by Jan Eira
“Weird people everywhere,” said Susie. “I heard they were hiding after stealing some drugs from our pharmacy.”
Sergeant Tomlinson sneezed and then wiped his nose with a tissue.
“Tell her about the chest pains,” said Officer Hines. “And tell her how much you smoke, too.”
“Chest pains?” asked Susie, her interest piqued.
“Right here in the middle of my chest. Pressure feeling.” Sergeant Tomlinson made a fist and held it in front of his breastbone.
Susie’s concern grew. “When did the chest pains begin?”
“I’ve had those on and off for about three months when I run or walk fast. It goes away when I stop.”
“You’re giving me a textbook description of angina pectoris,” said Susie. “Heart pains. Are you having the pain now? At rest?”
He nodded. “Yeah, a little.”
“Any family history of heart attacks?”
“Yes, most of the men in my family have had heart attacks before age fifty.”
“And they all smoke like chimneys,” said Officer Hines.
“How old are you?” asked Susie.
“Forty-eight,” said Sergeant Tomlinson.
“I’m ordering an EKG on you, stat.”
Dr. and Mrs. Rovine had received the worst news imaginable. With it befell an avalanche of emotions. Their only daughter, Valerie, had died suddenly of anaphylactic shock after eating a peanut-filled chocolate bar.
Dr. Rovine felt himself progress through the stages of grief, one by one. First was the denial. As cruel as the world could sometimes become, losing a child—losing his Valerie—would make life meaningless. It couldn’t be true. Yet the scientist in him knew her demise was undeniable. It was just as true as all the times in his professional career when he had been forced to inform people their child or loved one had succumbed to anaphylactic shock, a congenital heart defect, or the unexpected emergence of a deadly heart rhythm. If it were real, then why wouldn’t it be real now? Was he so special that God would not dare to take one of his own?
Then came the anger. It was ridiculous to lose the most precious part of him, all because of a bite of a goddamned candy bar. Valerie’s death hadn’t been heroic or gallant, noble or admirable. It had been because of a goddamned twenty-five cent Baby Ruth candy bar.
The bargaining was next. “God, if you make all this be only a nightmare, I promise…I promise…I’ll promise anything. Anything at all.”
Depression and acceptance, the last two stages, struck Dr. Rovine simultaneously. They were in cahoots, conspiring to stab at his heart and let bits of life gush from every pore. He felt as if an invisible force field were around him and overwhelming him.
To make matters worse, because of the unusual circumstances surrounding his daughter’s death, Valerie had become a case for the police and coroner. While the investigations were ongoing, there would be no rest for Valerie, him, or his family.
He was now sitting alone in the On-Call Room, gazing at a picture of Valerie.
“The best thing to do is to return to what I know best,” he thought. “Continue with my routines. Go back to work.”
A knock on the door interrupted his musings.
“You’re having a heart attack, Sergeant Tomlinson,” said Dr. Rovine, looking at the EKG. “We have a new experimental medication called Enoxadin for heart attack patients. You’re a good candidate for it, if you’re interested.”
CHAPTER 3
The morning air was still and cool. The quiet invited peace, but Doug’s loss invited deep, unbearable sorrow. With a heavy heart and determination, he put his car in park in the student parking lot at the Mullen High School. Tears streamed down his face. He took a deep breath as his right hand caressed the small briefcase on the passenger’s seat.
He held up an eight-by-eleven photograph of a beautiful young woman. She had dirty-blond hair and an infectious smile encircling a set of perfectly white teeth. Doug’s index finger touched her lips and then the handwritten message in the right-lower corner: Let me be your future. Love always, Valerie.
“Football isn’t everything,” Valerie told him only a few weeks ago. “I know you feel like your life is over after your injury, but there’s much more to life.”
“Nothing worth living for,” Doug said. “Nothing!”
“What about me?” she asked. “What about us?” She stood and walked to his bedside. “I’m not giving up on you. Why are you giving up on you? And me? Us?”
“Football was going to be my life, Val.”
“I was hoping I was going to be your life. Football is just a game.”
“A game I can no longer play. Good-bye, scholarships. Good-bye, college. Good-bye, future.”
“Yeah, good-bye, scholarships,” said Valerie. “But why good-bye to college or your future? I’ll be there for you. Let me be your guiding light.”
Doug swallowed hard and nodded. Valerie wiped a tear from his cheek.
“Promise?” he said.
“I promise.”
Doug stared at Valerie’s photo in his lap. A tear landed on its glossy finish.
He placed the photo on the dashboard and grabbed the small briefcase. He opened it and stared at its content for a long moment. He first retrieved the ammo clip and studied it. He placed the clip between his legs and grabbed the semiautomatic machine gun. He then loaded the clip into the weapon and set it on the passenger’s seat. He focused on the large building of Mullen High School in front of him in the distance. It had once been a place that had given him joy and fame.
Doug knocked on the door labeled james a. brammeier, head coach, football program at mullen high school.
“Come in,” said the coach. “Sit down.”
Doug did. “You called for me, Coach?”
“I did.” Coach Brammeier took a sip of coffee. “You have a lot of talent, Doug. You may be the most talented young quarterback I’ve had the honor of coaching in my twenty years.”
“Thank you, sir.”
I’m proud of you, son.” Another sip of coffee. “I have in front of me five letters, each from a Division I university.” The coach formed a rare grin. “You’re a wanted man, son.”
“Wow! I’m speechless.”
“All you have to do is pick one of these colleges, and you’re in. All expenses paid.” Coach Brammeier stood and handed five papers to Doug. “You deserve this. You worked very hard for it. Congratulations, son.”
Doug looked outside his car. The parking lot was full of vehicles. He sighed and looked at the clock on his cell phone. It was fifteen past seven o’clock. School would begin officially in fifteen minutes, but not for him. He had too much to do, and classes weren’t on the schedule for today—or ever again.
In the distance, several groups of students walked somberly into the high school. Their heads were down. By the entrance into the building was a large sign. It read, “Gathering at the Gym at Seven Tonight in Memory of Valerie Rovine.”
