Eli

by Bill Myers

  “We ran the test twice. Once at the scene of the accident and once en route.”

  “And the readings?” Julia asked.

  The doctor glanced down and checked the chart on his lap. “At the accident we had a reading of four.”

  “And en route?” Ernesto asked.

  “Three.”

  The silence was interminable.

  The doctor looked down and continued to read. “Once in the air we started intravenous mannitol to reduce swelling.

  He arrived here at 16:58. We immediately ran a CT scan—”

  “Which is?” Ernesto interrupted.

  “A three-dimensional picture of the brain. It allows us to pinpoint any operable lesions, hematomas, and bone fragments.”

  “Do you have that on file?” Julia heard herself ask. It was the lawyer Julia again. The last thing the daughter Julia wanted was to see a 3-D image of her father’s destroyed brain, but the question still had to be asked.

  The doctor glanced up from the chart and looked directly into her eyes. “Yes, it’s on file, and if you insist we will show it to you. But it would be better for you if we did not.”

  The words put a cold knot in Julia’s stomach, but she pushed herself ahead. “Why’s that?”

  Dr. Martin removed his glasses. “The human brain is a very delicate organ. It has the strength and consistency of Jell-O. It takes very little to disrupt it even when the injuries are closed, but if they are penetrating as is the case with your father—”

  “I’m sorry . . . ‘ penetrating’?”

  For the first time he seemed to hesitate. “The front half of your father’s skull was shattered. Between the bone fragments, the multiple lesions, and massive blood clots, I’m afraid there’s little of his brain left unaffected.”

  hththt 5/14/01 11:35 AM Page 96

  96

  Whatever strength Julia had managed to muster rapidly drained.

  The doctor continued, gently yet professionally. “If I had been on the site, I would not have intubated him. If I had been the surgeon on call, most likely I would not have operated.”

  “Meaning?”

  “We have a young and ambitious staff, Ms. Preston. From time to time, their zeal and commitment to save lives blinds them to the realities.”

  “You would have declared him dead,” Ernesto stated.

  “In many ways your father is already dead.”

  “But he spoke!” The words came before Julia could stop them. “I heard him speak.”

  The doctor turned to her, carefully choosing his words. “I don’t think that is likely.”

  “But he said something, he was making some sort of sound.”

  “Possibly. With traumatic brain injury there’s always room for the unexplained, but . . .” He let the sentence trail off.

  “Doctor.” It was Ernesto again. “We have a signed advanced directive from the patient.”

  The doctor nodded. “What does he ask?”

  “He asks that no life-sustaining treatment be administered or continued if he’s in an irreversible coma or persistent vegetative state.”

  The doctor remained silent.

  “So . . .” Ernesto raised his hand, waiting for a response.

  “I mean, if you had to make a call here, what would be your recommendation?”

  “Recommendation?” he asked.

  Julia looked on, watching the doctor work. She knew these could be treacherous legal waters for him, and it was obvious he was not anxious to negotiate them.

  Ernesto pressed in. “If he were your father, what would you do?”

  hththt 5/14/01 11:35 AM Page 97

  97

  “I’m sorry, I am not in a position to make that type of—”

  “All right, all right, I hear what you’re saying, but we need to make a decision here, and you’re the expert.”

  The doctor began slowly, carefully. “As I have said, traumatic brain injuries can be very unpredictable. Sometimes patients with a Glasgow Coma Score below eight have surprised us all with—”

  “Right,” Ernesto cut him off. “I hear you. But from your experience, I mean what type of odds would you give him?”

  “Odds?”

  “For his survival.”

  The doctor looked back down at the chart on his lap. Then he carefully placed each fingertip of one hand against the fingertip of the other. Soon all were touching. Julia stopped breathing. The world had stopped moving. Then, after a slow deliberate breath, he answered. “It is my opinion . . . and only an opinion to which I would urge you to seek a second or third—”

  “Right, right, but what is your opinion?”

  “It is my opinion that your father’s coma is irreversible.”

  hththt 5/14/01 11:35 AM Page 98

  hththt 5/14/01 11:35 AM Page 99

  C H A P T E R

  F I V E

  “HI, MOM.”

  “Hello, Sweetheart. Are you being good for Daddy?”

  “Me and Danny and Kevin, we built this real cool fort in the tree, you know the one that’s in Kevin’s yard? I didn’t build it really, but I got to bring them stuff to eat and drink and stuff. It was so cool.”

  “Uh-huh.” Julia adjusted the phone to her other ear and glanced at her watch.

  “I brought them that drink, you know that powder stuff you mix with water, it’s kinda sweet and sour at the same time? Me and Dad, we found some at Wal-Mart and we brought a big jar home and we made some up and oh, they got these coolest swimming pools, you know like at Jodi’s?

  He said he’d get me one but only if you said I could, but I can, can’t I? I mean it’s so—”

  “Sweetheart,” Julia interrupted, “I really don’t think there’s room in the townhouse.”

  “That’s what he said you’d say, but if we moved back with him, he’s got all sorts of space in the backyard and Danny and Kevin they got a swing in their backyard. We swing really high on it and then we let go and go shooting off until we . . .”

  99

  hththt 5/14/01 11:35 AM Page 100

  100

  Julia let Cody rattle on. At four they said he had terrific verbal skills. At five they called it hyperactivity. To say he was energetic was an understatement, and they were still experimenting with just the right drugs and dosage. But they assured her in time everything would work out.

  Well, everything may work out with him, but it sure wasn’t working out with Julia, or with Julia and her husband.

  She and Ken had been separated for just over six months now.

  Initially, she had believed it would be temporary, just enough to catch her breath and get some focus. But six months had come and gone, and now the truth was beginning to emerge.

  She was not designed to be a wife . . . or a mother. One of Atlanta’s top attorneys, absolutely. Defender of truth, justice, and the American way. No doubt. But dinner fixer, nose wiper, boo-boo kisser? Not in this lifetime. How can you be there for a husband or a little boy when the rest of the world is being torn asunder by liars, thieves, and serial killers?

  Bottom line: When it came to having a family, Julia was a failure. Like her father, she was a one-trick pony, and that trick had nothing to do with domestic life or, even more sadly, lasting relationships. That’s why she’d not been completely resistant to Ken’s hints about his taking over full custody. She knew that her own mother, who put family above all else, would hit the ceiling, and that friends would sprain their eyebrows arching them. But to her the truth was painful and obvious. Little Cody was better off with his daddy than with his mommy.

  “Mom, when you coming home? I miss you.”

  “I know, Sweetheart, and I miss you.”

  “So come home.”

  “I can’t, not right now.”

  “Please . . .”

  “Grandpa is real sick, Sweetheart, and he needs me to help him.”

  “Can’t somebody else do that? I really, really miss you.

  Please . . .”

  hth
tht 5/14/01 11:35 AM Page 101

  101

  The sound of his voice tugged at her heart. She may be a lousy mother, but she still loved her baby.

  “Sweetheart . . .” She took a breath. “I sort of gave your grandpa my word a long, long time ago. And you know what I always say?”

  “I know, I know,” the little voice wearily quoted. “You’re only as good as your word.”

  “That’s right. You’re only as good as your word.”

  “Dad wants to talk to you some more. Bye.”

  “Sweetheart, don’t—”

  But he was gone. Just like that. Julia knew he was angry and disappointed, but there was nothing she could do. As with so many other things, there was nothing she could do.

  “Hey, Jules.” It was Ken again. The two had been friends since her junior year in college. They’d met during winter break, on one of those rare occasions when she’d let her mother drag her to church. For him it was love at first sight.

  For her . . . well, she’d liked him. Good looking, thoughtful, sensitive—what’s not to like? And after the wedding, he had become the adoring, supportive husband. Later, the dedicated father. If anybody deserved to be happy and to be loved, it was this man. And if she would ever be capable of loving somebody, he would be the one.

  But slowly, sadly, the truth had become evident. She was not capable.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me out there?” he asked.

  “No. This is something I have to do myself.”

  “I understand.” He always understood. Even when she was a monster, he understood—another reason she had no right being married to him. “Listen,” he continued, “you don’t want to hear this, but you need to know: Suzanne has already bought a ticket and is flying out there tomorrow.”

  “Mom? She’s coming out here? Why?”

  “They were married, Jules.”

  “Yeah, but . . .” She shifted uncomfortably. “He treated her like dirt.”

  hththt 5/14/01 11:35 AM Page 102

  102

  “He treated you both like dirt, but—”

  “So what’s her purpose in coming out? I don’t understand.

  That’s just plain ignorant.”

  “I told her you wouldn’t be happy, but sometimes she can be almost as stubborn as you.”

  Almost, Julia thought.

  Motion in the ICU lounge attracted her attention, and she glanced up from the phone cubicle. Two men in suits had arrived—an older one and a younger one holding a leather brief satchel. The first greeted Roseanne and was expressing his sympathies. The second shook Ernesto’s hand. Julia didn’t have to be a nuclear scientist to know what was happening.

  Doctors and visitors don’t come wearing suits and carrying brief satchels.

  “Listen, Ken, I need to be going. Tell Cody I love him and that I’ll call again tomorrow.”

  “Right. Anything you want me to tell your mom?”

  “What good would it do?”

  She heard a soft chuckle. “Listen, Jules, I just want you to know . . .” He hesitated.

  “Yes?”

  “Just that I’ll be praying for you. That you make the right decision.”

  She took a deep breath and let it out. “Thanks. We’ll talk tomorrow.” She didn’t know what his reply was. Didn’t care.

  Because over in the ICU lounge the two lawyers were making themselves comfortable, glancing in her direction and clearly waiting. Just as she had anticipated, Ernesto had wasted little time in discovering the way he could challenge her decision.

  v

  “Eli, we’re just asking that you play it smart, that’s all.”

  “Conrad’s right,” Keith Anderson agreed. “You don’t have to tell everybody all the truth all the time.”

  Eli looked at them and asked, “And by telling half the truth, how is that different from telling half a lie?” Conrad hththt 5/14/01 11:35 AM Page 103

  103

  and Keith exchanged glances. Neither had an answer. But Eli wasn’t finished. “Connie, you of all people know the importance of truth. Hasn’t that been your standard since you were in college?”

  Conrad blinked, taken aback at Eli’s insight . . . and at his accusation. They’d been on the road a little over a week, and this was the fourth or fifth correction he’d received from him.

  Eli’s comments were never harsh or critical—in fact they were often simple observations spoken in a gentle tease or with that twinkle of his. Still, they were spoken.

  As a mature adult, nearly fifty, Conrad took Eli’s admoni-tions a bit harder than the younger ones in the group. After all, he was twenty years Eli’s senior and he already knew a few things about life, thank you very much. And let’s not forget the sacrifice he was making in taking a sabbatical from Up Front magazine—something every colleague and friend had cautioned him against. Something that, if he wasn’t careful, could become the death knell to his career. Because, regardless of past success, a few months out of the public eye and who would remember him? Certainly not the twenty-five-year-old network execs with MBAs. And yet, despite the risks, despite the gentle humblings, there was something about Eli’s truth, about his penetrating insight, that made it worthwhile. Maybe it was because Conrad was getting older, maybe it was because the prestige and toys of his life no longer had their appeal. He wasn’t sure. But as each day led to the next, Conrad Davis found himself listening to Eli more earnestly and realizing that there was far more to this young man than miracles and charisma.

  Unfortunately, there were also these other issues . . .

  Conrad sighed heavily and looked down at the cluttered table inside Jake’s swaying RV. Once again it had become obvious that they weren’t getting through to Eli. Unlike the others in the group, he and Keith understood the media—

  Conrad more than Keith, though the kid was an ambitious hththt 5/14/01 11:35 AM Page 104

  104 and eager learner. And, by default, they had become Eli’s publicists . . . well, at least they tried. But the job grew more difficult every time Eli spoke, which he did nightly, hitting every podunk congregation between here and Georgia. Still, it wasn’t the number of speaking engagements that caused the problem; it was the content of those speeches.

  Once again the three of them sat around the table inside Jake’s rattling RV—a table covered with a dozen press clippings, a Toshiba laptop, two half-scribbled legal pads, various pencils all sporting new rubber triangular grips so as not to roll off the table (Jake’s driving could be somewhat aggressive), an open Day Runner, a handful of dirty coffee mugs, crumpled Equal packets, and expired Coke cans.

  Trying his best to exercise patience, Conrad finally gave his answer. “You’re right, Eli, nobody believes in telling the truth more than I do. A man is only as good as his word. My point is that the media can be your friend or they can be your enemy, depending on how you use them. I mean, they certainly have no qualms about using you.”

  Keith nodded. “All we’re asking is that you don’t hit the crowds with the hard stuff all the time.”

  “Hard stuff?” Eli asked.

  Conrad reached for the newspaper on the seat, the one they’d kept from Eli’s recent appearance in Indio, California:

  “‘You can’t follow me if you love your parents and wife and children or even yourself more than me.’” He skimmed down a few lines and continued. “‘If you love your life, you’ll lose it. If you lose your life for me, you’ll find it.’” He looked up at Eli, tapping the paper with the back of his hand. “This has

  ‘cult’ written all over it. The media will kill you with this kind of stuff.” He waited for Eli’s response, but there was none. He continued, a little kinder. “Look, you talk about God’s love and coming to save a lost and dying world all the time, right?”

  “Because it’s true,” Eli said.

  hththt 5/14/01 11:35 AM Page 105

  105

  “Precisely. So focus on those truths. No one’s asking you to deny these others,
but in the hands of the wrong people

  . . .” Conrad shook his head. “I’m telling you, they’ll kill you.

  They’ll either label you a David Koresh fruitcake, or some sort of con artist, or—”

  “—exactly who I say I am.”

  Conrad took another breath. That was the other thing that bothered him. How someone so compassionate for others and with such keen insights could turn right around and sound like a raving egotist, claiming to be the only way to God.

  Maybe the Messiah the religious folks have been clamoring about, sure—maybe some great prophet or teacher, no problem. But the only way? In this age of religious tolerance? It was another one of Eli’s blind spots that they were constantly trying to correct.

  Conrad chose his words carefully. “If you want people to believe those things about you, fine—but let them make the decision, not the media.”

  Keith agreed. “Because once the media’s got you pigeon-holed, there’s nothing more either of us can do to sell you.”

  “Who’s interested in being sold?”

  Conrad’s impatience grew. “If you’re not interested in reaching people, why bother with this trip, why have us book you into all these congregations?”

  “To speak to those who have ears to hear.”

  “Exactly, and the broader your message, the better your odds of reaching those ears.”

  “Except,” Eli said, “God doesn’t play the odds.”

  Conrad had had enough. He was about to rise and cross to the other side of the RV to cool down, when Eli leaned across the table and rested his hand on his arm. “Listen, you two. I appreciate your efforts. I know you’re trying to help, but hear me carefully—your very strengths will become your weakness.” Conrad simply stared at him. “Don’t be offended by that.

  That’s how it is with most people. Where they are the strongest, they are actually the weakest. You two handle public opinion hththt 5/14/01 11:35 AM Page 106

  106 like bankers handle money. And that’s a great gift, but the Kingdom doesn’t need it. Fame, power, money—these are the riches of the world. And they can be so seductive, gentlemen, so terribly dangerous. Without even knowing it, you will find yourself starting to serve them instead of God. And you cannot serve both. Hear me on this. You cannot serve the riches of this world and God. You’ll wind up hating one and loving the other. You cannot serve both; it is simply not possible.”