Mercy

by Daniel Palmer

  Emmett shrugged, his way of showing that he felt something, but was not about to say it out loud.

  “I was dealing. Pot mostly, but some other stuff, too. My grades, they stayed up, but I can’t tell you how bad I felt inside. It was wrong, what I was doing, and I knew it, too.”

  Emmett arched his eyebrows. “Yeah, but at least you got mad respect, I bet.”

  Jordan was unsure how much to share with Emmett. It was five years of hell, no way to sugarcoat it. He’d been locked up with pissed-off lifers who had no qualms about sticking some rusty shank in your back just because they thought you looked at them funny. The best way to survive inside was to join a gang, something Jordan had sworn off doing right after his arrest, so he’d lived prison life as an outcast.

  Eventually, the other black inmates offered protection after Jordan earned enough good behavior credits to teach GED prep classes. Prison life, Jordan came to learn, was a microcosm of the streets, but in a modified form. For five dollars you could get everything from a toothbrush to heroin, and there was constant pressure to buy product or help some merchant sneak it in. Failure to comply could easily net you a month’s stay in the infirmary if they beat you bad enough. Constant vigilance was what kept Jordan safe and out of trouble, but it was an exhausting way to live.

  He told Emmett, who sat transfixed, listening a lot more intently than he ever did in an algebra lesson.

  “I did all right in there because I chose to use my time wisely. I read, I studied, I learned about a lot of things so I could get out and get a job.”

  “You push around dead people all day,” Emmett remarked.

  “Maybe so, but it’s honest work, and I ain’t going back to prison for doing it.”

  “Yeah, but now you broke.”

  “I’m not broke.”

  “Look how you dress.”

  “I like how I dress.”

  “Then why do this?” Emmett pointed to the algebra book with a scowl on his face.

  “Because I like to teach, I like to learn, and if there’s one lesson I want you to learn, it’s to study hard and keep your nose clean. Don’t make the same mistake as me.”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  “No, I mean it.”

  Emmett looked serious, like he got it. “It’s cool.”

  Something caught Jordan’s attention, a snippet from the news broadcast Mae was half watching. Jordan rose from his seat.

  “Ms. Walker, would you mind turning that up a bit?” he asked.

  “Of course, sweetheart,” Mae said.

  The small television showed a Fox News report from outside the prison where Jordan had spent five years of his life. The broadcast reporter was a sharply dressed man in his late twenties. Behind him was the chain-link fence topped by razor wire, which Jordan still saw in his nightmares.

  The television camera captured a group of nearby protesters who held handmade signs. FREE BRANDON STAHL, two or three of them said. MERCY NOT MURDER, said another. One sign in particular drew Jordan’s attention: a picture of a dog being injected by a syringe, above the words STOP TREATING PETS BETTER THAN PEOPLE.

  “Brandon Stahl, the former nurse from White Memorial Hospital, remains behind bars this evening following the State Supreme Court’s denial of his appeal for a new trial,” the reporter said. “Stahl is serving a life sentence for what some have called the ‘mercy killing’ of his patient, Donald Colchester, who suffered from advanced-stage ALS, or Lou Gehrig’s disease. Protesters have gathered at the prison to object to the ruling and express support for Stahl, who maintains his innocence and claims that Donald Colchester had a heart attack and died of natural causes.

  “The prosecution relied heavily on a last-minute witness after the court refused to admit a recording of Mr. Stahl agreeing to help Mr. Colchester commit suicide. The defense had asked for a new trial, citing procedural violations with the witness’s testimony, but the presiding judge disagreed.”

  “They’re getting it all wrong,” Jordan said, mostly to himself.

  “Did you work with that man?” Mae asked.

  Focused on the report, Jordan took a moment to respond. When he did, he sounded distracted. “Um, yeah. Yeah, I knew him.”

  The reporter corralled one of the protesters for an on-camera interview. Jordan watched with rapt attention.

  “What’s your opinion on today’s ruling?”

  The protester, a middle-aged woman wearing a bulky overcoat, flashed the camera her sign that read GIVE PATIENTS THE RIGHT TO CHOOSE.

  “It’s a tragedy,” she said. “Donald Colchester was suffering, and Brandon Stahl was the only person who did something about it. The hospitals just want to keep people alive so they can squeeze out every last dime for profit, or try out their new drugs and treatments. We’re nothing but lab rats to them.”

  The reporter knew when to end an interview on a dramatic high note.

  “Reporting live from MCI Cedar Junction, I’m Stephen Wright, Fox News. Back to you, Jim and Carla.”

  Jordan turned away from the television, disappointment on his face.

  Mae placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, honey,” she said. “If he was a friend of yours and all, I’m sure it must be hard.”

  Jordan was visibly shaken, his lips tight across his mouth. “It’s not about the recording or the witness,” he said. “Why don’t they get that? Why doesn’t anybody get that?”

  “What, honey? I don’t think I follow,” Mae said.

  Jordan went back to the table, where Emmett doodled on the paper instead of solving the next equation.

  “It’s nothing,” Jordan said. “Come on, Emmett, let’s get this work done. Time’s wasting, and one thing I learned from prison is that you don’t waste time.”

  CHAPTER 15

  Numb.

  That was the word Julie used to describe her feelings to anyone who asked. She was simply numb. With her mother and Lucy, Julie could be more candid, admitting to an unshakable malaise, loss of appetite, physical aches and pains, tears at unexpected moments. It had been a week since Sam’s accident and Julie wondered if she was still in a state of shock. Some nights she would wake up confused, forgetting for a few blissful seconds how one person’s careless actions had altered the life she and Sam had together so dramatically. She would close her eyes and wish it were a dream, but images of the horrific crash would come at her as fast as an out-of-control pickup truck.

  For now, Julie could do nothing but battle through each day and try her very best to stay positive. It was not easy. Sam had shown minimal signs of neurologic recovery, but no miracles. His eyes came open only for brief periods and he had yet to be weaned from the ventilator, but that could happen any day now. Fortunately, he had been in excellent shape prior to the accident. This would help him in his recovery.

  As chaotic as the past week had been, Julie had fallen into a rhythm of sorts. Work. Sam. Home. Repeat. She would have been at the hospital right now, at Sam’s bedside, but Paul had gone out of town to visit with a gallery owner who had expressed interest in his work and Julie needed to be home for Trevor. She was happy to have the time with her son and grateful Paul had stepped up to spend most evenings with Trevor, doing everything he could to be helpful. This was a critical time, and everyone was on edge while also trying to be supportive and useful. Sam’s parents had flown in from Michigan. They were staying at a hotel near the hospital. Julie would have let them stay with her had they asked, but was glad she did not have to play hostess.

  The clock on the cable box let her know that soccer practice had ended twenty minutes ago. Trevor would be showing up any moment. Slumped on her sofa, Julie nursed a white wine, while on the television three strangers were marrying three other strangers at first sight. Julie preferred programs like Downton Abbey to reality fare like Married at First Sight, but these days her choices drifted toward the mindless. In that regard she thought nothing could surpass this program.

  The viewing served no other purpose th
an as reprieve from Julie’s endless worry, her regular bedside vigils. The police were still investigating the accident, and the insurance companies were on the case. Also on the case were a number of attorneys who wished to represent Sam in litigation. That would have to wait. Much would have to wait, including Julie’s marriage to the man she loved.

  Julie took another sip of wine and returned to the show. Susie cringed at the sight of Andre. Maybe it was his ghastly teeth that did her in. Julie thought about her own wedding plans and wondered if she and Sam would ever marry.

  She knew Sam well enough to know he would not want her to commit to him should he be dependent for life. He had talked in the abstract about this very thing, because he knew another rider who had suffered a debilitating head trauma. Sam had seen the life-changing impact of the injury on the rider’s wife and family. When it came to accidents, motorcyclists could do the Kevin Bacon six degrees of separation game. They all knew someone who knew someone who had been in one.

  Sam would want a wife, not a caretaker. That was what Julie imagined he would say. But his broken body in no way severed her feelings for him. He was still the man she loved, in body, mind, and spirit. The Internet was full of stories of people who had married quadriplegics and made it work: blogs, message boards, Reddit. Julie knew this, because she had read them all.

  A few minutes after her last time check, Julie heard the front door open. In shuffled Trevor. She listened to the familiar sounds of her son reentering his home. First came the thud when he dropped his backpack on the floor. Then the closet door swung open with a creak, followed by a clatter of hangers as Trevor hung his coat. Then she heard the bathroom faucet running while he washed his hands.

  “Hi, sweetheart, I’m in the living room. Dinner is in the oven.”

  The apartment—fifteen hundred square feet of living space consolidated on one floor, with three bedrooms and two baths—smelled of chicken curry, a recipe Julie had stumbled on while browsing Pinterest. It was the first real meal she had cooked since the accident.

  “I’m going to put Winston in his ball,” Trevor said. “And I don’t have any homework.”

  Winston was the family guinea pig, a woeful substitute for the dog Trevor had begged for since his eighth birthday. Julie was sorry she could not accommodate her son’s wishes, but a dog simply did not fit their lifestyle.

  “Come in here and talk to me. I want to look at your folder.”

  “It’s fine.” Trevor had perfected the “leave me alone” tone and gave it just enough edge not to be totally rude.

  “It’s not fine. We have an agreement.”

  No response. Bad sign.

  The agreement was for Julie to review Trevor’s schoolwork and check over his grades until he pulled them from Cs to Bs. She’d stop when it looked to her as if he was performing at or near his potential.

  “Trevor?”

  “I’ll be there in a minute.”

  A rolling rattle alerted Julie to Winston’s imminent arrival. Sure enough, his plastic ball came skirting across the hardwood floor in front of the television at a high rate of speed. The mostly white-furred guinea pig had spots of brown and black and dark eyes and a very cute little face. Julie had taken quite a liking to Winston.

  Eventually Trevor came shuffling into the living room, still wearing his dirt-splattered practice uniform and looking a bit ragged.

  “How about a shower before dinner,” Julie said.

  Trevor plopped down on the couch and tossed his school folder onto the coffee table. He had a tentative air that gave Julie pause. Had he failed a test? Possible, given the week they had just endured.

  Julie set down her glass of wine as Trevor turned the channel from A&E to ESPN with speed that belied human capability. Trevor could have what he needed; he had done her a favor.

  “How’s Sam doing?” Trevor asked.

  Julie gave her son an appreciative glance and pulled him in for a little hug. “Thank you for asking. He’s not getting worse.”

  “But he’s not getting any better, is he?”

  Julie bit at her lip. “If by better you mean moving his arms or legs, then I’m afraid the answer is no.”

  A week of healing had mended the gash to Sam’s chin, but his arms remained encased in casts with pins in the bones. His left leg, also in a cast, was suspended above the bed in a traction pulley system. His head CT read negative, and several neurosurgeons who had evaluated Sam had reached the same conclusion: the outcome could not be improved. Parts of his spine had been cut into pieces by shards of broken bone that acted as machetes.

  There were more MRIs, more exams, and more tests, including electromyography, where multiple needles were inserted into Sam’s body to assess electrical activity of his skeletal muscles and motor neurons. Every result disappointed.

  “I’m sorry, Mom.”

  Winston came rolling by, his little legs churning furiously. Trevor giggled, and the sound of her son’s laughter brought a smile to Julie’s face. Her first, it felt, in ages.

  Julie redirected her attention to the folder and got her second smile of the week. Trevor had gotten As on both his history and science tests.

  “Honey, this is wonderful,” Julie said. “Well done.”

  “Yeah, it was easy.”

  “Or maybe you just applied yourself.”

  Trevor shrugged it off, but in his eyes Julie could see he agreed. Her son had so much potential. Getting him to do the required work continued to be the major obstacle.

  Julie glanced at Trevor’s agenda, which detailed the homework and projects due in the coming weeks. It should have been Trevor’s responsibility to plan and complete all his assignments on schedule, but until he got back on track, Julie felt justified hovering in that helicopter-parent way.

  “You’re all set with To Kill a Mockingbird?” Julie asked.

  Trevor’s color drained. He rose quickly from the couch and nearly punted poor Winston like he was a soccer ball.

  “Honey, what’s wrong?”

  Trevor did not answer. But she heard the sounds of him rummaging through his backpack. Trevor came storming back into the living room on the verge of tears.

  “Everything all right?”

  “That stupid book is at Dad’s, and so is my English folder.”

  Julie checked the time. “That’s no problem. We can get it out of the library. Or we’ll take a drive to the store.”

  “My essay is at Dad’s!” Trevor said. His shoulders slumped and his face crumpled.

  “I’ll just call your—” Julie stopped herself when she remembered that Paul had left town for the night.

  “The essay is due tomorrow, and now I’m going to get an F and then you won’t let me play soccer.”

  “Take it easy. Relax. We can tell your teacher. She’ll understand, given everything that’s going on. It’s not going to be a problem.”

  The logic appeared lost on him. “You’re gonna make me quit the soccer team. That’s what you said if I got an F.”

  “No. No, I’m not.”

  “Any F and you’re off the team. School is more important.”

  “This is an exception.”

  “It wouldn’t have happened if I didn’t have to keep track of my stuff. Between here and Dad’s, I’m never just in one place.” The tears that had been threatening began to leak out.

  Julie understood that Trevor’s frustration went far beyond this one English assignment. Behind it all—the fight in school, the falling grades, the incomplete homework—lay sorrow.

  “Come, sit down,” Julie said, patting the sofa.

  Trevor remained standing, arms locked across his chest. Winston chose that moment to come scuttling by. He hit a wall, redirected, and was on his way once more. But the incident proved amusing enough to get a slip of a smile from Trevor.

  “Honey, I get it,” Julie said. “It’s not easy having to jump around between here and Dad’s.”

  “And now it’s just going to be worse.”

&n
bsp; “Worse how?”

  “Sam.”

  “Oh.”

  “You’re not going to still marry him, are you?”

  “Trevor!” Julie understood that kids could be direct to the point of being crass, but Trevor’s comment had crossed a line.

  “I’m sorry. I just mean—I like Sam. I think he’s a really nice guy, and he’s been great to me. You know? But think about what it would be like for me if you two were married and he was like, living here. He can’t move his arms or his legs. He can’t do anything for himself.”

  “For right now. He can get better.”

  The look Trevor gave his mother said he did not believe it. Deep down, going to that place she hated to go, Julie had to admit she felt the same.

  “Him being here, with us … it would change everything.”

  Julie took a moment to collect her thoughts. Her throat had gone dry, which made it hard to speak. “I understand your feelings, here. Honestly, I do. Here’s my promise to you. We’re going to take this one day at a time. I don’t want you to worry. You have enough on your plate.”

  “I just don’t see why you can’t fix it with Dad,” he said.

  “Fix it how?”

  “I saw how you were with him at the hospital. You were close.”

  “And?”

  “Why can’t Dad just come live here again?”

  And there it was. The real issue flushed out into the open where it belonged.

  After the divorce, it had not taken Julie long to scrub the apartment of any traces of Paul. His artwork had been stripped from the walls, and his trinkets and favorite dishes took up shelf space in his new home now. This was her home and Trevor’s home. No matter what happened with Sam, she would never live with Paul again. In her son’s eyes, though, it remained a distant possibility.

  “Come sit.”

  Trevor finally obliged and Julie pulled him in close.

  “Your dad and I tried very hard,” she said. “But we just couldn’t make it work. I do like your father. He means well, and we’re friends. Sometimes I want to slug some sense into him, sure, but I know how much he loves you. He’d do anything for you. But no matter what, your father and I aren’t getting back together.”