Deadline

by Randy Alcorn

  “I saw him ten minutes ago. Asked him if he was looking for someone. He gave me a name, but nobody’s name on this floor. I told him to check back with admitting to get the right room number. Then I saw him again just a minute ago. I asked him if he’d found who he was looking for. He said ‘yes’ and walked away.”

  That evening, still the day after the accident, Janet Woods walked tentatively into Jake’s hospital room.

  “Hello, Jake.”

  “Hello, Janet…. So, what’s new?” Jake smiled, with his lips but not his eyes.

  “Nothing much new with me, Jake. But a lot’s happened to you.”

  “Nah. Typical day in the life of a journalist. I’m under cover. Doing a piece on hospitals that overcharge. We had to stage the accident just to make it look good.”

  It was Jake all right. Uncomfortable with her presence and his vulnerability, and having to cover it with bravado and a joke. He couldn’t fool Janet for a moment. He could never fool her. He wondered why he tried.

  Suddenly Janet sobbed. “O Jake. I’m so sorry about Finney.”

  Jake stiffly reached his hand toward her shoulder, then, when it refused to land, drew it back again.

  “Me too.” The pause was uncomfortable. “How’s Sue?”

  “She’s hurting. But you know Sue. She’s doing a lot better than I am. Or Betsy.”

  “What are they telling Betsy about Doc?”

  “Same as before. He’s stable. They think he’s going to make it. They won’t speculate on the damage to his spine, though. Betsy thinks it’s a bad sign. She’s scared he might wind up in a wheelchair or something. She could handle it, but…”

  She didn’t continue. But Doc couldn’t, Jake filled in. He told himself not to sell Doc short. Jake had seen athletic looking men in wheelchairs, guys with bulging biceps and virility accentuated by the contrast of the chair. Doc could be one of those guys. Jake pictured him starring in a wheelchair basketball league or at the starting line in a marathon, wheeling his way up hills and around corners. No, even if the worst came true, Doc would cope. Jake would help him.

  Janet stared at Jake, as you do at someone you used to know. She wanted to stay, but being alone together dredged up such painful memories for both of them. It was a terrible feeling to know you’d be more comfortable with a stranger than with the person you’d vowed to love and cherish until death.

  “I think I should let you rest,” Janet said finally. Jake offered no argument, confirming she should leave. She squeezed his hand lightly.

  As she got to the door, Janet hesitated, then turned and said, “Carly wanted to come, but she’s got a volleyball game, and the team counts on her.” She regretted it the moment she said it. It sounded so hollow. It was hollow. A daughter should be there at the hospital with her dad at a time like this. Volleyball didn’t matter. But then, Jake figured Janet was thinking, if her dad had bothered to be at her volleyball games the other times, she would have been here with him today. If it hadn’t been the game, it would have been something else. They both knew it.

  “Good-bye, Jake.”

  “Good-bye, Janet.”

  The fitful evening of remote control hopping between pointless sitcoms and sensational news shows slid into a fitful night of hot and cold sweats, coupled with vague and illusive dreams. Jake woke up several times as nurses checked his vital signs and gave him shots or pills, or whatever, he couldn’t exactly remember. They tell you to rest, then they keep waking you up. Jake wasn’t wired for life in a hospital. He wanted out.

  He picked at his breakfast, begrudgingly admitting to himself some of it was pretty good, a level higher on the evolutionary scale than airplane food. Winston, his editor, called and said to just get better, don’t worry about work, and Thursday’s trip to Cleveland had been canceled for him. At least there’s one bright side to all this.

  At 9:40, an unusually somber and subdued Dr. Bradley came in, dressed in a suit. Obviously he wasn’t on duty. So why was he here? It had to be about Doc. Was he going to end up in a wheelchair?

  “Hello, Jake.” Dr. Bradley sounded tender, which put Jake on red alert.

  “Doctor?”

  “You’ve been through a lot the last few days.”

  “And?”

  “And…I’m afraid there’s more bad news. It’s about Dr. Lowell…Greg.” Jake braced himself, ready to hear Doc would never walk again.

  The doctor looked both deflated and puzzled. “Apparently early this morning he woke up—”

  “Woke up?!”

  “Yes, but…somehow…he managed to extubate himself.”

  “What?”

  “He…pulled out the tube from his larynx.”

  Jake stared numbly, wanting to know, but not wanting to ask.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Woods.” Dr. Bradley gestured helplessly. “He’s dead.”

  Jake’s head throbbed as he sat behind the wheel of his lapis blue ’94 Mustang, pulling in to Fairlawn Funeral Chapel. Immaculately landscaped, with multicolored flowers and trees erupting everywhere, it seemed designed to make the visitor think of anything but what the whole place was about. Jake had dreaded this day since getting out of the hospital two days earlier. It was Friday, five days after the accident. The day of Doc’s funeral.

  Finney had already been buried, without a funeral. Instead, a memorial service was scheduled for Sunday, still two days away. Jake knew this would be the worst weekend of his life.

  He felt ashamed he’d seen Betsy only once, when she came to his room the day Doc died. Poor Betsy. She couldn’t understand how the accident had happened. “Doc was such a good driver.” Jake nodded. But it did happen, and there was no going back. And then they’d just as much told Betsy Doc was going to live. It was still a mystery. The doctors said he must have woken up delirious and somehow just pulled out the air tube. How could they let him do that?

  No one had said out loud the other possibility, but it haunted Jake. Maybe Doc wasn’t delirious. Maybe he woke up, assessed the situation, found out how bad he was, and deliberately pulled out the tube. Jake shuddered at the thought, but couldn’t shake it.

  It seemed so senseless. Sitting by his hospital bed, Betsy had asked Jake, “How could Doc die? How could this happen?” How should he know? He was just a journalist, just a reporter of facts, a dispenser of opinions, not a custodian of ultimate truth. Death was out of his league. Maybe that strange rabbi would have an answer. If so, I’d like to hear it.

  The anticipation of Doc’s recovery gave his death the effect of standing in a secure elevator, then hearing the cable snap and suddenly dropping ten floors. If Jake didn’t know better, he’d think Doc was behind it, pulling the strings in an elaborate practical joke. Like when they were boys, and they’d lie on the kitchen floor with butcher knives held between their arms and chests and strawberry jam spilled over their T-shirts, trying to horrify their mothers, and occasionally succeeding. Doc loved to fake people out. For a fleeting moment Jake entertained the notion Doc had pulled a Huck Finn, pretending to die, then attending his own funeral to see what they’d say about him. If only it were true.

  Betsy said Doc left no instructions about funeral or burial arrangements. She told Jake, “We never even discussed his preferences about disposing of the body.”

  Disposing of the body? Obviously she’d been talking to a funeral director who could no more conceive of people failing to have an enchanting luncheon conversation about “disposing of the body” than a lawyer could imagine why people didn’t make out wills. Of course they don’t. If you contemplate death and plan for it, it’s liable to come sooner.

  Betsy chose the coffin. It looked to Jake like a Corvette without the wheels. Sleek blue fiberglass exterior, and luxurious white upholstered interior. Yet no one had been in it to enjoy the plush comfort. Only the shell Doc left behind. The irony gnawed at Jake. They would all go to Doc’s grave after the funeral. Everyone, that is, but Doc. Betsy told him on the phone Doc’s brother Del suggested the body be cremate
d and the ashes spread out near a hunting cabin, because “Doc loved the woods.” How about a grave site with a view? Maybe we could find a spot near a river, stick a pole in his grave, bait it up and cast the line so he could get in some fly fishing? Jake’s bitter sarcasm surprised him.

  He stood near the back of the funeral parlor, scanning the hundred or so people attending. Here came the funeral director, or one of his minions. Whoever it was, he looked to Jake like a walking corpse in his mausoleum suit, appropriately pale and solemn, as if he was only allowed a few days of sunshine a year. Welcome to Dawn of the Living Dead.

  Pale N. Solemn, as Jake dubbed his host, led him out of the main seating area, around the corner into the “family room.” Jake had never been in one of these, where the family could see guests, but guests couldn’t see them. But then, he’d been to as few funerals as possible, coming late and walking out the back rather than taking the parade route past the deceased.

  Mr. Solemn led him into the family room, made hand signals like a deaf-mute to his coworker, whom Jake dubbed “The Count,” then nodded and sat him down in the second row of family, not far behind Betsy. On Betsy’s left, between her and son Franklin, sat a young woman Jake didn’t recognize. That can’t be Molly? It was Molly, Doc and Betsy’s daughter, no longer a little girl. Carly’s age, Jake thought. Seventeen. He and Doc had become proud fathers within two months of each other, and Carly and Molly had been best friends as little girls.

  On Betsy’s right, directly in front of Jake, sat Sue. Next to her was Janet. Jake looked around nervously for Carly. He longed to see her, but dreaded the discomfort of not knowing what to do or say. He felt disappointed and relieved when it became obvious she wasn’t there.

  Jake reached forward and numbly laid his hand on Betsy’s shoulder. The obligatory gesture of affection. Not that Jake didn’t care about her. It’s just that others had much more to offer her. This wasn’t his thing. Betsy, Sue, and Janet all turned to face him in unison, like synchronized swimmers. All six eyes shed tears at the sight of Jake. Great. Just great.

  Suddenly Jake felt a presence up against him.

  “Hi dere, Unca Jake.”

  “Hi there, Little Finn.” Jake always felt comfortable with this little guy. Even at a funeral, Little Finn was guaranteed entertainment.

  The organ played something classical, solemn and dignified. Doc hated organs. The only thing worse would be an accordion.

  The “officiate” stood up. Jake noticed the flyer didn’t call him a “minister,” which was good, because Doc had no time for ministers. In his book, they were all charlatans and hypocrites. Before the officiate talked twenty seconds, Jake pegged him as out of touch. Did you ever even meet the guy? Had he spent nights with him in tree houses, the dorm, an Asian jungle, or the back of campers on hunting trips?

  “His oldest and dearest friends called him ‘Doc,’ as did his dear wife Betsy. She has asked that I call him ‘Doc’ as well.” Then with a knowing look he added, “Pardon me if I slip up and call him Gregory.” He smiled with self-satisfaction, apparently thinking this amusing. It wasn’t.

  The man droned on and on, saying things about Doc that weren’t blatantly wrong, just slightly inaccurate, off target or pointless. He’d obviously pieced together input and impressions from here and there, but he was shooting in the dark. Sometimes the results were painful. “Doc was a faithful husband …” Jake hung his head, wanting him to move on. “A loving father …” Jake knew Doc loved Betsy and the kids. He wasn’t sure they always knew it.

  “Gregory—Doc—loved life. He was an example for all of us. He didn’t let life pass him by. He grabbed for all the gusto. Permit me to read from Dylan Thomas:

  Do not go gentle into that good night,

  Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

  Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

  “Doc cheated death by making the most of life.” The man looked as if he wanted to say something comforting and profound, but lacked the resources. Finally he reached the crowning point of his message, substituting a new name for the old ones crossed out in his notes. “Gregory lives on in all of us. As long as we remember him, he will always go on living.”

  What does that mean? He’s either alive or he’s not. Memories have nothing to do with it. Jake felt guilty for being so cynical. But the syrupy sing-song voice and patronizing manner of the officiate grated on him like fingernails on a blackboard.

  “Gregory told his brother Del if there was any song sung at his funeral, he’d want it to be ‘I Did it My Way.’” Chuckles surfaced throughout the crowd, and this obviously pleased the speaker. “He was not content to walk in the paths that others walked. He would not let himself be squeezed into the mold of others’ expectations. He was a man of independent courage, with a solid self-esteem and inner confidence that helped him rise to meet the challenges of life. He realized his greatest contribution to others was to be true to himself. When he latched on to a goal he achieved it. Whether that was being the best athlete, the best student, the best military officer, or the best doctor. He did it his way, and it was a fine way indeed. Listen now to the song he requested.”

  He was joking. Don’t play the dumb song, you bozo! But the song was playing, Sinatra was crooning, and people were smiling. “I did it my way…”

  Something about the bizarre irreverence of it all seemed to put people at ease. It was like Doc to violate taboos, even in death. Was he winking from beyond the grave?

  After the song ended—it seemed forever—someone from the hospital got up and read a letter from one of Doc’s patients, thanking him for saving his life. A representative from the National Organization of Women rose and called Doc “A Champion of Women.” Commendations followed from several other civic groups.

  The service ended awkwardly and abruptly. Mr. Solemn was now back up front, looking pleasantly morose and nodding to people to get up and walk down the aisle. Jake had a good view, and with his never-forget-a face but often-forget-a-name memory, he recognized at least half the people. He saw probably a dozen physicians, Drs. Bradley and Simpson among them, a few teary eyed nurses, including a weeping Nurse Robin who Simpson had lectured about ICU security outside Doc’s room. Doc’s secretary Mary Ann, a few hospital administrators, some guys from the health club. Who’s that guy? Oh yeah, the owner of the sporting goods store. He’s lost his best customer.

  Two men in dark suits were among those Jake didn’t recognize. They seemed out of place. One was fiftyish and stocky, with combed back red hair that looked like it spent the morning under a sprinkler. His companion was ten years younger, dark haired, hard bodied, with the face of a boxer, rugged and worn beyond its years. They each took an expressionless look at Doc’s body, then filed out, leaving Jake with the curious impression they had no personal connection to Doc.

  Those in the family room came out last. In the second row, Jake and Little Finn filed out before Janet, Sue, Betsy, and Doc’s kids. Jake walked slowly toward Doc’s body, so slowly that Little Finn passed him on the right, oblivious to funeral protocol. Little Finn stopped and stared into the casket, reaching his hand out and pointing a finger. For one horrified moment Jake thought he was going to touch Doc’s body. Little Finn had set up a screen, forcing Jake to abandon his plan of the swift bypass around the body. Despite his inclinations, he too now gazed in the casket.

  The mannequin didn’t look like Doc, but like a very good sculpture of him, made out of the same stuff as fake fruit. But the suit, perfectly tailored, was really something, and it took some kind of suit to win Jake’s admiration. He’d seen Doc wear it once, at the hospital banquet last spring, when he received the “Physician of the Year” award. Jake looked at the face. That pale face, faded and pasty. Doc was always bronze—twenty minutes in the sun and he was a perfect brown.

  The body still cut an impressive image. Years of weight training, running, and cross country skiing had done their job. His heart had been strong. A “masterpiece” Doc had ca
lled it, and having done a few dozen heart transplants himself, he should know. This body was a real specimen, thanks to Doc’s good genes and self-discipline. Doesn’t do him much good now.

  Jake reached forward to nudge Little Finn, who was taking entirely too long. Finn seemed to be exuding some sense of troubled insight, as if he was profoundly sorry Doc didn’t have another chance at life.

  Following the nudge, Jake took one last side glance at Doc, then stood agog, nearly choking on a sudden intake of air. As he walked out hurriedly, passing Little Finn, the image cemented itself in his mind. For a fleeting but unmistakable moment he’d seen another face in the casket. His own.

  After sitting in his Mustang for ten minutes in a very full parking lot, Jake entered Good Shepherd Community Church. It was 2:55 Sunday afternoon, seven days almost to the minute since the accident. He wanted Sue to see him there early, but not so early it forced him to talk with people. Something still tore at his innards from Doc’s funeral two days ago, and Jake wasn’t ready for an encore.

  Pictures and displays and Finney-related memorabilia decorated the place. The crowd was huge. Probably seven hundred chairs were packed in the multipurpose auditorium, and people were already standing. A vaguely familiar tall blonde guy about Jake’s age walked up and shook his hand.

  “Hi, Jake. Alan Weber. You probably don’t remember me. A few years ago I rounded out a foursome with you and Finney and Doc, over at Edgewood.”

  “Hi. Yeah, I remember.” Jake recalled him as friendly, likable, and a decent golfer. Finney had mentioned Alan often. Jake knew they were close. Still, there was something creepy about ministers. So many of them seemed like phonies.

  “Sue’s expecting you up front.” Self-consciously, Jake walked up the center aisle beside the pastor. He’d never walked up a church aisle since his own wedding. He had no intention of making it a habit.

  Little Finn, perched in the second seat from the aisle in the front row, beamed when he saw Jake. “Hi dere, Unca Jake!” Jake was sure everyone in the back row, not to mention the seven hundred in between, heard Finn’s exuberant greeting. This only fueled his self-conscious discomfort at being in a church. Next to Finn sat Sue, then Angela and her husband. Sue’s parents were next, then Betsy and Janet. For a second Jake didn’t recognize the striking young lady by Janet. Suddenly, startled, he realized it was Carly. His own daughter.