Stepping Stones

by Steve Gannon

  Stepping Stones

  Steve Gannon

  A

  KANE

  PUBLICATION

  Stepping Stones

  All Rights Reserved

  Copyright © 2012 by Steve Gannon

  http://stevegannonauthor.com

  Stepping Stones is a work of fiction. Names, characters, p

  laces, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  “Danny Boy” lyrics by Frederic Weatherly

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Gannon, Steve.

  Kane / Steve Gannon.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-0-9849881-2-9

  Printed in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For Susan

  And in loving memory of my son

  Dexter Reid Gannon

  A Bag of Tools

  Isn’t it strange how princes and kings,

  and clowns that caper in sawdust rings,

  and common people like you and me,

  are builders for eternity?

  Each is given a list of rules;

  a shapeless mass; a bag of tools.

  And each must fashion, ere life is flown,

  A stumbling block, or a Stepping-Stone.

  ~ R.L. Sharpe

  Stories

  Jessie

  The Green Monkey

  I Can’t Sleep

  Final Exam

  What Goes Up . . .

  The Sacrifice

  There’s Always a Catch

  The Crux

  Daniel’s Song

  Virus

  Blue Skies

  Jessie

  We stood gazing down at the bed, watching as her chest rose and fell with each click and sigh of the respirator. Neither of us knew what to say. “She’s still beautiful,” I ventured. It was true. The bruises under her eyes had faded, her skin had regained its glow, and despite everything that had happened you could still see the woman she had once been.

  “Yes, Paul,” Gordon agreed. “She is.”

  I heard a catch in his voice and glanced away, giving him time to compose himself.

  Although Jessie and Gordon had been separated for nearly a year, neither had filed for divorce, and after the accident the burden of decision making had subsequently fallen on Gordon. I had been in Europe when it happened. Upon hearing the news, I had dropped everything and flown home to New York, then caught the first shuttle to Los Angeles. Since then I had made the trip to the West Coast three times in as many months.

  I moved to the window and opened the drapes. Jessie had a private room on the fourth floor of the UCLA Medical Center that afforded a view of the city of Westwood and the glittering Pacific beyond. I watched as an onshore breeze gusted through the palms and jacarandas lining the streets below, sweeping away the brown pall that usually shrouded Los Angeles. A rarity, the sky over the City of Angels was as clear as Venetian glass, and for a dizzying instant I had the feeling I could see forever.

  A moment later Dr. Robert Krasney, the neurosurgeon who had operated on Jessie, entered the room. I had met the tall, gruff man after the operation and had later spoken to him on the phone. “Paul, you know Dr. Krasney,” said Gordon. “Dr. Krasney, Paul Westerfield.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Dr. Krasney brusquely, shaking my hand. “You’re Jessica’s brother.”

  “Right.” Not exactly true, but I didn’t feel like getting into it.

  “Dr. Krasney asked me here today to discuss Jessie’s treatment,” Gordon continued uneasily. “I thought we should both hear what he has to say.”

  “Oh?”

  Dr. Krasney glanced at the bed. “There are things we need to discuss,” he said. Seeing his face harden, I knew no false hope would come from him. He had distanced himself from our sorrow, using his medical demeanor as a mask, his professionalism as a shield.

  “Has anything changed?” I asked.

  Dr. Krasney hesitated. “Nothing of significance.”

  I have a degree in law, another in business, and in my line of work I often deal with people far more skilled in dissembling than Dr. Krasney. He was hiding something.

  “Her pupillary reflex is absent, her spinal reflexes still unresponsive,” the doctor went on. “As you know, she’s been in a state of vegetative coma for the past three months. Because of the extensive neurologic damage she suffered, this was not unexpected.”

  “You told us that after the surgery,” I said, wishing he would get to the point.

  The police estimated that Jessie’s Porsche had left the pavement on Mulholland Drive doing well over seventy. She had just finished shooting her latest movie and was driving home from a wrap party at the director’s house in Malibu. She never made it back. Instead, she wound up at the bottom of a ravine with a section of doorpost buried in her skull. Since then I had learned the hard and impersonal words that described her injuries: spastic hemiplagia, brain stem dysfunction, vegetative coma.

  “I think, given the circumstances, that it’s time to consider moving Jessica to an institution better suited for long-term care,” Dr. Krasney continued.

  “Wait a minute,” said Gordon. “You’re saying there’s no chance she’ll regain consciousness?”

  Dr. Krasney shook his head. “At this point, it would be extremely unlikely. And considering the neurologic damage, it’s probably a blessing.”

  “But I’ve heard of cases in which comatose patients recover after years,” Gordon persisted.

  “True, but only in rare instances, and only when the neural components for consciousness are still intact. Among other things, Jessica’s accident permanently damaged a structure in her brain called the ascending reticular formation, a tissue we believe to be absolutely essential for consciousness.”

  We had covered this ground before. “Perhaps now is not the time to bring this up,” I said quietly, “but sooner or later someone has to. You’re telling us Jessie has no chance of recovering, right?”

  “I said it would be extremely unlikely.”

  “Is it possible for her to survive without the machines she’s hooked to?”

  “No.”

  “Then—”

  “Jesus, Paul! What are you getting at?” Gordon demanded angrily.

  “We all know what we’re discussing,” said Dr. Krasney before I could respond. He paused, gathering his thoughts. Then, glancing at me, “I sympathize, but in Jessica’s case the termination of life support is not an option.”

  “Why?”

  Gordon glared. “Damn it, Paul, you can’t be suggesting—”

  “I’m not suggesting anything. I just want to know why terminating life support is not even an option.” I turned to Dr. Krasney, now more certain than ever that he was hiding something.

  The doctor shifted uncomfortably, avoiding my eyes. “I had hoped it wouldn’t be necessary to bring this up, but Jessica failed to leave a living will that would authorize withholding medical treatment in an instance such as this.”

  “Nevertheless,” I countered, “in California it’s possible to declare a patient legally dead when electrical activity ceases in the brain. With the family’s consent, you can then terminate life support.”

  “Yes. But that’s the problem.” Dr. Krasney finally met my gaze. “For some reason we don’t fully understand, Jessica’s EEG continues to show periods of electrical acti
vity ranging from sleep-spindle clusters to states that almost resemble full consciousness. She’s not aware; she can’t be. But from a legal standpoint, because of this . . . aberration, she’s still legally alive.”

  I felt my stomach tying in knots. “Is there a possibility she may be conscious, but just not able to—”

  “No,” Dr. Krasney interrupted. “I didn’t mention it earlier because I didn’t want to give false hope. Although we can’t explain her cortical activity, we’re convinced it’s not significant. But unfortunately, because of it we can’t pronounce her brain-dead.”

  “So aside from keeping her alive, there’s nothing you can do?”

  “That’s how it stands.” Dr. Krasney sighed, glancing again at the bed. “As I said, I think it’s time to consider moving her to a long-term care facility.” With a shrug, he started toward the door. “If you want, I can recommend several institutions in the area. Feel free to contact me when you’ve come to a decision.”

  Gordon and I made uncomfortable small talk after Dr. Krasney departed. Then Gordon left, too. I promised to call.

  Afterward I stood mulling over Dr. Krasney’s words. What if he was wrong about those EEG tracings? I thought. Is it conceivable that somewhere deep inside her broken body, Jessie is still aware?

  She appeared to be asleep. Her blond hair had grown in quickly after the operation, covering most of the scars. I took her hand, feeling her fingers twitch as I did. It had happened before. Just muscular spasms, according to the doctors. Not significant. “Ah, hell, Jessie,” I said aloud. “How did it ever come to this?”

  I sat with her for the next hour, holding her hand and thinking back to the first time we’d met. I had been nine; she a precocious fifteen. We had only been six years apart in age. But back then, it was a lifetime.

  My parents had been killed that winter in a boating accident. After the funeral I had been shipped off to live with my dad’s brother Frank, who owned a small dairy in Minnesota, seventy-five miles north of Duluth. Back then the farm was way out in the sticks. I’ve returned recently and all that’s changed, but at the time the nearest town was twenty-three miles distant and over some fairly rough road.

  It was a hard time for me. I got through it, though, thanks mostly to my aunt and uncle, who took me in and treated me like their own. I remember Aunt Bev hugging me at the bus station when I arrived. She told me that she and Uncle Frank loved me, and that although she knew they could never replace my parents, she hoped someday I would come to think of them as my new mom and dad. And in time, I did.

  Jessica, their only daughter, proved a different story. Cousin or not, she made it clear right off the bat that she was not my sister, and she didn’t want a nine-year-old kid hanging around her. Maybe she was jealous of the attention given to me by her parents; maybe it was simply our difference in age. I never knew.

  Of course, I immediately fell in love with her.

  Despite Jessie’s being the worst tomboy in the county, it was obvious to everyone that she was going to be a heartbreaker. But there was something else about her, something special. I think what drew me most, for lack of a better word, was her spirit. Even back then she had a quality about her that set her apart. Later in her life it came across on the silver screen, alive and true, something you could hold in your mind long after the lights in the theater came on. It won her an Academy Award; it made her a star.

  Anyway, I spent that first long winter tagging after my precocious cousin, usually fifty yards or so behind. All that changed one cold, dismal day the following spring.

  We had a three-mile walk down a dirt road to a crossroads where the bus picked us up for school. In winter we could shave that distance by taking a path through the pines and crossing the frozen river. We were forbidden to go that way, so naturally we always did, provided the snow hadn’t drifted too deep. That day after school we had ridden the bus back to the crossroads. From there Jessie had headed into the woods on foot, taking the shortcut. By then the ice covering the river had thinned in spots, and I worried every time we crossed it. Nonetheless, I trudged along behind, keeping my customary distance. I figured Jessie knew what she was doing. After all, she was fifteen.

  The sun was slipping behind the mountains when we reached the river, and a chilling wind had picked up. Eager to get home, I increased my pace. All of a sudden I noticed a man in the woods following Jessie, paralleling her course along the riverbank. He looked like one of the pulp-mill workers who had drifted into town earlier that winter, hoping for work. He hadn’t seen me. I fell back, wondering what he was doing.

  He stayed concealed in the trees, taking care to remain hidden until Jessie broke into a clearing by the river. I should have done something—called out, warned her, run for help—but I didn’t. I was too frightened.

  And then it was too late.

  He caught up with her in an instant. I froze, unable to move. Jessie struggled, fought like a cat. I heard him laugh as he doubled his fist and hit her. Then he jerked her jacket over her head, covering her face and trapping her arms. Brutally, he yanked her jeans down around her ankles and ripped off her underwear. Jessie was crying but she kept fighting, kicking blindly with her feet. The man held her down and punched into her jacket until she lay still. Then he undid his belt.

  It was over in minutes. Although I couldn’t move, I couldn’t tear my eyes from the horror, either. I just . . . watched. As long as I live, I will never forget my feelings that day of helplessness, self-loathing, and despair.

  When he finished, the man pulled up his pants and fastened his belt. Jessie lay at his feet, her legs smeared with blood. He lifted her, hefting her over his shoulder. Then he set out on the frozen river toward a hole fishermen had cut the previous weekend. We had passed it every day on the way to school, and I knew only a thin film of ice now covered it. With a sinking feeling, I realized that the man didn’t intend to let Jessie go.

  I had to do something. But what? I was no match for him, and if I revealed myself he would kill me as well. Nonetheless, I couldn’t simply stand by as he took her life. Without thinking, I grabbed a baseball-sized chunk of river rock and slipped out onto the ice behind him.

  I had a good arm for a kid. I hoped if I could get close enough, I could stun him enough to give us time to get away. Not much of a plan, but it was all I could come up with. The trouble was, he had Jessie slung over his shoulder, blocking a clear shot at his head. Jessie had worked one arm free and was struggling again, making things even worse. At one point she turned toward me, and for a terrible instant I saw the terror in her eyes. She knew where he was taking her, too.

  Only a few yards remained to the hole. I crept forward, my heart pounding. When I got in range I eased out to the side for a better shot. Knowing I would only have one chance, I held my breath, wound up, and threw as hard as I could—stepping into it, putting all my weight behind that throw.

  The man must have seen a flicker of movement just as I released the rock. At the last moment, he twisted.

  The stone glanced off his temple. It hurt him, but not enough.

  I stood dumbfounded. He whirled to face me. “You little bastard,” he snarled, wiping blood from his forehead. Then he grinned. I knew we’d both just had the same realization: I was out of rocks, and I couldn’t outrun him.

  He covered the last yards to the hole in a heartbeat. Jessie screamed as he threw her in. With a cracking sound, her body broke through the ice. Then he turned to me. I shot a look at the shoreline, knowing I would never make it. Even if I did, he would catch me in the woods. I hesitated, then turned and sprinted for the center of the river, heading for the thin section of ice we had been avoiding all week. I hoped he would follow.

  He did.

  He had almost caught me when the ice abruptly gave way beneath him. Narrowly avoiding going in myself, I stood on the creaking surface, watching him thrash in the freezing water.

  Then I remembered Jessie.

  Praying she was still alive, I made a wid
e circle around the broken area and returned to the hole where he had thrown her in. I found her clinging to the side. The river was flowing sluggishly beneath the ice, but with enough force to drag her legs under the edge. “Jessie, hang on!” I yelled, scrabbling through a pile of firewood the fishermen had left. I needed a piece long enough the span the hole. The best I found was a four-foot length of two-by-four.

  Too short. Maybe onshore.

  “Hang on!” I yelled again, starting for the woods. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  “No time,” Jessie mumbled, her teeth chattering. “Can’t hold on. Get me out now.”

  The current was pulling her under.

  Stretching out on the ice, I extended my hand. She took it. Her grip felt weak, her skin cold as death. “My wrist, Jessie,” I shouted. “Grab my wrist!”

  “Wha . . .?”

  “The fireman’s grip. I can’t hold you otherwise.”

  Shifting her hand, she grasped my wrist, and I hers. It felt solid, but I knew I didn’t have the strength to pull her out. “You have to help.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Throw a leg over the edge. You can do it.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Yes, you can,” I said, willing it to be true. “You have to. Do it, Jessie. Now.”

  Slowly, painfully, using my hand for leverage, Jessie struggled from the hole. Finally she rolled onto the ice. Shivering violently, she pulled on her wet clothes, covering her nakedness. I gave her my jacket. Then, without warning, a crack sounded on the ice behind us, followed by the sound of something else. Something moving.