?”

  More than half the congregation raised their hands. Jess took a deep breath.

  “And did you believe it? Did you believe this child was the reincarnation of a dead mathematician?”

  No one spoke, but the hands went down.

  “I didn’t believe it, not for a minute, because it’s too easy a thing to fake. The child on the video was coached, the reports were falsified, and, unless you’re very much into the whole zombie apocalypse thing, the dead do not come back. Let us pray:

  “Lord, help us to live our lives in joy and strength. Let us have hearts filled with thankfulness. Let us have eyes that see only your light. Let us have minds open only to your truth. Help us to walk in steadfast obedience to your command. All for your glory do we pray, Lord, amen.”

  “Amen.”

  “And may the joy of fellowship fill you today and for all the days to come. Go in peace and love.” Jess couldn’t help himself. “And please watch out for those spontaneous resurrections!”

  Only Jessica was still laughing when he stepped down from the raised lectern dais and joined his family. His wife and Abigail looked mortified.

  It was going to be a long morning.

  “So…” he said, clapping his hands together as they walked up the center aisle, “…who’s up for waffles?”

  * * *

  Phoenixville, Pennsylvania

  “Come on, Curtis, how about one more bite?”

  “Come on. You can do it. There you— Whoops. No problem, no problem. I got it.”

  “There, all clean. Do you want some more? One more bite. Come on. Come on, Curtis, open your mouth. Come on. One more bite.”

  Eva set down the pot she’d been washing for the last ten minutes – which was the exact length of time her husband had been trying to get their son to take ‘one more bite’ of oatmeal that was undoubtedly cold by now. It’d been warm when he’d started feeding him.

  She’d been trying for two hours before that.

  Every time she’d managed to coax him to open his mouth, there was a better than even chance he’d forget to close it and the lumpy mush would drool out again. The few times he did remember, he’d swallow without chewing but only if Eva touched his jaw in just the right spot.

  And then he only choked twice.

  Her husband, having already had his bagel and cream cheese and fresh from the shower, had taken over after she’d thrown the first bowl to the floor in frustration. The mess had been minimal; the oatmeal had coagulated and they hadn’t used breakable dinnerware since Curtis was a baby and they discovered how much he liked the sound of breaking glass.

  While her husband cleaned up, she’d made up another bowl of instant oatmeal, maple-brown sugar.

  Curtis hadn’t jumped when she’d thrown the bowl, but he did blink. Once.

  It was those damned pills.

  The medication had turned her brilliant son into a mindless robot. He could barely move on his own, didn’t talk, couldn’t dress himself and sometimes couldn’t even remember to get out of bed to use the bathroom. Eva’d had to put him in adult diapers.

  The pills had turned her genius son into a gangly teenaged baby who wet himself.

  Her son was gone and she wanted him back.

  Her husband didn’t seem to notice.

  “That’s a good boy, Curtis, one more bite. Yay, team!”

  Eva picked up the pot and slammed it against the sink.

  “Jesus, Eva, you scared him!”

  “Did I?”

  Eva turned and looked at their son. He didn’t act like she’d scared him. In fact, as far as she could tell he hadn’t moved at all. He was still sitting in his chair, the oatmeal-dotted dishtowel bib she’d pinned on him still around his neck, and still st
aring at the placemat in front of him with half-glazed eyes. His eyes had been so beautiful, bright brown and sparkling with intelligence…now they looked dusty, like marbles someone had thrown in the dirt.

  “How can you tell, Allan?”

  Her husband set the bowl down on the table and began cleaning Curtis’s face. Eva glanced at the kitchen clock above the stove. She’d gotten up at six-thirty to change and wash and dress her son, then help him downstairs to feed, try to feed him breakfast. It was a quarter past nine, which meant she’d get to try to feed him again in less than four hours.

  Eva turned back to the sink and closed her eyes. “We can’t keep doing this to him, Allan.”

  “It’ll get better,” her husband’s voice said from the darkness. “The doctor told us it would take a little time for his body to adjust.”

  Eva opened her eyes, but the room still seemed covered in shadows.

  “Adjust? Those pills are killing him. He’s a genius, Allan, he has an IQ of one hundred and sixty-four, but how would anyone know? He’s trapped. Those pills they’re giving him trapped his genius inside a body he can’t control. He can’t get out, Allan, and he’s suffering.” Eva turned but held on to the counter to keep from falling. “Can’t you see that? Look in his eyes! Those pills are killing him!”

  Her husband rolled the dishtowel bib over on itself before taking it off their son’s neck. It was soaked through.

  “The pills are helping him, Eva.”

  “How can you say that? Look at him!”

  He did, for a minute. Eva saw the quick glance he gave their son before looking away. It was the same kind of look you’d give a Lost Dog sign taped to a telephone pole: Poor thing, but it’s not my dog.

  “Curtis has a serious illness,” her husband said, setting the towel down next to the half-full bowl of oatmeal. “You heard what the doctor said. Curtis is schizophrenic. He’ll never be cured and it can get worse as he gets older unless he stays on his meds. I know, it’s hard right now, but once they find the right dosage, you’ll see how much better he is.”

  “He was fine before.”

  “He killed those animals.”

  Eva walked over to the table and picked up the dishtowel and bowl. “He was confused. The movie…bothered him.”

  “What if it had been a kid, one of his classmates?”

  “But it wasn’t. He’d never do something like that. How could you even think that?” She carried the bowl and towel back to the sink and turned on the water. “He’s a genius…was a genius.”

  Eva let the water fill the bowl and run out across her hands. “We can’t let him suffer anymore, Allan, we owe it to him to stop. I’m not going to give him any more pills.”

  He moved so fast she didn’t have time to do more than gasp when he grabbed her arm and spun her around. She was still holding the bowl and the miniature wave of diluted oatmeal arced across the room and down the left side of his trousers. He didn’t notice and she’d never seen him angry before, not like that. His face was red and his eyes, the same color as their son’s, were narrowed and cold.

  The bowl slipped from her hand, bouncing twice when it hit the floor, but he didn’t notice that either.

  “Allan, you’re hurting me!” She tried to pull away but he tightened his grip. “Allan!”

  “Listen to me, Eva, Curtis is sick and those pills are helping him. His brain isn’t wired like ours and if he stops getting those pills he could hurt himself or someone else.” He let go of her arm. “I’m sorry, but Curtis is my son too, and I only want what’s best for him. I’ll call the doctor later and see if he can change the dosage. Okay?”

  If she’d been able to draw a full breath she might have laughed in his face. After twenty years of being a near-nonexistent parent he suddenly thought he knew what was best for their son.

  “Did you hear me, Eva?”

  She nodded. “Yes. Okay.”

  Her husband took a deep breath and she watched the redness drain from his face.

  “I’m sorry I grabbed you. I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

  Her arm was throbbing. “No. I know you love him, I’m just….” She sighed and patted his chest. “Why don’t you go clean him up and then you can call the doctor.”

  But he didn’t move. “Isn’t it time for his morning pill?”

  “Okay. Why don’t you finish cleaning him up in the downstairs bath…I don’t want him to slip.” Eva nodded toward the puddles of oatmeal water on the floor. “And try to get him to drink some water first or he’ll choke.”

  Eva forced herself to relax when he pulled her into a quick hug.

  “I understand, honey, I really do, but it’s for the best. You’ll see.” He gave her a little pat on the fanny as he turned back toward the table. “Okay, big guy, let’s go get you cleaned up.”

  Eva waited until they were out of the kitchen and halfway down the hall – her husband half carrying, half dragging their son – before walking to the cabinet over the stove where she kept all the medication. Curtis had been too curious as a child and liked experimenting with the things he’d find around the house. Eva had never removed the child-safety locks on the sink cabinets where she kept the bleach and other household cleaners.

  Sometimes even geniuses had to be protected from themselves.

  The plastic prescription vial of Thorazine (25mg) and the smaller glass bottle of orange-flavored baby aspirin sat side by side. Eva took down both, emptied the twenty remaining prescription tablets down the drain and refilled the vial with the same number of aspirin. After closing the childproof cap, Eva put the aspirin bottle back into the cabinet and closed the door.

  She set the vial on the counter, and had just about finished mopping up the floor when they came back.

  “All clean, Mom,” her husband said as he walked Curtis over to her. “Time for his pill.”

  “Allan….”

  His eyes narrowed again. “Give him the pill, Eva.”

  “All right,” she said, defeated, and picked up the prescription vial. All her husband knew was that the Thorazine pills were orange, not the same shade as baby aspirin, but close enough.

  “Open up, Curtis,” Eva said, holding the tiny pill between her fingers. “Here comes the choo-choo train.”

  It was a stupid thing to say and once Curtis came back, he’d probably tell her how much he’d hated her saying it, but, for the baby the Thorazine had created, it worked and he opened his mouth.

  “That’s my boy. Now swallow, Curtis. That’s it. All gone.”

  She made a production of closing the vial and walking it back to the cabinet. Her husband was smiling when she turned around.

  “You’re a good mother, Eva, it’ll be okay. You’ll see.”

  And Eva smiled. “I’m sure I will.”

  * * *

  Los Angeles, California

  Barney watched the sleeping woman for a moment before walking out of the room. The California driver’s license picture, a relatively good one, showed the same woman smiling at the camera. Her name was Rosario Maria Guzman, age thirty-six, single, 5’6”, one hundred and thirty-four pounds, blk hair, haz eyes, and showed a home address on Los Feliz. She was an organ donor.

  The rest of the file contained the medical records from the ER she’d been brought to and the list of the injuries she sustained when her moped was sideswiped by a car: broken left tibia, road rash, minor concussion, nothing life-threatening. The file also contained a copy of the police report, which showed that Ms. Guzman had been wearing a helmet and that the driver of the car, though neither drunk nor otherwise impaired, had still somehow managed to slam the moped and its driver into the side of a concrete retaining wall.

  The report stated that Ms. Guzman had been conscious at the scene and in good enough spirits to joke with both the EMTs in transit and the ER doctors, and had been resting comfortably, wa
iting for her family to show up, when a piece of marrow broke loose from the fracture, traveled to her lungs and caused a seizure. Only about ten per cent of patients experiencing FES (fat embolism syndrome) die. Unfortunately Ms. Guzman had been one of them.

  Hazel-eyed Rosario Maria Guzman was pronounced dead at 07:06. When her family arrived twenty minutes later, a woman with honey-colored eyes named Millie had already told him about the Haints and Mr. Leeworth.

  Removing the file from the clipboard, Barney smiled as he reached the nurses’ station and handed the file to the RN on duty. She smiled back. He didn’t recognize her, but that wasn’t as rare an event as it once was, back when it all started and he prided himself on knowing the names of all the hospital personnel. Since then, however, the hospital had become inundated with new faces.

  No pun intended.

  It bothered him that he had to sneak a peek at the name tag clipped to the collar of her scrubs…but he did it.

  “Is the family still here, Lydia?”

  “In the waiting room.” Her smile flatlined. “Can I ask? Is she…you know…one of them?”

  Barney nodded. “She is.”

  The nurse blew a wisp of brown hair off her forehead. “Wow. I mean…wow.”

  It’d been seven months since the first four arrived, but they hadn’t been the last. There were twenty-seven in the hospital now, the woman named Millie the most recent, and God only knew how many there were in other hospitals.

  As the old radio station KFWB used to say: “And the hits just keep on coming.”

  “Her name’s Millie, last name possibly Benset or Beseret?” He shook his head. “I’ll try to get more detail when she’s rested a bit. Where is her…. Where is the Guzman family?”

  Nurse Lydia nodded left toward the private waiting room at the end of the hall. “They’ve been here since she was brought in. Dr. Stallman was the ER doctor on call, but he thought it might be better if you told them.”

  He was the expert, after all.

  Barney sighed. “Right.”