Hysterical, he screamed into the obsidian depths. He called for help, as though some unseen angel might hear his pleas and save him.
Desperate for air, his instincts force him to inhale the cold, black mass into his lungs. Surrendering to the darkness, he watched his body sink…drifting down into the void. Tendrils of blackness shrouded his face until it was no more.
Then, as always, the ominous, disembodied voice that seemed to whisper some ethereal answer to his suffering…
“The light...David...the light…”
~
Watching the raindrops descend on the window pane in his office, David observed how each drop clung to its temporary existence. Noting how every droplet adhered itself to the wall of glass, then permitted gravity to pull it to an unknown destination.
Like a tear gliding down the tender slope of a lover’s cheek and plummeting off the jaw line cliff, the raindrops surrendered to the ocean of droplets below.
David stared as each succumbed to the puddle at the base of the windowsill. While most of the raindrops traveled on the proven paths, a brave few would veer off course; blazing their own trail.
In the midst of his quiet surveillance, he was reminded of a philosophical question that he’d once heard.
“If you were a droplet of water placed into the ocean, could you pull yourself out or would you simply blend with the waters?”
It made him think of society and its desire for conformity. Religion, marriage, money and a life of servitude, all predestined paths set before a human at the moment of conception.
He wondered whether anyone could truly be a single awareness, all their own thoughts, feelings and beliefs, or if being born into the ocean of mass consciousness left you completely at the will of the tides.
Smiling in spite of himself, small wrinkles forming at the sides of his compassionate blue eyes, he recalled his nickname in medical school...Socrates. Many of his peers had teased him over his philosophical nature.
Chuckling, he crossed his arms and sighed deeply as he rested his forehead against the cool window pane.
Watching the tiny droplets do their perilous dive into the abyss, he wondered if he was the rebellious droplet forging a new path; or simply a lost teardrop in the smothering ocean.
“Dr. Blake…please report to emergency…Dr. Blake.” A tired nurse echoed over the intercom, snapping David out of his abstract daydream.
Sighing, he turned from the window and walked briskly out of his office to the emergency ward. Running his hands through his neatly trimmed blonde hair, he attempted to smooth back any rogue strays.
Adjusting his collar and stethoscope, he gave an obligatory nod to each of the doctors and nurses he passed. He realized he knew very few of them by name, even though he’d worked at St. Mary’s Hospital for three years. He made a mental note to learn more of the staff by name.
St. Mary’s was the biggest hospital in Edmonton, founded by the Catholic Church over forty years ago.
How ironic that one of their top doctors is an Atheist. He thought dryly.
Thankfully, the hospital didn’t have any religious prerequisites; David wasn’t shy about debating his religious opinions within the walls of the staff room.
Approaching the emergency desk, he noticed an abnormally high number of patients in the waiting room. So many that they'd run out of seats. Several people were standing or sitting on the floor.
An angry heat flooded through David as he stomped up to the admittance window.
“Why didn’t you page me sooner?” he demanded of the nurse behind the desk. He didn’t recognize her as the usual admitting nurse for the evening shift.
“I’m sorry…Dr. Blake…I thought you were on a dinner break…I didn’t…want to bother you early.” She stammered nervously, glancing at the now curious audience within the waiting room.
David stared at her incredulously, “When I’m at the hospital, I am always available for the patients. Having this many waiting is unacceptable…how would you feel if you were hurt and had to wait hours for a doctor?”
The young nurse, her eyes now brimming with tears, tried to distract herself by shuffling patient’s records around the desk.
Feeling guilty, David spoke with a renewed calm, “I’m sorry, I didn’t become a doctor to have patients wait for me while I pick my nose in my office…okay?” The young nurse looked at him carefully and forced a weak smile.
“From now one, please make sure there are never more than three people waiting before you call me, that way we won't get too far behind.” He added with an encouraging smile.
“I’m sorry Dr. Blake, it won’t happen again.” she promised though her expression was still wary.
“I’m going to hold you to that you know,” he joked, pointing his finger at her and giving her a wink, glancing at her name tag, he added “…Nurse Henderson.”
Hoping he had not earned an enemy with the young nurse, he walked to the rows of curtains where several patients were waiting.
David leafed through the patient file for the person behind curtain number one. Peering tentatively through his steel rimmed glasses, he perused the symptoms this patient was experiencing.
“Gastrointestinal cramping, fever of 102 degrees, fatigue, three days vomiting…food poisoning, flu maybe.” David murmured as he drew back the curtain.
“Hi there,” He greeted the young lady perched on the observation table. “Rebecca is it? Not feeling too well today, huh?”
“No.” She moaned with a lethargic expression on her pale and sweaty face. She clutched her queasy stomach as she kept an anxious eye on the small kidney-shaped dish reserved for vomiting. David had often wondered why those bowls were so petite, only the world’s most proficient bulimic would be able to spew into such a small dish without making a terrible mess.
With a sympathetic smile, he held her arm as he assisted her to a laying position, the sanitary paper crinkling loudly as she adjusted herself. He checked her vitals, assessed the condition of her lymph nodes and questioned her about what items she’d eaten over the last three days.
Narrowing it down to a sour tasting piece of chicken at Mr. Chan’s Chinese Den, he diagnosed her ailment as a case of salmonella poisoning. After administering a mild anti-nauseate shot into her arm, he prescribed some electron balancing fluids and lots of rest.
Helping her off the table, he wished her well and proceeded to the next curtain, and the next…and the next.
Two concussions, one false labor, one real labor, a broken collarbone, a broken ankle, two hundred stitches, one mild heart attack and a cold sore. David performed flawlessly under the pressures of the emergency room night shift.
Nine hours later, after tending to an endless stream of medical woes, he was relieved to see the day shift wandering in to take over the constant parade of maladies.
Stretching his weary arms over his head, he arched his back and groaned at the aches that snarled at him from his lower back.
“Another successful evening…” he muttered as he locked up his office and walked to his car in the staff parking lot. Nothing could make for a better shift than one where no one died.
Exhausted, he pulled into his driveway just as the Sun was reaching the top of the elder poplar trees that swayed silently behind his home.
Exiting his car, his nostrils filled with the sweet scent of damp roses and fresh cut grass. The dew-laden rose garden sparkled, coated with millions of tiny liquid diamonds. The hired gardener had taken special pride in cutting diagonal rows over the vast expanse of the Blake's front yard.
David felt a pang of jealousy toward the gardener as he walked up the front steps of his home. David missed that sense of pride after laboring on the lawn, the accomplishment of adding beauty to his home and to the world.
With his responsibilities at the hospital, he never had time for anything resembling extra-curricular activity.
Opening the door to his home, he entered into the large, open foyer. The vaulted ceilings loo
med overhead. Meant to be spacious and impressive, it always left David feeling intimidated.
The walls were painted and dressed with white crown molding. Cold Italian marble tile lay throughout the main floor of the elaborate home. Coming home to the ostentatious environment left David feeling less like the homeowner and more like a guest at a pompous hotel.
Tiffany is probably just getting ready to leave for school. He thought briefly as he hung up his jacket.
With sleepy eyes, and desperately needing a shower and a shave, he shuffled to the kitchen where he could hear the voices of his wife and daughter.
“Mom, I need one!” David’s daughter Tiffany whined, dangerously close to throwing one of her trademark temper tantrums. “Everyone has one, even Chantella Clarkson, and her dad is just a carpenter!” Tiffany’s voice was becoming shrill.
David easily pictured the scene; as such dramas occurred quite often at the Blake residence. He envisioned Tiffany glaring venomously at her mother, her hazel eyes shrouded with contempt while her eyebrows wove themselves into an angry scowl.
“I said no! I just got you a new cell phone for Christmas!” Ellen angrily snapped at Tiffany, close to her breaking point.
“Fine!!” Tiffany screeched, “I’ll just tell the kids at school that my parents are too cheap!”
David rolled his tired eyes as he heard Tiffany slam her books into her backpack and storm away. Muttering a profanity under her breath as she stomped around the corner, she was startled when she bumped into her father.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, “Hi Dad.” obviously embarrassed for having been caught swearing.
Attempting a disapproving grimace, but surrendering a weak smile instead; he ventured in vain to tame the shrew’s wrath. Sensing his vulnerability, she threw him a smug smile and continued her pouting tirade.
It amazed David how much he loved that girl, despite her attitude. He smiled as he recalled his daughter's birth. Even though he didn't believe in God, he was sure Tiffany was a miracle. The beauty, the perfection and the awe within such a tiny bundle, was miraculous to David. Never before had he felt love for anyone like he did for this little person.
He tried to be a positive influence in his daughter’s life, but Ellen took charge of the parenting from the beginning.
“You're just the sperm donor, deal with it.” Was Ellen's cold response to David's complaints of being excluded from Tiffany's upbringing.
Regaining her stride to the front door, Tiffany flung her backpack over her shoulder. Flicking her long golden hair defiantly, Tiffany slammed the front door hard as she left leaving a thundering noise to reverberate throughout the foyer.
Sighing as he watched her storm away, behaving so much like her mother, David muttered sadly, “Bye, love you too.”
Defeated, he proceeded to the kitchen to face the true apocalypse. Taking a deep breath, he rounded the corner, anticipating the worst.
“Good morning, how are things in Ellen’s world today?” David asked, but already knew the response.
“Oh, just friggin’ peachy.” She expressed with a face to match her bitter tone. Her short, black hair tucked behind her ears, framing her pout.
“Ah, another bout with Tiffany, I heard the tail end of it. Princess Tiffany would like a new phone?” He said.
“Oh, this time, it’s a touch pad. They’re bloody expensive; all her friends have one you know.” She snapped sarcastically, imitating Tiffany with a spoiled voice and over-exaggerating her hand movements.
Despite Ellen’s comments, David, and especially Tiffany, knew all too well, that mom eventually gives in.
As far as David could tell, Ellen couldn’t stand to be outdone by anyone, especially when it came to anything luxurious. Ellen Blake had a compulsive need for her, and her daughter, to be at the top of every list. She even insisted David buy her an expensive home in the most elite part of the city.
“Have to keep up a respectable image honey.” She would state if David attempted to reject any of her elitist notions.
At her insistence, David and she had to drive matching BMW's. He would've been perfectly happy driving his old, reliable Chevelle. It didn't even occur to him to parade his profession around like arrogant medical royalty. He could not comprehend the audacity of people and their prestigious notions, least of all, his wife’s.
Sighing, David leaned in to kiss Ellen on the forehead, but before he could make contact; she abruptly moved away. Wrinkling her nose, she stated bluntly, “Ugh, Dave, you need a shower.”
Rejected, exhausted and mildly relieved to have been excused from Ellen’s sulky mood, he retreated to his bedroom.
Since Tiffany was a baby, Ellen insisted on having her own room. “I don't feel the need for traditional sleeping arrangements.” She told him a month after their wedding.
Entering his room, a navy comforter welcomed him as it hugged his bed. A simple roll down blind filled his window and a shaggy cream area rug warmed the wood flooring. Nothing fancy, just the way he liked it.
Several pictures were arranged on his dresser, faded memories captured in print, like ghosts imprisoned within a moment in time. He paused to look at one of his favorites. A young David grinned devilishly, his wavy blonde hair defying gravity as he flung mud at his sister.
Next was an elegant sepia photograph of his mother, Laura, sitting in her favorite chair. Her face pensive, chin resting on her graceful hand, and her eyes staring withdrawn out the window. It appeared unlikely she suspected his father was sneaking into the room to snap a picture of her.
Unbeknownst to everyone but her, the quiet moment he captured was likely his mother trying to articulate the words to tell her family she was dying. David brushed the glass with the back of his fingers to remove any trace of dust that might have accumulated near his mother’s angelic face.
The next picture was a large photo of Tiffany, at three years old, staring smugly at him. She was wearing a fluffy pink gown, complete with a sparkling tiara and a perfectly trained smile. Ellen insisted Tiffany enter several Miss Mini Beauty Pageants.
Needless to say, as beautiful as David thought his daughter to be, he only attended but one of these illustrious events. He promptly informed Ellen afterward, “I’d rather have a vasectomy done in a public bathroom with a dirty butter knife then ever see that disgusting display of child exploitation again!” Her curt response to his lack of support was, “That can be arranged.”
A wedding picture of Ellen and himself also lurked within the photos, a day he recalls as stressful, to say the least. This picture really did say a thousand words; David with his forced smile and Ellen looking smug in her gown. The whole wedding day should have been scripted and filmed for the amount of sincerity it held.
“David, where is the speech I wrote for you?” Ellen asked him the morning of the wedding.
“I...wanted to write my own.” he stated, staring at the piece of scrap paper in his hands.
Shaking her head and snorting, she replied, “If I wanted you to write it, I would have told you so.” Taking a deep breath, as though composing herself; in a sweet voice added, “Honey, it has to be perfect today. Don't you want me to be happy?” Her lashes fluttering like butterflies.
David should've seen it coming. Her mother, Victoria, had been the same way with Ellen’s father. George Andrews, a sad, dumpy little dentist, existence revolved around pulling his wallet out for his wife’s extravagant purchases.
Despite her parents’ strict religious background, it seemed she and her mother was oblivious to the meaning of being humble. Ellen mirrored her mother’s haughty attributes, though David didn’t realize until was too late. If nothing else, Ellen’s mother could be happy knowing her daughter did her proud.
As he looked around his lonely room, he attempted to shrug off feelings of resentment. For twelve years, he'd slept alone, all the time wondering why Ellen married him in the first place. After a while, the reason became obvious. Marrying someone with the title of ‘Doctor’ couldn’
t be ignored in Ellen’s books.
God forbid it should have been something as ridiculous as marrying for love.
Pausing in the middle of his bitter thoughts, he wondered if he could recall why he married Ellen.
Hmm, he thought sarcastically, I'm sure it will come to me.
Chuckling to himself, he lowered the blinds, crawled slowly onto the bed and tucked the pillow under his weary head. Smiling with relief, he snuggled his pillow like a delicate cotton mistress.
Is this it? He thought sadly to himself. Is this as happy as I'll ever be? Is this my purpose in life? Seems like a waste really. He thought as he closed his eyes.
Reunited
Seating herself at the table for lunch, twelve year old Lily waited impatiently for her grilled cheese sandwich. Swinging her short legs back and forth, her feet nearly a foot from the floor, she watched as her mother prepared her lunch.
As her mother finished making a sandwich, she turned to deliver it to the table. Her mother, preoccupied with her duties, walked almost the entire way across the kitchen before she actually looked at Lily.
“Good heavens child!” Her mother exclaimed, placing one hand over her heart and nearly dropping the plate of food.
Lily’s strawberry blonde hair was standing straight on end with leaves and bits of mud woven between the mass of tight curls. Her face blotched with encrusted mud; eyelids included and her ivory sundress was now a murky clay color with one strap ripped off.
“Lord in heaven child! What have you been doing?” Lily’s mother was so mortified she forgot to make Lily say grace before handing her the plate.
“I was catching frogs near the pond…for a scientific experiment.” Lily stated as she shoved the sandwich in her mouth.
“Well, you’ll have to get into the bath lickity split after you eat and clean yourself up nice.” Her mother said sternly, her Irish accent becoming pronounced.
Dimensions of Genesis Page 2
