by Tim Downs
“So will you.”
“I’m a teacher. I always look stupid to parents—but look who I’m telling.”
Natalie didn’t respond.
“Of course, you can always pull out of the carpool line and drive away if you want to—that’s one way to get rid of me. But then you’d just have to turn around and come back for Leah. Wouldn’t it be easier to just listen to me for a minute while you’re here?”
Natalie rolled her eyes and lowered the window again.
“I wanted to apologize for something else,” he said.
“What?”
“I read the report from your meeting with the school counselor. Mr. Armantrout forwarded me a copy. How did you think it went?”
“Terrific,” Natalie said. “He thinks Leah had a ‘psychotic episode’—those were his exact words. He wants Leah to see a psychiatrist; he wants her to have an MRI. An MRI, Matt—he thinks something could be wrong with her brain.”
Matt looked at her sympathetically. “I know. I read his recommendations. I think he was overreacting—Armantrout has a tendency to do that.”
Natalie pulled forward again without giving him notice.
Matt stepped up to the window again. “I was only doing my job,” he said. “I’m required to pass on any emotional or psychological concerns to the school counselor, and he’s required to report back to me. You don’t have to take his suggestions, Natalie. I don’t think Leah needs to see a psychiatrist.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“But I do want to keep an eye on her. I don’t know what Leah saw the other day; hopefully, it was just a onetime occurrence. But if I have any other concerns about Leah I want to be able to talk to you about it. Can I do that?”
“You’re the teacher. You can do anything you want.”
“But will you listen?”
Natalie took the number from the dashboard and held it up to the window. “Number two-twelve—would you send her over, please? I have to get to work.”
Matt stepped back from the window. “I’m not the bad guy here, Natalie. Believe it or not, I’m on your side.” He looked over the top of the car at the crowd of children. “Two-twelve! Leah Pelton, your ride’s here!”
As Leah opened the rear door and slung her backpack onto the seat, Matt leaned down to the driver’s window once more. “I think I’ll go around behind you,” he said to Natalie. “I’m not sure it’s safe to walk in front of your car right now.”
Natalie raised her window and drove off with no reply.
“So how was school?” Natalie called to the backseat.
Leah shrugged.
Natalie glanced in the rearview mirror. “How do you like Mr. Callahan?”
“He’s cool.”
Cool, Natalie thought. That’s a rave review coming from her. “What makes Mr. Callahan cool?”
“He just is.”
Natalie let a few minutes pass before she said, “Sweetheart, do you mind if I ask you something?”
Another shrug.
“Do you ever miss your dad?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe yes, or maybe no?”
“Just maybe.”
She paused. “When you’re at home—where we live now—do you feel safe?”
“I guess so.”
“Would you tell me if you didn’t? Because I would want to know—I always want you to feel safe. If anyone ever tries to hurt you, I want you to promise you’ll tell me—okay?”
“Okay.”
“Promise?”
“Okay, Mom.”
Natalie decided to leave it at that. “Can I ask another question?”
Leah let out a beleaguered sigh. “What?”
“The other day—when you saw that angel—how did it make you feel?”
“Feel?”
“I mean, did you feel funny in any way? Dizzy? Lightheaded?”
“I just saw an angel, that’s all. I didn’t feel anything.”
“No headache, or anything like that?”
“No.”
“So it was just like looking at anything else?”
“It was just an angel,” she said.
Just an angel, Natalie thought. Just your run-of-the-mill psychotic episode.
They drove the rest of the way home in silence.
When Natalie opened the door she found Kemp seated at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee and the Orange County edition of the Los Angeles Times. His thick black hair was disheveled and he had a five o’clock shadow.
“Hey,” he said without looking up.
Natalie stepped aside to let Leah pass. “Go and get your things together,” she told her. “Dinner’s in half an hour. Don’t forget your clothes for tomorrow.”
When Leah left the room she turned to Kemp. “You were out late.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I had some things to do.”
“It’s not like you to give up sleep. Mind if I ask where you were?”
“I told you—I had things to do. Do I need to file a flight plan?”
“It would be nice if you called,” she said, “just so I don’t worry.”
“Did you worry?”
“I . . . wondered.”
“I figured you’d probably be asleep—no sense disturbing you.”
“Thanks,” she said. “How thoughtful of you.”
He looked up from his paper. “While we’re on the subject, I might as well tell you I’m going to be late the next few days too.”
“More ‘things to do’?”
“Yeah, something like that.”
Natalie glared at him. “I don’t suppose it’s occurred to you, Kemp, but we’ve got a few ‘things to do’ around here, and you’re not helping out. We need to find a replacement for Mrs. Rodriguez as soon as possible, and I don’t have time to do it. Why can’t you help? I haven’t had a minute lately. I’ve had all these teacher’s meetings—what’s your excuse? I’m having to drag Leah over to UCLA every night. The poor thing has to sleep in the nurses’ room. She shouldn’t have to do that.”
“What’s the big deal? She’s right there where you can keep an eye on her.”
“I don’t want to ‘keep an eye on her.’ I want her to be able to sleep in her own bed, and I want you to help make that happen.”
“Not this week. I’m busy.”
“Busy doing what?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“It is too my business. These ‘things to do’—are they more important than Leah? More important than me?”
“They’re important to me,” he said. “They’re important to all of us.”
“Why?”
“Sorry,” Kemp said. “You’ll just have to trust me. Now can we have dinner? If you don’t mind, I have to get to work.”
15
How you doing in here?” Emmet asked.
“Okay,” Leah said.
“You get lonely sometimes?”
She shook her head. “I don’t mind being alone.”
“Me neither,” Emmet said. “Gives a soul time to think. People today, it’s like they can’t stand quiet—always got to have something plugged in their ears or shoved up against their heads.”
“Some of the nurses stop and visit me,” Leah said.
“Well, who wouldn’t want to? I had to stand in line just to see you myself.”
Leah grinned.
“Brought you something from the cafeteria,” Emmet said. “Here you go.” He reached into his shirt pocket and handed her a Little Debbie chocolate cupcake wrapped in clear plastic. “You know what that is, don’t you?”
“A cupcake.”
“It only looks like a cupcake. Truth is, it’s medicine. Doctors here hand out all kinds of nasty pills, but that’ll cure most anything that ails you. It’s a proven fact—give it a try.”
“I’m not sick,” she said.
“And if you eat those you never will be.”
Leah tore the plastic with her teeth and took ou
t the cupcake. “Some people think I’m sick.”
“Now why in the world would they think that?”
“Because I see angels.” She took a bite and looked up at him. “Do you think I’m sick?”
Emmet shook his head. “I think there are people who see things other people can’t see, that’s all. I call that a gift.”
“Do you see angels?”
“I see what’s in front of me—some people don’t.” He watched her for a moment. “How’s that cupcake?”
“Really good.”
“You feel better now, don’t you?”
She nodded.
“What’d I tell you? Cures most everything.” He patted her on the leg and stood up. “I best get back to work now. I’ll tell your next visitor they can come in.” He walked to the door and looked back. “What about Mr. Kemp? Has he been by to see you this evening?”
“He’s busy,” Leah said. “Mom says he has a movie star.”
“I’m sure he’ll stop by when he can. After all, lots of people know movie stars; how many people know a girl who sees angels?”
Kemp checked the BIS monitor again; in less than thirty minutes the digital display had inched its way up from 60 to 78. In another few minutes Liv Hayden would reach a semiconscious state, and he needed to be ready when she did.
He opened the door a crack and peeked into the hallway; it was empty. That was the benefit of being a movie star like Liv Hayden: Celebrity status got you a private room at the end of a hallway where none of the other hospital staff were likely to drop by unannounced—especially at this hour of the night. He should have at least an hour alone with her, and that was all he needed.
He slipped on a white lab coat and buttoned it all the way to the collar, then rolled an examination lamp up to the bed and swiveled the arm so that the light would be positioned just above and behind his head. He flipped the switch and flooded the bed in brilliant white light, then positioned his face directly in front of the light, creating a near-total eclipse. He imagined what the scene would look like to Hayden: his handsome face shrouded in mysterious shadow, surrounded by a majestic nimbus of light. The effect should be impressive; he found himself wishing he could see it himself.
The monitor now read 82, and Kemp could detect a slight flutter beginning in Hayden’s eyelids. He quickly adjusted the infusion pump to stabilize the propofol drip; the last thing he wanted was his patient regaining full consciousness and sitting upright in bed. She was just about there—in a semiconscious, trancelike state—and in another few seconds she would open her eyes and meet her celestial guide . . .
Hayden suddenly opened her eyes, then just as suddenly squeezed them shut against the blinding light. When she eased them open again they were only narrow slits, staring up at the mysterious figure hovering over her.
Kemp bent down and studied her eyes . . . her pupils were constricting in response to the light exactly as they should. He waved his hand in front of her face and detected a slight flinch. Kemp, you genius, you. He had reduced her dosage of propofol almost perfectly—Olivia Hayden was now in a semiconscious state.
Uh-oh.
When it suddenly dawned on him that the curtain was up and Hayden’s mental camera was rolling, Kemp straightened so abruptly that he almost banged his head against the examination light. In his preoccupation with the technical details he had forgotten to think of anything to say. It was like a childhood nightmare: He was the star of the show, it was opening night, but he had forgotten his lines.
His mind raced, but all he could come up with was: “Greetings, earthling!”
Idiot! he shouted to himself. This isn’t Star Trek! You’re an angel, remember? His immediate instinct was to smack himself on the forehead, but it didn’t seem the sort of thing an angelic being would do. He took a moment to compose himself. He needed to pull himself together before his “message from above” turned into “The Three Stooges in Orbit.”
He cleared his throat.
“You’re probably wondering who I am. I am a messenger, Liv, a messenger sent from a distant dimension to tell you something very important—something that I want you to share with the whole world, preferably in the form of a book. In fact, definitely a book—in hardcover.”
Careful, he thought. Don’t get ahead of yourself—just stick to the basics.
“I have been called by many names in many times and places. Many have attempted to describe the things I am going to tell you, but they all got it wrong. I am here to correct their mistakes—to tell you how things really are and how the universe really works.”
How the universe works? Those two morons had better come up with something or I’m really overpromising here.
“Oh—by the way, the message I bring you is the last and most important of all. In other words, this message renders all previous messages null and void. Are we clear on that?”
So much for the competition.
“There is a great change taking place in the universe,” he went on. “A new awareness, a new consciousness, a new way of thinking—and you have been chosen to communicate this new way to the world. You may wonder, ‘Why me? Why have I been chosen for this task?’ The reason is that you are special; your mind is receptive to new ideas; you are spiritually attuned. Plus, you’ve held up very well for a woman your age, and that doesn’t hurt either.”
Hayden’s eyes slowly widened as they adjusted to the light. Her pupils were tiny pinpoints—a side effect of the propofol. She never blinked; she just continued to stare up at the heavenly messenger and soak up the words like a sponge.
“Your presence here in this hospital is no accident, Liv. It’s all part of a great cosmic plan. There are no accidents. Well—your automobile accident was an accident, but that’s different. I think you know what I mean.”
Stop rambling, you fool. Wrap it up.
“I will appear to you each night about this time and I will reveal my thoughts to you. We will become very close, Liv. You will come to know my voice better than you know your own, until my voice is your voice and my thoughts are your—”
There was a knock on the door.
Kemp whirled around. He fumbled for the switch on the examination light and gave the light a shove, sending it rolling across the room. He ripped open his lab coat and wrestled it off, sending buttons flying like shrapnel, then wadded the coat into a ball and kicked it under the bed. He was just about to reach for the infusion pump when there was a second knock, louder and more insistent than before. There was no time to adjust the propofol; one knock could be ignored, but not two.
He hurried to the door and opened it as casually as possible.
Natalie looked at him. “Did you say good night to Leah?”
Kemp’s heart started beating again. “What?”
“When I went to the break room to tuck her in, she said you hadn’t been in to see her tonight.”
“I’m working, Natalie. Do you mind?”
Natalie looked past him into the room. “I heard talking in here.”
“I was talking to Ms. Hayden,” he said. “It’s standard practice with comatose patients. You know that.”
“We talk to the ones we’re trying to bring out of a coma, not the ones we’re trying to keep in. What are you doing in here, sharing your heart with your new movie star friend?”
“I resent the implication and the interruption. Is there anything else?”
“You might try talking to your daughter once in a while—she’s actually conscious.”
Kemp was about to say, “She’s not my daughter”—but he knew that would only prolong the argument. Instead he diplomatically replied, “You’re right. I should have stopped in to tell her good night. I got distracted and I forgot. Let’s not make a big deal out of it.”
“It’s a big deal to her, Kemp.”
“Maybe.”
“Even if it’s not, it’s a big deal to me.”
“Okay, point taken. If she’s here tomorrow night I’ll stop in and see her t
hen.”
“Where else would she be? I can’t find a caregiver in the next twenty-four hours—not by myself, anyway.”
Kemp didn’t respond.
“Are you still going to be home late?”
“I told you—I have things to do.”
She looked at the figure lying on the bed. “Like talking to movie stars?”
Kemp shut the door halfway. “I tell you what—let’s talk about work when we’re at work and home when we’re at home. Right now I’m working—I have a patient, and if I remember correctly so do you. That may not mean much to you, Natalie, but it does to me. Perhaps an extra five years of education gives one a different attitude toward the practice of medicine. Now if you don’t mind, my patient requires my attention. Please don’t interrupt me again unless it’s work-related.”
He closed the door in her face.
He walked back to the bed and looked down at Liv Hayden. Her eyes were still half open, staring up into empty space. He adjusted the infusion pump and watched as the number on the BIS monitor began to tick down and her eyes slowly closed again.
“Sorry to leave you hanging,” Kemp said. “People like you and me have a lot of demands on us, don’t we? If you don’t mind, I think I’ll take my lunch break now; you seem to be dozing off anyway. Let’s pick it up where we left off tomorrow night, shall we? By then I might even have something to say.”
16
Mind if I join you?”
Kemp looked up from his LA Times to see Emmet sliding his cafeteria tray onto the table across from him. Kemp looked at him in disdain. “Don’t the janitors have their own tables?”
“The cafeteria’s a democracy,” Emmet said. “That’s what I like about the place. I’m not allowed in the physicians’ lounge, and I don’t belong in the nurses’ break room unless I’m collecting the trash. But in the cafeteria a man can sit wherever he wants. I can sit right next to a doctor if I want to. I can even sit across from you.”
“Then why did you ask if I mind?”
“Just a courtesy,” he said. “Pass the salt, please.”
Kemp slid the shaker across the table. “Speaking of courtesy, would you mind not talking to me? I’m trying to read here.”
