“Hi Whit.”
“Seth, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”
“I know.”
Another pause.
“Is there anything I can do?”
“Yes.”
“Name it kid,” Whit said. He sounded relieved.
“Do you still have your plane?”
“Which one?”
"Doesn't matter."
"Alright, go."
“Could you send one to Durban.”
“South Africa?”
Seth watched a woman in a wheelchair struggle across the lot outside, details jumped about in his mind. “Yeah. I need some time to think.”
“Are you going to be on it or not?” Whit asked.
“No, but that’s why general aviation is general right?”
“Right. Who is it that you don’t want to talk to exactly?” Whit asked.
“Anyone.”
“It’s done. Tonight too soon?” Whit was scribbling something, the inkwell at his desk clinked.
“That'd be fine.”
“Alright.”
“Thanks. Something else.…”
“Of course.”
“Can I come out there? Stay the night?”
“I’ll send the plane." He flipped some pages. "It can be there in an hour, a little more if there’s weather. Can you get to Dulles?”
“Now quite, but close.”
Scribbles. “I'll have them wait for you. Listen… Seth, I know it’s been a long time,” Whit exhaled. "But I am sorry.”
“Did you love Mom?”
“Yes.”
There was no hesitation in his father's affirmation, and for some reason Seth felt a couple of seconds of calm for the first time that day. “What would you do if you were me?”
An urgency crept into Whit’s voice. "Talk to someone.”
Seth closed his eyes and just waited. "That’s it?”
“I really don’t know how to answer that,” Whit finally said. “Sometimes there’s a difference between what a man wants to do and what he can do.”
“Maybe.” He hung up.
A tap at the door turned his attention, and when no one had unceremoniously opened the door after ten seconds, he decided that it was likely not a nurse, doctor, reporter or other undesirable. Another tap. He stared at the door, ignored it just long enough to pocket his phone, and then inexplicably padded over in his bare feet and opened it.
No one. He poked his head into the hallway and saw a woman walking away. For several seconds he stared at her slowly retreating form in blue jeans and a grey t–shirt, long hair pulled back into a pony. She was looking down at a paper and caught his glance out of the corner of her eye as she turned to the nurse's station. "Oh, hey," she said from several doors away. She hesitated, and then returned. "I thought maybe you'd gone for a walk or something," she said as she closed the gap. Seth just stared, unsure what to make of this ghost. Until she had turned fully, all he could see was Emily. She tugged her reading glasses off, and offered her hand. "I'm Marley Adams."
They shook. "Seth Meek."
"Yes, I know."
The two stood for a few moments studying one another until Seth cocked his head to one side and said, "You… I thought you were… someone I knew."
A smile, "Don't think so. I work for the hospital."
He eyed the frayed collar of her University of Nebraska t–shirt and then slipped back into his room. She followed, but stayed in the doorway.
"So you're what?" he asked as he sat on the side of his bed. "A therapist or something?"
"I am, yes, or something."
Seth rose and walked to his window, "I'm alright."
"No… probably you're not. You may be at some point, but right now you just want me to get the hell out of here so you can be alone."
"I just need some time," he said after a moment.
"Yeah, I know. It took me about seven years."
He grimaced and watched the dawn creeping up behind the long line of black trees that rimmed the parking lot. He focused nearer and found her reflected in the glass. Again it struck him just how much she looked like Em there in the doorway. A minute passed. Two. "What happened in year seven?" he finally asked.
"Two things," she said after a moment, "I decided to get my Masters in bereavement counseling and decided to kill myself."
He stayed at the window feeling the fear press down on him again, "Who was it?"
"My parents, my little brother."
"How?" The blunt nature of his questions didn't strike him as the least bit uncouth. On the contrary, the last hours had stripped away pretense and left him with little more than his raw instincts, brittle and angry. And now, turning back to look at her, his intuition insisted that she was genuine.
Without looking away she said, "Carbon monoxide."
Seth waited for her to go on, unsure of what to say, but when it was clear that she still struggled with the memories he said, "We don't have to talk about it, I don't want to either."
She dropped a palm on top of her head, eyes closed, "It's not that. I've always just felt like," she opened one eye unconsciously mirroring Seth, "like it was just… unfair. Not just because they died. And not because I should have been there…. I would have just died too, I get that."
"What then?" Seth asked after several seconds. He looked past her and into the hall, unfocused. When she spoke his eyes sharpened.
"I've read about what happened to your family."
"Makes sense that you would."
"Yeah," she let her arms fall to her sides. "But the reason that I say it is this, and you won't like it."
"Then don't say it."
"Alright." She watched him. Another minute passed.
"Listen Em, I'm okay…." he said finally, and then went on, "I just need time to sort it all out." There was a long silence, and when he finally looked up from his own thoughts he could see the distress in her face.
"What? Jesus, I'm sorry… what'd I say?"
"More than you know. And that's why I'm going to tell you anyway. You have something here that I never did."
Seth gingerly rubbed his eyes, "What could that possibly be?"
"A chance to figure it all out."
He stopped, peering at her through his good eye. Seconds ticked away, during which time he struggled to find words that would make her leave. "Can I ask you something?"
"Yes."
"And you'll be honest?"
"It took me seven years, a master's degree, and a miserably failed attempt at killing my stupid self to learn to be honest, Seth," she said with just the hint of a smile again. "I'm not going to start lying on your account."
He stared at her, rewinding all of the words, studying her steady eyes. She wasn't afraid, and it allowed him to go on without the bitterness that he'd first felt. "Do you tell all of your patients about your parents? Is that how you get through to everyone?"
"Nope," she came up off of the doorframe and walked into the room. They stared out of the window together, and somehow this made it easier for them both. "I don't talk about them much actually. It really doesn't get any easier, Seth. Sorry. It's been ten years for me and I think of them every day."
They watched the dawn break over the trees until Seth could actually feel the sun creeping over his fingertips. He flexed them, wanting to do something.
"I called you Em earlier."
"Yeah. I really am sorry, Seth. I know that sounds like a line of bunk, but… that's why I do this. I get it." She hesitated, "We're not the same though."
His mind raced through the reasons that they weren't. Carbon Monoxide was such a painless way to go, a quiet dream that passes into a dream. No blood, no shrieking, no hate. Just a soothing passing from life to death, and for a moment resentment welled up on the inside of him. Not for the veiled admission that her experience with death had been easier, but for giving him the first real line of bullshit. He turned to her with angry eyes, but she didn't reply in kind. Instead, he was stoppe
d short, clipping his words before they cut her down. His sudden, revolting anger was replaced in an instant.
"It's easier for you, Seth."
His mouth moved, but there were no words. Finally, "I… I don't…."
"You can do something about this."
"There's nothing...."
"No." She turned then, wiping her eyes and drawing one long slick line of grief across her cheek. "No, you can do anything you want. My parents are just dead. Danny's dead. Everyone is just gone. There's no one to blame and it's fucking awful every day."
He stared at her, unnerved by her rawness. This was really her, not a university–built counselor court–appointed to find him before dawn. Some things fell into place. She'd come to find him while still in her crappy old work out shirt, without makeup, and smelling like sweat because she was trying to find something in the people that she was assigned to 'help.' In helping him face off against the fear that threatened every waking moment to bring him again to his knees, she was finding herself. Probably this was exactly what drove her to do it again and again, that hope of incremental salvation–the desire to find just a little logic, some reason, something each time she faced her own fears in her patients.
"You're not afraid."
"No. Livid… but not afraid."
"How?" Seth asked, still just staring at her as unabashed as a child.
She collected herself with a long breath and then said, "Fear can't touch you without permission."
"I'm afraid."
"You're giving yourself permission to think that someone will to come kill you? That everyone thinks that you've failed? That you think you've failed? About killing yourself? Of how you'll get up the nerve to mangle your brain somehow?"
He just nodded. Dizzy, he put his palm on the window to steady himself.
"You know how I tried to do it?"
"Do what? Oh.…" he said, choking down the nausea that rushed up in his throat.
"Promise not to laugh."
He said nothing, barely hearing her at all now.
"I stuffed about fifty of those little hotel soaps down my throat."
"Soap?"
"You promised not to laugh."
He blinked, "I'm not… you tried to kill yourself by eating soap?"
A nod. A little smile reflected in the glass. She sniffed. "I never claimed to be smart. You got the fucked up counselor didn't you? It almost worked though, so give me a little credit."
"Soap did?"
"Stop saying soap."
Seth felt his mouth twitch, "Sorry… it's just…."
"Weird. I know. And then the hotel threatened to file charges against me because I stole them off of the cart. Seriously."
"Why'd you do it that way?"
"I dunno, and stop looking at me like that," she shook her head at the memory, seeing it all play out in the window before them. "I was a little crazy I think. More than normal. It seemed like a good idea at the time."
"Is soap even poisonous?"
She glanced sidelong at him, "Oh yeah. I couldn't talk for weeks, I still can't eat right really, and it hurt so, so bad. There wasn't a thing they could do about the pain. I thought I was going to split open, just explode. I learned my lesson. No more damn soap for me. How about you?"
"No, no soap."
"Gun? Men like guns, statistically that is."
"I don't know. Maybe."
"Guns are fast."
"I don't think I deserve fast," he said without thinking.
"I think you do."
Seth looked at her in the reflection. "You really aren't a very good counselor."
"I'm way better than you even know. You won't kill yourself."
"I think about it all of the time."
She sighed, "I know. I still do sometimes. But listen, you don't have an excuse to kill yourself."
The look on his face made it clear that he believed her to be entirely wrong. "I let them die."
"No."
"Yes. Yes, I fucking did," he flared. "I was on my knees waiting, I didn't do anything."
"You couldn't. It's different. And I know that I can't convince you of that, you have to figure it all out on your own. But you're fortunate Seth. Most people can't direct their anger, or sorrow, loss, or hope or anything. For most of us it's just a downward spiral. Carbon Monoxide just is… but what happened to you is different. Don't throw away that chance to do what you're supposed to do, whatever it is. Maybe you're supposed talk someone through something terrible in the future. What if you're their only chance? I don't know what it is. I do know that if you quit now, you'll never get a chance to turn the tables on life for what it did to you. That’s why I do what I do. That's why I'm here with you now. I didn't quit, soap and all. I'm doing something to make a difference. That sounds selfless, like I'm doing it for the greater good or whatever, but it's not. It's how I survive. But I think it's how you'll survive too."
The light sunlight touched her face first, then, a few silent minutes later, his.
"I should go. I stink," she said. Next to his, she pushed her hand against the window for several seconds and then drifted from the room.
Seth said nothing as she left him alone, his palm still pressed into the cold glass as he watched her little frosty handprint fade. Minutes after it had entirely disappeared, he remained transfixed on the spot. Thinking. Fragmented thoughts raced and competed for his attention but one by one he moved them into place – they clumped together, binding to like counterparts. The framework began to form like the edge pieces of a jigsaw puzzle – and then suddenly it was there. The fragments joined in an instant and he could see what it was that he would do. What he could do. He blinked, coming out of his thoughts and turning away from the window. Suddenly there was pressure, a time crunch that was so palpable that he imagined everyone in the hospital could see it on his face. He fought the urge to glance up at the security camera over his bed.
Seth licked his lips and took out his phone as again the racing thoughts grappled about in his mind. He logged in to the WiFi connection and opened his terminal application, allowing him to take a peek at the hospital's operating system. His eyes rushed down the screen. It was modern certainly, but not complicated. He began to type, working his way through the initial security at a feverish pace. Once beyond the first layer, he accessed the administrative side of the server and found the long list of staff emails. He paused, eyes flicking to the door again. He walked to his bed, sat and pushed the call button on the remote. He then tucked it under his thigh and returned attention to the phone's screen. Less than a minute later the nurse of the hour came through the door, followed by the uniformed cop outside, "Need something?"
Seth looked up, seemingly caught off guard, "I'm sorry, what?"
"You pushed your call button?"
"No, I was just… oh, sorry," he lifted the remote. "I think I did, sorry."
"No problem honey. Since I'm here can I get you anything?"
Seth glanced at her nametag as she deactivated the button, "I'm okay, thanks though." Dorthy Mullens.
She slid from the room, followed a few lingering moments later by the cop.
He did a quick search for the hospital's current administrators, and while this spun up, he entered the system's service code in the command line. He wondered if he could just spoof it into believing that he was another tech taking time to do a bit of maintenance. The system balked at the intrusion, but he countered by trying the exact same thing with a smaller subsystem and this time, there were no red flags thrown. He didn't need into the entire system, and it was pure hubris to try, but this was his nature–to inquire and test, but also to start with the most difficult possible approach just to see if it were possible. It was a habit that, until a few minutes ago, he would have thought to be wholly obsolete.
Once inside the hierarchy, he introduced himself to the subsystem as a guest user–in this case a technician whom had worked on the email systems last month–and then flipped back to check his Internet searc
h. Who does everyone listen to at a hospital? Who makes the nurses jumpy? Probably the guy who took care of the budget…. There, "Emmerson, Dale." His thumbs flew over the little touch keypad, copying the associated email and then retrieving the password. Seth opened a new terminal line and accessed the email system as Mr. Dale Emmerson, and then jotted a quick note from his account to Nurse Dorthy, admonishing her to make certain that she and the floor nurses attended the emergency staff budgetary meeting later that hour. That sounded sufficiently ominous he thought.
Seth looked at the words on the screen. He'd crossed a line. A subtle one to be sure, but in the rush of these last minutes he hadn't even considered that he had broken the law, and not just the laws on the books, but the ones in his head. He was cracking into a system for his own gain. And he'd done it without thinking.
He hit send.
And with that, the world began to change.
Chapter Thirteen
Imposition
Detectives Tonic and Finn arrived at the hospital at 10:15.
Father Kevin Brown knocked on Seth’s door at 10:25 with two cups of coffee and a bag of bagels. He’d skipped ahead a few rooms in his rounds. Actually he didn’t usually start until ten, and he’d skipped all of the other rooms that he might have visited on the way to this one. “Am I interrupting son?” His belly preceded him into the room. “I thought you might like to talk.”
“Not really.” Seth sat cross–legged in the middle of his tightly made bed. He was in his clothes, shoes and socks arranged neatly beside him. His shirt had been laundered, even pressed. There was no more blood, his or anyone else’s on the thing….It smelled like bleach. He'd decided that it wouldn't stay that way for long.
“Not really interrupting or not really wanting to talk? I brought you some food.” Brown set the bag down and handed over the coffee, which Seth accepted and cradled in his lap.
No words came.
“I wonder. I wonder if I could ask you one question then before I get on my way then?” Brown said.
“Sure.”
“What’ll you do from here? What’s your plan, son? Sometimes it helps to have a plan, even if it’s for the next minute or hour or day, you know.”
“I don’t know,” he lied. Seth examined the man, and decided that he was probably real too. That he was probably a good guy who had done this kind of thing before.
Jury of Peers Page 8
