by Bret Tallent
That anyone would bring injured men to him was a laugh. Tom hadn't treated anyone in fifteen years, not even his own wife. Hell, he made her go see a doctor in Steamboat. Lucy had always protested the idea, but somehow, Tom thought she was relieved. He didn't think she really trusted him anymore. But why should she? After all that had happened, Tom didn't trust Tom anymore.
Tom sighed heavily then crossed his hands and let them rest on his belly. He was a thin man with the one exception of the round ball that was his stomach. His eyes were dark sockets in the pallor of his drawn face, its sharp features softened by his facial hair. Once dark brown, his hair was now a soft gray and his beard was peppered. He'd started losing his hair in college, and by the time he was an intern he was as bald as he was now. Had it really been nearly forty years? He supposed that it had.
Tom looked lazily around the room but didn't really see it. He sat there in a T-shirt and pajama bottoms, stretched out in the recliner. Upstairs his wife was asleep and outside a storm had started. But a storm had started inside as well, the storm that is memory and self recrimination. It was the storm of failure and self doubt. Of should have's and could have's and if only's. Tom was embroiled in a storm of his own.
It started with his intern-ship. There were pills to help you make it through the long hours. There were pills to help you get to sleep, then pills to help you wake up. Have a drink to help you relax, and another to help you forget. Everybody did it, or so it seemed to Tom. After all, they were physicians. They knew what they were doing. They could handle it. He could handle it.
Then they went their separate ways. They found their niches in the medical community, found their hospitals or practices. But the problem went with them into their new lives. It followed them like a loyal dog. In a profession with one of the highest drug and alcohol abuse rates, Tom was a victim. The drugs hadn't followed Tom to his residency, but the alcohol had. Only now, after the death of a patient and ten years of counseling, could he admit that he had a problem.
But that didn't help the patient, Tom thought bitterly. That didn't help his wife who had to put up with him, and had stayed by him through it all. That didn't help him much either. It didn't make anything any easier. Maybe it shouldn't, Tom thought. Maybe the pain of living with it was his just deserts. Maybe he was getting off easy.
After all he was sober, for twelve years now. Lucy was still with him. He was retired now, at the hospital's request, and could enjoy his and Lucy's remaining years. The cabin was almost finished, and . . . and . . . and he was miserable. He'd thrown away everything he had worked for, washed it away with one more for the road.
Tom Willis wanted more than anything to help people. Tom Willis wanted to make a difference. Tom Willis wanted to be the surgeon that gave hope and life. Instead, Tom Willis was the surgeon who killed his patients. "I'll give ya' some hope alrighty. Then I'll take your life! For services rendered," he thought, cynically. "Dr. Tom Willis? No, no, no. I'm Dr. Death. That's retired Dr. Death, don't ya' know? Do it right, and they let (make) you retire. Do it right, and nobody knows but you and a handful of hospital administrators." Tom wondered then, if any of the other patients he'd lost over the years were his fault?
Tom's eyelids had grown heavy as he lay back in the recliner and relived his woes. He hadn't even noticed it; he just started drifting in and out with his thoughts. Before long, he fell asleep. But his thoughts continued, changing from recollections into nightmares. As the storm outside was building, his own storm had reached its climax. He had the dream again.
***
The fading autumn light cast a red glow through the thinly veiled window. Bathed in the pastels of a Denver sunset sat a figure much too tiny for the hospital bed on which she sat. A woman nervously flipped through channels on the old set hanging from the corner of the room, waiting for the doctor to arrive. As Dr. Tom Willis entered the room, he paid little attention to the sunset, or the size of the bed. His concern was for his patient, Jamie.
"Mrs. Gibbs," Tom acknowledged her with a nod and moved straight to the bed. "Hello Jamie," he said, kindly. "I understand you've had a rough time of it this evening."
Nodding, her mousy little voice squeaked out, "It's my tummy." Jamie looked up at Tom then and his heart melted. Her big brown eyes were sad and pleading. The brightness of her face was clouded in pain and sweat had matted her blonde hair to her forehead.
"I know honey," he consoled, "I'm going to take care of it for you." Mrs. Gibbs had come up beside him but he only barely noticed. He took Jamie's hand and talked directly to her.
"You have acute appendicitis. Do you know what that is?"
"A cute what?"
"Not cute, acute," he corrected. "It means sharp or severe. Your appendix is inflamed and it's causing sharp pains in your tummy."
"My penndice?"
"Appendix. It's a tiny little thing about the size of your pinky." Tom started to hold up his fingers to emphasize, but Jamie squeezed his hand as he tried to move it.
"Why does it want to hurt me?" Her chin quivered as she asked, and she had to swallow to keep from crying.
"Well, it's sick, very sick. And it's just letting you know how sick it is so you can do something about it. And that's what I'm here for. I'm going to do something about it."
"What? What can you do?" She was trying so hard to be brave and it almost broke Tom's heart.
"Well, me and a few others will go in there and get it out. Before it can cause you anymore pain. In fact, it won't be able to hurt you ever again."
"How will you do it?" She asked warily.
"The nurse will give you something to help the pain and let you take a nice nap. And while you're sleeping, I'll just reach right in there and take that nasty old thing out. When you wake up, it'll be gone and so will the pain."
"Well, okay, if you promise it'll be alright."
There's nothing to worry about. I'll be there with you the whole time." He gave her hand a final squeeze and let it go. She lay back in the much too big bed and sighed. Only then did he notice how tiny and vulnerable she was. Tom smiled at her then turned to leave. He gave a nod and a smile to Jamie's mother then left them alone.
As the nurse was giving Jamie a sedative, Tom was taking one of his own. Just a little 90 proof sedative to help calm his nerves. He certainly didn't want the shakes now, not during surgery. Besides, it was a custom. Or was it a necessity? Either way, he'd been doing it for a very long time.
Less than an hour later, Tom was standing over Jamie with a scalpel in his hand. Her face was hidden behind a drape where the anesthesiologist kept her under. But Tom could see her face anyway. It was the face of someone who knew pain way too early. A frightened face, but a trusting face. She had been so scared but she had put her trust in him. He would take care of her. He would take care of everything. Tom swallowed hard and made his first incision.
For Tom, the surgery was going as usual. He made cuts and snips with ease, almost on auto-pilot. But for the nurse assisting him it was a different story. He just seemed to be hacking at the poor girl. “Not that he was doing the procedure incorrectly” Nurse Beverly Price would later report to the Chief of Surgery, “he just didn't seem to be very . . . proficient.”
Rumors had been floating around the hospital about this doctor for sometime, but she had never worked with him before. And now, Beverly wished that she wasn't. Each time she reached up to wipe the sweat from his brow, she would catch the unmistakable scent of alcohol. It was either on his breath, or he was exuding it from his pores with the sweat. Either way she cringed each time he cut something else.
She wanted to say something so badly she could taste it. Say something to Jake, the anesthesiologist, or to Dr. Willis himself. But, she needed this job and she knew how things worked in the hospital. The number one rule was covering the hospital's ass. The number two rule was that surgeons were God. So Nurse Price bit her lip and handed the doctor what he asked for.
When Doctor Willis finally got to the poin
t of removing the appendix, Beverly sighed with relief. It would go quickly now, and with any luck he would have her closed. But, luck was not with any of them, particularly Jamie Gibbs. Her blood pressure had dropped to a dangerous level and capillary refill was poor.
The nurse had increased the I.V. flow rate, but that didn't help. Her pressure kept dropping. Tom stood there, trying to think. It didn't seem like she'd lost a lot of blood, and he hadn't come near any major arteries. He probed into her abdomen but didn't see any bleeders, or even an inordinate amount of blood. Yet, she had to be bleeding from somewhere. All the signs were there.
Tom still stood there, slightly confused. How could this be happening? There had to be a reason. He probed the abdomen again but could find nothing out of the ordinary. There was simply no reason that he could see for this child to be in this condition. He just didn't know what to do or how to proceed.
Suddenly, Jamie was going into full cardiopulmonary arrest. Panic swept over the room and it cleared Tom's thinking. This was something he could deal with. It was straight forward.
"Pure O2 and bag her Jake!" Tom barked. "Get me some epinephrine and some sodium bi-carb," he said to Beverly, "then prep the paddles." Both of them were already way ahead of Tom and she handled the syringes to him just as he finished asking for them. Tom pumped the epi into the catheter, and then the bi-carb.
"She's fibrillating!" Jake said.
Beverly handed the defibrillator paddles to Tom before he could ask for them. He took them and waited for her to pull back the drape and expose Jamie's chest. He rubbed them together to make sure the gel was well dispersed on both paddles then placed them on each side of her rib cage.
"One hundred," Beverly said, indicating the charge.
"Clear!" Tom yelled.
"Clear!" both Jake and Beverly replied. Then Tom hit the buttons on the paddle handles. Jamie arched her back in response to the current then fell back to the table. They all stared at the heart monitor for a moment but saw nothing.
"Give me two hundred," Tom said to Beverly. She turned the dial on the defibrillator and hit the charge button. A moment later a red light on its panel came on.
"Charged," she said.
"Clear!" Tom yelled.
"Clear!" Then Tom hit the buttons again. Again she arched her back, and again she fell to the table without response.
"Three hundred!" Tom yelled, "…and get me some bretylium and more epi!" Fear was seeping into Tom's stomach and he had to swallow hard to keep it down. He stood there with the defibrillator paddles held out before him, staring at Jamie's lifeless body, and waiting. Waiting for Nurse Price to administer the drugs he'd called for, and waiting for a sign from Jamie.
"Charged!" Nurse Price yelled.
"Clear!"
"Clear!"
Then Tom hit the discharge buttons for the third time. Jamie's entire body jerked to the charge then fell to the table. The three of them stared at the monitor for a brief moment of anticipation. There was a flutter in the line that was her heartbeat, then one more. Then nothing.
"Charge it again!" Tom yelled.
Nurse Price bit her lip and charged it again, "Charged."
"Clear!" Tom's voice cracked this time.
"Clear!" came the replies. And Tom zapped her again. Again there was a flutter on the monitor, but nothing more.
"Charge it!" Tom commanded once more.
"Tom?" Jake said shaking his head.
"Charge it," Tom said again. Nurse Price glanced at Jake and he nodded to her, so she hit the button.
"Charged," she said.
"Clear!"
"Clear," came the replies.
Then Tom hit the discharge buttons for the final time. Again Jamie's entire body jerked to the charge then fell to the table. Tom stared in horror and disbelief at the single line moving across the cardiac monitor screen. Its monotone signal was deafening to him as he shut everything else out. It filled his head and amplified his panic, little Jamie Gibbs was dead. Then the tone turned into a scream.
***
Tom jumped the second time he heard the scream, coming fully awake. Above him he could hear Lucy's heavy footfalls as she ran across the room.
"Tom? Tom?" Lucy screamed as she continued towards the stairs.
Tom flung himself out of the recliner and met her at the bottom of the stairs, "What? What is it?" he demanded.
"Tom, there's something out there!" Lucy answered shakily, terrified. "I saw it through the window. It looked up right at me," she continued. "Something woke me and I noticed that you weren't there so I was going to look for you. As I put on my robe I noticed the storm and took a peek outside our bedroom window. That's when I saw it, down here on the porch."
"Saw what? What was it?" Tom asked, concerned. He knew that Lucy was a pretty strong person and it had to have been something to have rattled her so.
"I, I don't know," she pleaded, "it's so dark and it was, it was white like the snow. All I remember was its grin, and . . . and those eyes. It was like nothing I've ever seen before." Her panic was ebbing but the fear was still there.
Tom chewed on his upper lip for a moment, thinking. He didn't have a gun, didn't believe in them. "I'll take a look," he finally said, then moved quickly to the closet beneath the stairs. He dug around for a moment and came out with a golf club, his number four driver, and hoisted it like a bat. Lucy watched him intently from around the corner of the stairwell.
Tom's mind was reeling. Lucy wasn't one prone to hysterics, but what she said didn't make any sense. There had to be a logical explanation for what she had seen. Or what she thought she had seen. Then the lights went out and Tom was suddenly very afraid. And from somewhere in the blackness, Lucy whimpered.
"It's just the storm," he said quickly, as much for himself as for Lucy. "Don't worry," he added, without much conviction. He was scared. The darkness was utter and complete. It swallowed them up like the whale in children's tales. Tom stumbled in it, looking for the utility closet. Finding that, he fumbled through a shelf until he recognized the shape of the flashlight he kept there.
He flicked the button on its shaft but nothing happened. He tried it several more times then muttered, "Damn," under his breath and tossed the flashlight onto the counter.
"What's wrong Tom?' Lucy asked in trembling words, her panic resurfacing.
"Batteries, I guess? Flashlight won't work," he replied, irritated. Then he reached back into the closet and explored the shelf further until he found what he wanted. The lantern was old and smelled strongly of kerosene. He brought it out and shook it easily. The fuel inside it sloshed around and in the dark, Tom nodded.
He reached out and felt for the counter beside the utility closet, then to the drawer just below that. Inside the drawer he read over objects with his fingers as a blind person reads Braille. He touched and felt and fondled until he found a book of matches. Tom laid the golf club down on the counter so that he could use two hands to light the lantern.
The flare of the match igniting was a brilliant burst in the pitch black room, but their eyes adjusted quickly. The lantern cast a dull glow from behind the soot blackened glass globe and barely fought back the shadows around them. Tom sighed. He hadn't even realized that he'd been holding his breath. He held the lantern at arm's length in front of him and found his club. He reached down with his other hand and picked it up, resting it on his shoulder. Then Tom wheeled around to face Lucy.
"Wait here, I'll be right back," he advised her.
"Be careful Tom," she warned, but he didn't reply.
Tom turned and walked toward the porch at the far end of the room. The lantern was held before him like a talisman, his number four wood gripped tightly in his right hand. He crept to the door that led out onto the porch. It was not so much a porch as it was a deck that formed a carport of sorts. Directly below them was the garage, its roof forming the floor of the cabin. It was built partially into the hillside. It was a rather space conscious design, with the door and stairwell to
the garage in the corner right next to the front door.
Tom made it to the door and looked out, nothing. He stared hard and long, searching with his eye, nothing. He turned to look across the room at the window to his right and he heard a sound that made him turn cold. His heart crept up in his throat and he had to swallow hard to keep it down. Behind him, through the howling wind, he heard the porch creak as it did under someone's weight.
Tom turned slowly with the lantern still extended before him and he saw something in the window of the front door. All he could make out were two eyes pressed up against the glass, looking at him. They were big and black and soulless. Tom let out only a small squeak and managed a step backward before a hammering thud at the door caused him to jump.
Off in the darkness he heard Lucy scream but it only barely registered. The door was hammered again and the window in it shattered, showering the floor around Tom with glass. Lucy screamed Tom's name but he couldn't move. He was terrified. Then the door burst inward altogether and sent Tom sprawling.
The lantern hit the floor solidly and broke open, spilling the kerosene out across the room. The flame ignited it instantly and a yellow blaze fanned outward from Tom and engulfed the living room. Behind him, Tom heard what he thought was a cry of alarm echoed in the wind that blew in the ruined doorway. But he also heard a cry of terror from his wife.
He looked up through the flames, and in the shadows of the staircase he saw Lucy. Her hands were up to her face, her eyes opened wide and sheer terror sounding in her screams. Tom tried to move toward her but the heat from the flames held him back. He was trapped in the corner with a wall of fire separating him from Lucy. But he could see her more clearly as the flames advanced, distorted only slightly from their heat.
