A Variable Darkness: 13 Tales

by John McIlveen

  “I tell you, bro, it sucked bad. All I could do was lie there, with no way to communicate and nothing to do but think and fester.”

  Mac studied Ricky for a moment and then raised his chin slightly, as if he were about to impart some profound bit of wisdom. “You know,” he said, “You didn’t visit me even once… partner.”

  Ricky had no words, as the guilty often don’t. Mac rose and stepped to the end of the bed. He leaned forward and rested his hands atop the footboard. It was definitely Mac. His face was partially visible in the weak band of light coming from the hallway and Ricky was surprised by how healthy he looked. He was wearing his navy-blue duty jacket with his badge pinned above his left breast pocket and Lawrence PD patches on the shoulders. His collar was raised as usual, but Ricky could see no evidence of a bullet wound on his throat.

  “Wow. You’ve healed well,” Ricky said. “I didn’t hear anything about you returning to duty.”

  Mac straightened up. “Don’t know why you would have,” he said.

  The door swung slowly open, spilling light into the room as a nursing assistant entered. She was young—early twentyish—with dark brown shoulder-length hair, prominent freckles, and a pretty and amiable face. According to her badge, her name was Kayleigh. Mac stepped back to the wall, and both men watched the nurse approach the apparatus near the head of Ricky’s bed. She started slightly when she saw that Ricky’s eyes were open and looking at her.

  “Oh! You’re awake!” she said. “You nearly scared the be-poopies out of me.”

  “Haven’t been doing much sleeping lately.”

  She looked at the monitors and then at Ricky. “In case you were wondering… you’re still alive. This thingy says so.”

  She inspected the urine collection, paying no attention to the man standing near her.

  She looked at Ricky and repositioned his pillow behind his head.

  “Aren’t you going to say hi to Mac?” Ricky asked.

  Mac offered a friendly wave and bowed theatrically, but the nurse didn’t even look his way.

  “Mac who?” She asked.

  “My partner,” Ricky said, pointing at Mac. “We were on the force together for years.”

  Kayleigh looked around. Mac shrugged.

  “Are you telling me you don’t see him?”

  “Sorry. Don’t see anyone. I think your dosage may be too high,” she teased.

  “I’m not taking any meds.”

  Kayleigh chuckled. “Then maybe you should. You seem pretty awake. Do you want me to see about getting you a sleeping pill?”

  Ricky said nothing.

  “Okay. I’ll come by in about an hour in case you change your mind.” She walked out the door, passing within inches of Mac.

  “Have a nice night,” Mac said, but she seemed not to hear. He turned to Ricky. “What a sweetheart… and very pleasant. She might appreciate a thank you one of these days.”

  Ricky closed his eyes, hoping that it was all a hallucination. Maybe Mac would be gone when he opened them again.

  “I’m not leaving yet, partner.”

  “Go away,” said Ricky. “You can’t be real.”

  “Oh, I’m for real, brother.”

  Ricky opened his eyes and saw that Mac still stood at the foot of his bed.

  “Why are you here?”

  “First let me tell you how I am here,” Mac said. “I think you know the answer to why. As to how… pneumonia. The curse of the bedridden. When you’re flat on your back and can’t move—pretty much how you are now—that shit will set up camp in your lungs. And you know what? It ain’t leaving. You’re screwed. It festers inside of you, and even though your body is essentially dead from the neck down, you can still feel it absorbing your life.”

  Mac walked over to the monitors and studied them as if he were profoundly interested. “You know what the biggest bitch of pneumonia is?”

  Ricky didn’t respond.

  “It hides the truth,” said Mac. “You have cancer and the big P sets in… guess what? You’ve died from the complications of pneumonia. AIDS…pneumonia. Remember Christopher Reeve? Busted his neck falling off a horse? Yup. Pneumonia got him. It’s diminishing; it makes molehills out of mountains. And do you know what else it does?”

  Mac moved his face within inches of Ricky’s. Again, he said nothing.

  “Yeah. You do,” Mac said with a nod. “It turns murder into simple misfortune.” Mac righted himself, moved to the pleather chair near the window, and sat down. “Six months ago, a bullet stole my arms, legs, voice, and in the end, my life. Thanks to four months in rehab and a dance with pneumonia, that bullet was found innocent.”

  “It wasn’t me who shot you,” Ricky said defensively.

  “You didn’t hold the gun, but you pulled the trigger,” Mac replied.

  …and in the end, my life.

  As he absorbed Mac’s earlier words, Ricky’s expression changed from defiance to disbelief. Mac’s slow smile showed that he noticed, too.

  “Are you telling me you’re a ghost?”

  “I didn’t tell you that. You figured that out yourself.”

  “When did you—?”

  “—Come on, bro,” Mac said, as if trying to reason with a stubborn child. “You might be spineless, but don’t try to pass it off as being stupid.”

  “Wednesday night?” Ricky asked. “Are you the reason I woke up like this?”

  “Nope. You’re the reason. I did the work,” Mac said, crossing his legs. “Other than that, your deduction skills are working well.”

  “Why would you do this to me?”

  “Did you really just ask that question?” Mac said, staring Ricky down.

  “What? I’m not the asshole that shot you!”

  “You clearly need some time to think about who you are and what you are. Do a little soul searching.” Mac stood and started for the door. “Lucky for you, there’s little else you can do.”

  “Wait!” Ricky said, but Mac had vanished, leaving him alone.

  Melanie returned a little before noon carrying a plastic food storage container and a purse that could hold an Alpine camp. She set both items on the windowsill and kissed her husband on the forehead.

  “How you feeling today?” She asked. “Did you sleep okay?”

  “Tired. I slept like shit,” Ricky grumbled.

  It was clear that Melanie had slept well. The shadows beneath her eyes had faded and she looked refreshed, vivacious, and… well, she looked lovely. Ricky felt as if it was intentional, as if she had purposefully made herself more attractive in defiance of his condition. He knew it was illogical, but so was waking up without a backbone, and it only soured his mood more.

  “I made you some hermit cookies… your favorites,” Melanie said cheerfully. She retrieved the container from the windowsill, lifted the lid, and showed the contents to Ricky. “Do you want some?”

  “Not hungry.”

  “You sure?” Melanie asked. “They’re good. I made them this morning.”

  “I said I don’t want any fucking hermit cookies.”

  “No. You said you weren’t hungry,” Melanie snapped back. She sighed and put the box of pastries back on the windowsill. “I was just trying to help you feel a little better.”

  Ricky looked away when he saw the tears forming in Melanie’s eyes. He was disgusted with himself. She had treated him with kindness and he had responded with anger and contempt. He knew he was being unpleasant and unfair, but he couldn’t seem to help it with Melanie, she just seemed to bring out the worst in him.

  “I’m going to the gift shop to get a book to read,” Melanie said.

  She paused on her way to the door and then walked out of the room. Ricky knew she was going to ask him if he wanted anything, but had decided against it. He was both relieved and angered that she hadn’t asked, but he didn’t blame her either.

  Melanie was still at the gift shop when Doctor Chan entered the room followed by two men and a woman, all wearing lab coats. Doctor C
han approached Ricky in a near stutter step as if expecting to be bitten.

  “How you feeling today, Mister Briggs?” greeted the doctor.

  Ricky said nothing.

  Undeterred, Doctor Chan continued. “I am so happy to introduce to you Doctor Shauna Keating from Harvard. I informed her of your situation yesterday, and she immediately called Doctor Kostman. He is Chief of Neurology at Johns Hopkins University, and this is his associate, Doctor Shota Higuchi.”

  Doctor Higuchi gave a quick bow as Doctor Keating stepped forward to the bedrail. She was a tall and lean woman with a stern face and short, no-nonsense ginger-blond hair that only strengthened her severity. Looking up into that face, Ricky felt even more diminished.

  “Pleased to meet you, Mister Briggs,” she said. “When Doctor Chan called me yesterday, I must say, I was quite captivated by what I heard.”

  “Glad I could provide you with some entertainment,” Ricky said.

  “I can imagine your anger and distress at such a traumatic event,” said Doctor Keating.

  “Then how about you all stop bending, poking, and jabbing me and fix whatever the hell is wrong with me?”

  “Which is precisely why I called Doctors Kostman and Higuchi,” said Doctor Keating, unperturbed by Ricky’s acerbic manner. “They have seen your X-rays and scans and they are especially interested in your case. So much so, that they flew here overnight to see you.”

  “So, what do you want to do to me?” Ricky asked. In his peripheral, he saw Melanie enter the room.

  “At this point, we’re not certain if we can do anything,” said Doctor Kostman, stepping closer to the bed. “It depends on a number of conditions being met. At the moment it is speculative, but from what we have seen and heard about you, you may be the perfect subject.”

  “Are you going to tell me what for, for Christ’s sake?” said Ricky, his frustration mounting.

  “Are you talking about some kind of procedure or something?” Melanie asked. She placed a calming hand on Ricky’s arm. “It sounds to me like you’re asking him to be part of an experiment.”

  “Not an experiment, per se,” said Kostman. He motioned to his colleague standing behind him. “My associate, Doctor Higuchi, has been working with a merited team of researchers and scientists in both Sweden and Japan on a neurorobotic prototype. We believe it is a design that may work for you.”

  “What are you talking about, some kind of bionic spine?” Melanie asked.

  “Pretty close,” Kostman said.

  “We are working on a titanium skeletal model, researching the prospect of using neurorobotics in severe cases of spinal trauma,” Doctor Higuchi explained in clear but choppy English. His silence up to this point had had Ricky wondering if he spoke only his mother tongue. “We were focusing on cases where the spinal cord is compromised, replacing the spinal cord, not the vertebrae. When Doctor Keating described that your spinal cord was fine, but your backbone had gone… well, we hadn’t considered spinal trauma without neural damage.”

  “So, you’re saying you want to install a titanium backbone in me?” Ricky nearly hollered, but the fear in his eyes downplayed the anger in his voice.

  “We’d like to explore the possibility,” Kostman said. Doctor Higuchi nodded. “As I mentioned, there are numerous bridges to cross, starting with procurement of financial backing. This would be an undertaking of monumental proportions and we would need support in the form of investors or grants. Success would also depend on you on two levels… physical and emotional. Your body may not be able to support this in strength—or structurally. Both remain to be determined. Last and most important is your compliance. If there is any hope of having your condition rectified, I’m afraid there will have to be an extensive amount of, as you put it, bending, poking, and jabbing. The less resistance we have to contend with, the more effectively we can perform.”

  “More to the point,” said Doctor Keating. “Depression and a level of anger can be expected from anyone in your state, but you are a markedly negative, angry, and aggressive person. If we are to move forward, this will have to change.”

  “Who says I want to move forward?” Ricky said, bitterly.

  “Only you can, Mister Briggs,” said Doctor Keating. “Do you really want to live like this? It’s your move… so to speak.”

  Saturday

  Ricky lay in his darkened room staring at the distant lights from the neighboring building he assumed was also a part of Mass General. He knew the place was huge and comprised numerous buildings, but where he lay in this city-within-a-city, he had no clue. What he did know was that the view sucked, and hours of lying on his back and staring at four walls and a sliver of the neighboring building was getting old fast. He was in the habit of sleeping days instead of nights, and despite the Ambien, he doubted he’d be sleeping at all. His muscles thrummed with pent-up energy and he could physically feel them atrophying from disuse. He had tried exercising, but it was fruitless without his central support system.

  Melanie had returned to Lawrence for the night at his insistence. He could take only so much of her pampering. He was miserable toward her, and hours of reflection had presented him with the truth that he usually was, and had been for quite a few years. Even when he tried to be civil toward her, his sense of his own inabilities loomed hugely and only managed to piss him off more. Christ! He couldn’t even give her a hearty slap on the ass. Instead, he became nasty and lashed out at her verbally. He clucked with self-disgust.

  “Yeah… life loses its prettiness from that perspective, don’t it?” said Mac.

  “What the fuck?” Ricky barked. His heart lurched against his ribs as he tried to focus on the figure sitting in the corner of the room. “Jesus H. Christ, man!”

  “I see we’re chipper as usual,” said Ricky’s former workmate.

  “What are you doing back here? Why must you come at night?”

  “Isn’t that when hauntings are supposed to happen?” Mac asked. “I told you that you needed time to think… so I gave you some. Have you been thinking?”

  “I’ve been doing little else,” Ricky shot back.

  “No. You’ve been doing a lot of sniveling and bitching.” Mac rose from the chair. “Let me make something perfectly clear here, brother. The reason you are here, lying like a wad of dough on this bed, is completely your own doing. You are now exactly what you were before—a spineless, self-absorbed, useless bag of bones. And only you can change that.”

  Ricky glared at him, but Mac laughed it off.

  “Are you mad at me? Does your truth piss you off? You can’t even swing at me. All you can do is lie there and stew in your anger and hatred and cowardice. When that beautiful woman you’ve been neglecting for years is finally fed up with your shit and decides to leave—and she will—you won’t even be able to run after her to beg her forgiveness.”

  Ricky hid his face from Mac. “I don’t mean to treat her like that. Something about her brings out the worst in me.”

  “No. Only you can bring out the worst in you. She’s your target. Isn’t it time you stop blaming everything and everyone but yourself for the asshole you are?”

  “Why are you doing this to me?” Ricky asked, barely audible.

  Mac jumped forward, leaning over the bedrails until their noses were barely an inch apart. His eyes bored into Ricky’s, clear down to his soul.

  “You know the answer to that, you spineless coward!”

  As close as they were, Ricky couldn’t feel or smell Mac’s breath, but he was aware of an energy radiating from the man that felt electric and lethal. He wouldn’t have been surprised if his hairs were standing on end.

  “When we walked into that ambush… what were the last words you said to me before all that shit went down?”

  “I don’t know,” said Ricky. Fear invigorated his every nerve ending and his limbs twitched with his desire to flee.

  “Well, let’s try something new,” Mac jeered. “Think.”

  Ricky’s expression c
hanged infinitesimally, but it was enough to show Mac that he remembered. Mac stood upright with a satisfied smile. The night nurse entered the room, passing right through Mac as she walked to the monitors.

  “Say it,” Mac hissed.

  Ricky tried to clear his throat to get the nurse’s attention, but it felt as if something had lodged inside, pinning his larynx. The nurse didn’t even look at him as she turned and left the room.

  “Stop being a coward and say it! Repeat what you said to me before our little bust went south.”

  “I…” Ricky started.

  “Come on,” Mac urged. “I…”

  “I gotcha back.”

  “I gotcha back,” Mac repeated, nodding. “But you didn’t. You were too busy covering your own ass.”

  Ricky was silenced by the truth.

  “Ricky,” Mac said, his tone conspiratorial. Ricky slowly met his eyes.

  “Who’s got whose back now?” Mac asked—and then he was gone.

  Ricky agreed to let Doctors Kostman and Higuchi perform any tests necessary for fitting him with the titanium spine. For the following two days he was flipped, spun, and measured, and then probed, prodded, and punctured. He spent what had seemed like hours nestled within the donut-hole confines of the MRI machine, its knocking and whirring playing in his memory long after he was back in his room, and then well into his evenings.

  Melanie, loyal as ever, stood by Ricky’s side and patiently weathered his outbursts. To his credit, they did seem to be tapering off a little. Ricky was becoming more aware of his disposition. Mac’s words had shaken him to the core.

  When that beautiful woman you’ve been neglecting for years is finally fed up with your shit and decides to leave—and she will— And she will— And she will— And she will—

  It played in his memory on a perpetual spool.

  Ricky’s parents were both gone. His mother had passed away seven years earlier, his father… three. His only sibling, an older sister named Gwen, lived on the West Coast. They hadn’t spoken since their father died, and before that… when their mother died. He and Melanie had no children, although she had always wanted them. Ricky would always string her along, promising that they would in time, but always not yet. Ricky felt children stole all of your time and energy, and he hadn’t been willing to make that kind of forfeit. The math was easy. If Melanie left…