by Alton Gansky
As if fulfilling the nurse’s prophesy, Rachel came through the door. Her eyes were red and puffy, her hair disheveled.
“What happened to you?” Morgan asked coldly. “You look like death warmed over.”
“I was asleep when the call came.”
“At 10 o’clock?”
“I’ve just finished eight hours in surgery.”
“I thought I made it clear that you were to work only on the project I assigned you.” Morgan’s words were curt. He was upset, and he didn’t care if the staff knew it.
“There hasn’t been another incident in nearly two weeks and there were several surgeries that couldn’t be rescheduled,” Rachel replied coolly.
“I can only hope that you are a better researcher than you are an administrator.”
Rachel was furious. To berate a fellow doctor before hospital staff was at best unprofessional. Maybe that's the problem. Maybe he doesn’t see me as a fellow professional. To him I’m just a woman playing doctor.
“I assume you’ve called me here for a reason,” Rachel said as calmly as she could.
“Here, read this,” he said, thrusting the metal clipboard holding David’s medical chart at her. “And follow me.”
Dr. Morgan’s chameleon-like change astounded Rachel. The moment they entered the tiny cubicle of David’s room, he was cheerful and kind. “Mr. Lorayne,” he began, “I’m Dr. Morgan. You know Dr. Tremaine. I understand you’ve had quite a night.”
“I’m afraid I don’t remember much,” David said smiling. “I was pretty much out of it.”
Rachel looked up from the chart she was reading and gazed at the latest miracle—her patient. What she had expected was a pale, comatose man—that’s what he looked like yesterday when she, despite Morgan’s orders to reassign her patients, checked on him during rounds. What she saw was a healthy-looking, middle-aged man.
“Your chart says that you were admitted for surgery,” Morgan said.
“Ulcers. I’m afraid I don’t deal with stress very well.”
“Do you remember anything after the surgery?”
“No,” David said slowly shaking his head. “To be honest, I don’t even remember having the surgery.”
“Do you remember dreaming, or hearing the conversations of nurses?”
“No. The last thing I remember is the anesthesia mask being placed over my nose and mouth. After that, nothing.”
“How about tonight? Do you remember anything that happened?” Morgan was persistent.
“No.” David paused, then, “Wait a minute. I do recall something when I woke up, but it’s not very clear. It may only be a dream.”
“I’d like to hear about it,” Morgan said in a bedside manner that had been cultivated over the years.
“Well, like I say it may only be a dream, and it isn’t much.”
“I’d still very much like to hear it.”
“Okay. All I remember is opening my eyes, but I couldn’t see too much. I saw the ceiling first and then the light coming in through the door. The strange thing was the light.”
“The light from the hallway?” Morgan was puzzled.
“No. The blue light. There was a blue light all over the room and all over the doctor.”
“What doctor?”
“The doctor standing next to me.”
“Was it Dr. Tremaine?” Morgan hesitated, then looked at Rachel judging her response. She had her eyes fixed on David and was clearly having trouble believing what she was seeing.
David thought for a moment and then said with a slightly embarrassed grin, “No. Believe me, I’d remember if it were Dr. Tremaine. Actually, I couldn’t see him very well. As I said, he was covered in this pale blue light.”
“How do you know he was a doctor?” Morgan inquired.
“Well, I don’t really. He was dressed like a doctor. You know, in the white coat you guys usually wear.”
“What did he look like?”
“Just a guy in a white coat. I didn’t get a look at his face.”
“Did he say anything?” Morgan was beginning to sound like a police inquisitor.
“No. But he did shush me.”
“Shushed you?”
“Yeah. You know. He put his finger to his lips and went ‘shush.’ ”
Morgan was exasperated. “Let me make sure I have this right. All you remember is waking up, seeing a blue light and this man in a white lab coat. Is that correct? Is that all?”
“I’m afraid so.” David was apologetic. “I wish I could tell you more. Say, there’s no problem, is there? I mean the guy is a doctor here, isn’t he?”
“There’s nothing to worry about. We’re just glad you’re doing so well.” Morgan’s sweet disposition had returned. “Dr. Tremaine, do you have any questions?”
“No, but with Mr. Lorayne’s permission I would like to examine his incision.” David looked puzzled. “It’s just routine, Mr. Lorayne. It will only take a moment.”
David nodded his approval. Rachel slowly pulled the sheet back and away from David’s abdomen. Morgan leaned forward and gazed intently.
Aretha gasped and covered her mouth with her hands. Both Rachel and Morgan flushed.
“Incredible,” Morgan said. “Utterly incredible.”
They stared at David’s abdomen. Where a surgical scar should have been was only healthy skin. It was as though David Lorayne had never had surgery.
“Hey,” David said, “can someone tell me what’s going on?”
OUTSIDE IN THE HALL that led to the ICU, Drs. Evan Morgan, Rachel Tremaine, and Nurse Aretha Miller spoke in hushed tones.
“This is unbelievable,” Morgan said, struggling to keep his voice subdued. “Are you sure this man had surgery?”
“Yes, I’m sure,” Rachel said evenly. “I removed part of his stomach.”
“Are you sure you got the right man’s stomach?”
Aretha jumped in, “He definitely had surgery, sir. I changed his dressing myself when he was first admitted to ICU. The incision had healed normally and looked like a three-week-old scar.”
“Well, this can’t be happening,” Morgan said, squeezing the bridge of his nose with his fingers. “Things like this just don’t happen.” The three stood in silence.
“What about the man in the lab coat?” Morgan asked. “Did anyone else see him?”
Aretha shook her head. “After I spoke with you, I asked all the ICU visitors to leave, and then I quizzed the other nurses about what they saw or heard. And I, of course, gave them your message. None of them saw or heard anything, but then the ICU is full, and we were all pretty busy.”
“Great!” Morgan said forcefully. “So that leaves us with a wide awake coma victim with a vanishing scar and no eyewitnesses.” Turning to Rachel he asked, “What have you found out about the other mystery cases?”
Without thinking, Rachel lowered her head. “Nothing. I’ve amassed the medical charts and have started interviewing—”
“I want answers, Dr. Tremaine, and I want them fast. Tomorrow you will reassign all your patients and devote full time to this investigation. No excuses. If we’re not careful, these events could bring down this whole hospital.” Then to Aretha he said, jabbing his finger in the air, “I want a lid put on this. You go back in there and talk to your people and tell them that if word of this slips out to the media, heads will roll. Have I made myself clear?”
“Very clear,” Aretha said. Rachel noticed the woman looked shell-shocked.
Morgan spun on his heels, leaving the two women alone.
Monday, March 23, 1992; 12:30 A.M.
ADAM SPENT A RESTLESS NIGHT. His mind rehashed the day’s events through surrealistic reenactments. A grotesque little boy with a twisted body chased him through the hallways of the church. The faster Adam tried to run, the slower he went. Around every corner and behind every pew were the mournful faces and twisted bodies of people screaming in pain and crying, “Help us, Pastor. Help us. Don’t leave us alone.”
&nbs
p; When Adam awoke, he was sitting straight up in bed, his breathing labored, and his body coated with sweat.
TWELVE
Monday, March 23, 1992; 6:30 A.M.
MONDAY WAS ADAM’S USUAL day off. He liked to sleep in, catch up on household chores, watch old movies, and read. This Monday, however, was different; the haunting dreams had plagued him all night. He was restless, his mind racing, unable to pause even for a moment. What had happened to David Lorayne? It was wonderful that he had suddenly—“miraculously”—come out of the coma, but was it truly a miracle? If so, how could he know? Why was the nursing staff acting so strangely? And why were the pitiful people still in the lobby? Adam had exited with the family through the front doors, and the mass of ill were still there, looking hopefully at him and everyone who traversed the lobby. They left to a chorus of cries, “Are you the Healer?”
It took Adam a long time to get ready for the day. Each step of preparation, from selecting the clothes he would wear that day to showering, was interrupted by thought.
What occurred to David Lorayne was indeed remarkable, but surely others had come out of comas before. Why would the nurses be so amazed? And why did they all but push him and the family out the door? If Adam understood anything, he understood people, and the nurses were acting like soldiers who had been given specific and urgent orders. No, Adam decided, there was more here than met the eye.
The Healer aspect must be related. But how? Adam closed his eyes. He had a keen and highly disciplined mind that could concentrate on a single issue for hours if necessary. When he concentrated, the world dissolved around him. He had been known, while in a high state of deliberation, not to hear the telephone ringing. Slowly, Adam’s mind severed the bonds of distraction and centered on last night’s events.
What do I know? Adam asked himself. I know that David should be in a coma, but he’s not. Thank God. I know that the nurses seemed more than surprised, they seemed astounded. I know that a variety of desperate people are looking for someone they call the Healer. But that’s all I know.
Things might have been easier for Adam had he not been emotionally involved. If it hadn’t been one of his members so close to death and now so full of life, and if that bent little boy had not reached in and left his fingerprints on Adam’s soul, then he might be able to look at the matter more analytically. That was not the case, however. He showered until the water ran cold trying to unsort the churning cauldron of his emotions. The child’s face haunted him. Who was the Healer, and did he have anything to do with David Lorayne?
“PRISCILLA?” THE ELECTRONIC VOICE ASKED.
“What?” The curt reply was muffled by the feather pillow over her head.
“Wake up, will you?”
“Who is this, and why are you calling me at . . .” She opened one eye and looked at the red numerals on her radio alarm “. . . at 6:30 in the morning?”
“It’s Pham Ho. Now cart it out of bed.”
“Are you insane?” Priscilla asked abruptly.
“There’s been another healing.”
Priscilla suddenly sat up. “When? Where? Who?”
“Are you awake yet?”
“Don’t toy with me, Pham. Just let me have the info.” She snatched a pencil and a pad of paper from the drawer of her nightstand.
“Last night at Kingston Memorial Hospital, a guy named David Lorayne came out of an anesthesia-induced coma. Word has it that the guy’s incision is gone too.” '
“What do you mean gone?”
“Gone. Disappeared. Just as if he had never had surgery.”
“How did you find out about this?”
“One of the nurses in ICU is a big fan of yours.” He laughed. “I promised her you’d take her to dinner.”
“Okay, but the station is going to pay for it.” She struggled to hold the phone to her ear and write on the pad while still reclined in bed. “What’s her name?”
“She said she’d let us know later. She’s afraid for her job.”
“Understandable. I don’t think that Morgan would think twice about canning her if he finds out. Anything else?”
“A camera crew will be there in an hour. So go and make yourself pretty.”
Priscilla hung up without comment.
Monday, March 23, 1992; 12:00 P.M.
THE REPORT MADE THE NOON NEWS. Those watching saw Priscilla, every red hair perfectly in place, standing by a hospital bed quizzing David Lorayne. What they did not see was a nurse frantically attempting to prevent their entry. Nor did they see the nurse calling for security. The total interview lasted less than five minutes before an elderly man in a blue security uniform appeared. He emptied the room quickly with the simple announcement, “The police will be here in five minutes.”
Although dramatic, the report lacked substance and that frustrated Priscilla. David Lorayne remembered nothing. She had hoped for more. A phone call to Dr. Morgan for comment gained only the expected threat of a lawsuit. Priscilla had the satisfaction of ending the report with several soul-shaking shots of the crowds of sick and dying in the lobby.
But what was going on? Could the hospital be doing some form of bizarre experiment? Or was there really someone or something performing miracles? One thing was for sure, the reporter who found out could win an Emmy.
Monday, March 23, 1992; 12:30 P.M.
“ISN’T IT WONDERFUL, PASTOR?” Ann’s joy was easily transmitted over the phone. “All our prayers have been answered.”
“Have they said when David can go home?”
“Today,” she said gleefully. “Michael and I were just about to leave when you called.”
“Would you mind if I met you there? I would very much like to see David again.”
“Of course, Pastor. If it weren’t for your prayers, David would still be in ICU.”
Adam disliked such comments. There were always those in the church who thought that a pastor’s prayers were more potent. That somehow he had been given a special dispensation of grace that required God to listen a little more closely, and act a little more quickly. He referred to this as the “witch-doctor syndrome.” The pastor was viewed as the ancient witch doctor who healed with magic words and potions.
“I think you’re giving me too much credit. God can heal without me.”
“You’re too modest, Pastor. We’ll see you at the hospital. Don’t be late. I want to get David home just as soon as possible.”
Monday, March 23, 1992; 1:30 P.M.
THE NOON NEWS REPORT sent another wave of ill crashing in on the hospital. The massive crowd of infirm had spilled out of the lobby and onto the concrete plaza. They sat on lacquered wood benches and concrete planters. Some reclined on the small grass areas that decorated the hospital grounds. Those sentenced to life in wheelchairs had gathered together under the shade of a large tree. Children who should have been full of vitality sat motionless. Some leaned against weary mothers and fathers.
Adam moved quickly through the crowd. His desire to avoid their pain shamed him, but nothing, not his ministry, not seminary, not graduate school, had prepared him for such exposure to suffering. Such scenes had always been confined to the pages of news magazines.
“Are you the Healer?” someone cried.
Adam moved quickly to the entry door and then stopped. Leaning against a concrete block wall was a young woman with long, blond hair. In her lap was “the boy,” his twisted body motionless as he slept. A deep well of emotion stirred within Adam. He turned and walked through the lobby doors.
The elevator took him to the fifth floor where he found the Lorayne family gathered in the hall outside ICU. David was dressed in jeans and a sport shirt and was sitting comfortably in a wheelchair. Michael stood behind the chair, a nurse next to him. Adam did not recognize her. She was not one of the ICU nurses he had seen the night before, but then he realized that they would have gone home hours ago. A woman dressed in a doctor’s smock had her back to him and was speaking with the family.
“Pastor,�
� David exclaimed, “you didn’t have to come down here.”
“It is my pleasure, David. How are you feeling?”
“Great. I don’t think I could stand it if I felt any better.” Although Adam had known David for years, he had never known him to exhibit such energy. He bubbled.
“Pastor,” Ann said, “I would like you to meet—”
“Dr. Rachel Tremaine,” Adam interjected as he extended his hand in greeting. “It’s good to see you again.”
Rachel shook his hand. “Reverend Bridger,” she said dryly. “Oh, I see you two have met,” Ann said.
“Dr. Tremaine was the surgeon who did my appendectomy.” Then he spoke to Rachel, “I didn’t know you were the one who operated on David.”
Rachel said nothing.
“She’s doing some kind of research,” David said. “You know, about my healing. Listen, how long are we going to stand around here? I want to go home.”
Since your doctor Has released you,” Rachel said, “you can go home anytime. I only wish I could persuade you to let me run some more tests.”
“Not a chance, Doc.” David was emphatic. “I feel great. I’ve been healed, and I’ve had all I can take of hospitals. You’ve poked, prodded, and X-rayed. Now I’m ready to go home.”
Rachel was insistent. “Perhaps your pastor could influence your—”
“No way,” David replied before Adam could speak. “Don’t get me wrong. I think the world of him, but I want out of this place. I want to be with my family.”
Adam looked at Rachel and shrugged. “If I thought it would do any good, Doctor, I’d try, but it looks as if his mind is made up. Is there any danger in his going home?”
“If there were we wouldn’t have released him.” Rachel’s disappointment was obvious. “If I can’t persuade you to remain, perhaps I can impose on Reverend Bridger. I would like to ask him a few questions.”
“It would be my pleasure.”
“Can we go now?” David asked. “I want to get out of this wheelchair.”
