by Jay Begler
While the floor upon which Goodwin and the medical staff were standing had all of the trappings of a typical hospital room, it was set in an amphitheater that housed 50 ascending stadium-like circular rows. Sheila, within her cocoon of light, was lying on a raised bed situated in the middle of the floor.
A large section of the room was roped off and marked “Press.” At least 10 television cameras aimed downwardly at Sheila. Some of the cameras were from the major networks CNN, ABC, NBC, CBS, and FOX. Others represented the more specialized channels, for example, the All Medical News Channel as well as MED-TV. A month later cameras from the All Sheila Channel and The Mysterious White Light Channel were also in place. Hundreds of reporters, all wearing dark 3-D glasses, were entering the rows and setting up for what they assumed would be an important news story. The remainder of the theater was marked “public,” with a handful of seats available for those lucky enough to be able to buy tickets, which were already being scalped. As the news story about Sheila began to build, several large corporations purchased corporate boxes for their executives and key customers.
“I think it’s safe to turn and look at your wife now, Mr. Goodwin. You should cover your eyes with this extra piece of colored glass, even though you are wearing tinted 3-D glasses.”
With the firm touch of a skating instructor teaching a pirouette, Andre guided Goodwin’s slow rotation towards Sheila. While she was difficult to discern, even through the 3D glasses and the small additional hand-held filter, Sheila did not appear to be injured or burned. There was no sign of singed hair or eyebrows. Except for her slightly puffy face she looked remarkably well. The IV bag whose tube was presumably infused into her arm, but whose end disappeared into the cocoon of light, had the word “SPA” written across it.
For several minutes, Goodwin simply observed and attempted to absorb what was happening in the room. A woman who functioned both as a doctor and tour director, accompanied by a group of young interns as well as a large group of tourists from Japan on an American Meditainment tour, entered the first row of the amphitheater. She looked down and past Goodwin as if he was simply part of the hospital decor and addressed the group in English while a second woman provided a simultaneous translation via headsets provided at each seat: “This is quite an unusual case of a woman being hit by a very large bolt of lightning. She arrived in a beyond REM state and, except for some slight swelling of the face and limbs and the curious intense light around her body, appears fine. We expect that she will be out of her beyond REM state soon and be able to resume her normal daily activity.”
The woman walked from the first row to the floor of the room, took a hospital sheet, and threw it over the cocoon of light. The sheet simply disappeared into the light. “You will notice,” she said, “nothing absorbs or eliminates the light.” The little demonstration evoked a spontaneous “Godzilla” from the group who, as if on cue, started taking photographs on their smart phones at a furious rate. Many of the photographs appeared moments later on www.godzilla.com a Tokyo based site for unusual photographs.
As the tourists exited, Goodwin noticed that Dr. Kildare, whom he recognized from Sheila’s avatar’s web page, had entered the room. Goodwin thought to himself that the avatar devoid of any facial imperfections looked considerably better than Kildare in real life. Kildare extended his hand and said, “Glad to meet you, Mr. Goodwin.” Goodwin noticed that the pin attached his scrub suit said, “PPR 26.” Before Goodwin could reciprocate, Kildare turned to the chief resident on the case, “So, what’s the prognosis? Any fluid?”
“No fluid, we tested for that. No unusual substances in the body or abnormalities. No masses. Fact is we have no idea whatsoever, not a clue, not a theory, not a guess, not even a combination of any of the foregoing. We’ve conducted a computer search and a literature search relating to the light and have no historical precedents or any information on it.
Smiling broadly Kildare announced, “And that, doctors and husband, is a lesson to be learned. We have no idea of what profound effects lightning has on the human body. In this case the lightning was so strong and long-lasting that no one has been able to predict the outcome for this patient, though Mrs. Goodwin appears to be doing as well as can be expected for now.”
“Excuse me doctor, I have a question.”
“Yes, Mr. Goodwin.”
“What is the baseline criterion for she’s doing as well as can be expected for now?”
“She’s alive.”
“Well, what do you think I should do, doctor?”
“Nothing much you can do. Call your friends and family and advise them of the situation. Do all of those logistical things one does when a loved one is in a beyond REM state. If you are still in a quandary, our bookstore offers a DVD entitled 100 Exciting Things To Do While Your Loved One Is Beyond REM for only $19. I should warn you, however, that the DVD was produced by the travel mogul, Mario Perillo, and I don’t recommend going to Florence until after your wife wakes up, though the trip does look quite exciting.”
“Just be patient. As for the glow, I assume it will dissipate. We are going to take Sheila for an EKG followed by a CAT scan followed by an MRl followed by a GI series. Do not worry; everything will be fine. Why don’t you go home, make those phone calls, and check with me tomorrow? If there are any changes we will call you.”
“Well, I just want to stick around for a little while and collect my thoughts.”
“You should go to the lounge and have some tea. It will calm you down. If anything happens, I’ll come get you.”
“I guess you are right.”
Goodwin did not realize how stressful the last few hours had been until he entered the calm atmosphere of the Concierge Lounge. The Host-Pital had worked quite hard to create an environment in the lounge that was conducive to lowering stress levels. The soft nondescript music began to relax Goodwin as did the choice of television program transmitted to the lounge. The administration of the Host-Pital had wisely decided not to permit normal programming, such as CNN News. Instead, it opted to present the single most calming program on television. After extensive research, the administration concluded that the only programs to be viewed in the lounge would be reruns of Martha Stewart’s Living. Her attractive looks and elegant style combined with her calm confident voice and the great ease with which she executed her tasks, from baking a lemon meringue pie to constructing a harpsichord out of dental floss, upon which she immediately played Chopin’s Polonaise in C Minor, (and without sheet music!) seemed to keep even the highest levels of stress in check.
This user-friendly environment worked well and Goodwin began to relax as he sipped herbal tea and watched, by a lucky coincidence, Martha Stewart’s most famous and fascinating program in which, defying conventional wisdom, she actually made a silk purse from a sow’s ear. Goodwin thought that the use of Martha Stewart by the Host-Pital was somewhat ironic in view of Sheila’s great jealousy of her. Every time she was on the air, Sheila would come up with a dig, such as, “I could do just as good a job as her if I had the time.” When Goodwin pointed out that Sheila didn’t work and had a full time maid, Sheila replied, “How do you expect me to compete with Martha Stewart? After all, I’m just one woman. She’s a corporation.” Goodwin never pressed the issue.
As he sat watching the program while simultaneously thumbing through Martha Stewart’s Living Magazine, Goodwin noticed Kildare, running into the lounge. He seemed quite excited, if not agitated. “Oh, I’m glad I caught you. There’s been a slight change in Sheila. Though she’s still in her beyond REM state, she now has a broad smile on her face and she giggles periodically. And every once and a while she gives out with a loud ‘ha.”
This news was even more amazing than all of the day’s events. Goodwin had to see for himself. Goodwin, Kildare, Ms. Smithers, and Andre surrounded Sheila’s glowing cocoon. Each held a thick tinted glass shield over their eyes to help them better discern Sheila.
“No doubt about it,” Kildare said, “she’s
smiling.”
Suddenly, Sheila began to laugh hysterically. No sound, however, emanated from within her cocoon. Goodwin, at that moment imagined someone telling a joke to Marcel Marceau, the famed mime. He attempted to convince himself that Sheila was not laughing, but it was undeniable to all that this is exactly what she was doing. For some inexplicable reason, the idea of Sheila laughing made Goodwin very uncomfortable and in a small way, which he really didn’t understand, frightened him.
Part Four
The Road to Rating Purgatory
Pressed By The Press
En route to his house from the Host-Pital, Goodwin replayed the events of the day. His most vivid memory was not so much the cocoon of light or the bizarre scenes in the Med-TV room. It was Sheila smiling, that strange uncharacteristic smile. Then there was her silent laughter. That spooked him in a way he could not explain, but he shrugged it off and, with a small degree of amusement, attributed it to “a beyond REM anomaly.”
Despite Sheila’s infidelity, Goodwin was genuinely upset and concerned when he saw her. He realized that he still had a residue of positive feelings for her, not love, but more of affection one holds for a long-term teammate. They had, after all, worked together through good and bad moments, and prospered. Goodwin decided that he would continue to visit Sheila, but not because he wanted to safeguard his reputation. He was motivated by a genuine desire to do so. He realized that at the end of the day the demise of their marriage was due to their failure as a couple. Neither one of them was more blameworthy than other. If anything, perhaps he should have been more understanding. Once she emerged from her coma, they would work out a no-hard-feelings divorce and he would wish, sincerely wish, Sheila and her new lover well. That ultimate conclusion gave Goodwin a temporary sense of well being.
From his position on a local road he saw an orb of bright light. It had the appearance of a glow from a distant stadium lit up for a night game. Goodwin assumed it was a garden party, a fairly common occurrence on the pastoral lawns of Grace Harbor. When he rounded the corner of his block, however, he realized to his extreme dismay that the bright light he saw was from klieg and floodlights used by television crews to illuminate his house. Television broadcasting trucks had taken up his entire lawn. Reporters were setting up establishing shots. Paparazzi were aiming their cameras at his front door as if they expected him to step out of his house. The good feelings he held moments before evaporated, and were replaced by a girgling anxiety, sort of an “anxiety reflux.”
Goodwin’s hands began to sweat. His pulse raced. His heart pounded. He felt as if he were going to faint or vomit or both simultaneously. His subconscious, sensing that this combination was a distinct possibility, put Goodwin in a survival mode. He heard a strange cautionary voice issuing a warning similar to that of a policeman instructing a speedster to “step away from the car.” In this case, the admonition was, “Faint away from the vomit.’
The army of reporters and its support groups was so large that Goodwin had no access to his driveway. He was about to abandon his car and attempt to sneak around the back of his house, when Ronald Durksen pulled next to him in a squad car and said through an open window, “Hi, Phil. Isn’t this exciting? Lights! Action! Cameras! It reminds me of the police runway show a couple of years back. Of course those were the good old days, when we had custom made uniforms and bespoke suits. Ask the younger officers about bespoke and they think you’re referencing someone’s speech. They have no sense of fashion, so sad. But, I’m not here to do a fashion lament. I’m here to help you. Okay, Phil, leave your car here and come with me. And by the way we still need to get that $100.”
Responding to the blast of police sirens and the flashing squad car lights, the tightly jammed group of reporters, “the press of the press,” as Goodwin later described them, parted. Stupefied, Goodwin was led by Durksen to a lectern that supported about twenty microphones. He looked down blankly at the anxious reporters as television cameras focused on him.
“How’s your wife doing, Mr. Goodwin?”
Goodwin gazed at the microphones. “She’s in a coma.”
“What’s the prognosis?”
“Well, Doctor Kildare, the chief physician on the case, says that all of her vital signs are good, but that he couldn’t tell when she would regain consciousness.” This isn’t so bad, thought Goodwin. His momentary severe anxiety evaporated and in a more confident manner, he said: “Next.”
“Mr. Goodwin, we’ve heard that you were having marital difficulties and in fact you were happy that your wife was struck by lightning. After all, if she dies you will get to keep the entire estate. If you were divorced you’d have to give up at least half of that. We understand that your mutual net worth is quite high. According to confidential financial records your mutual net worth is exactly $50,860,000.28 as of 3 pm this afternoon. Of course that does not include the fair market value of all of your personal belongings such as paintings, jewelry, and the like. Hard data on that won’t come in until later this evening.”
Goodwin was shocked at this revelation, which appeared accurate to the penny. One of his cardinal rules about privacy, keeping his financial details secret, had just been violated through no fault of his own. This privacy breach coupled with the accusation that he was glad Sheila might die initially had a numbing effect on Goodwin to the extent that he could not actually perceive the volley of questions being fired at him. Numbness gave way to a mix of fear and rage. If his condition at the moment was stated as a formula it would have been: Fear + Rage=Loss of Control. Referring to the assertion about his death wish for Sheila, he screamed out, “That’s a fucking lie!”
A collective gasp issued from the crowd. A senior woman reporter, a Barbara Walters type, shouted from the back: “Sir. I speak for all of us in the Fourth Estate to say we are shocked and dismayed by your salacious outburst.” Goodwin could hear rumblings of “salacious,” “shocked,” and “dismayed” from the reporters. “Don’t you know that the news is PG? And now you’ve polluted the airways. Why, you should be ashamed of yourself.” Murmurs and harrumphs of approval of her message percolated through the troop of reporters.
Another reporter yelled, “What about this?” Standing in front of a television camera for all to see, the reporter was holding Goodwin’s altered house sign, which now read: “Harm House” and below that, “Sheila is not worth saving.” The sign was held directly in front of Goodwin’s face. “Why did you wish her harm? Why isn’t she worth saving? Isn’t every human being worth saving? Is that the way you feel now that this poor heroic woman is lying in a coma?”
“That wasn’t what I meant. It was a Freudian slip.”
A distinguished looking older man with grey hair, matching beard, and wearing a tweed suit, stepped up and said in a deep Austrian accent, “Sir, I’m the lead reporter for the Freudian Times and I can tell you that a Freudian slip is simply a verbal mistake emanating generally from the subconscious. It’s not something done with a magic marker. What our readers and I want to know is why you find it necessary to lie to the American Public?”
The Barbara Walters type, now directly in front of Goodwin and holding a small tape recorder said, “You would think, Mr. Goodwin, that at least you’d have the decency to call your wife.”
“But I did call her.”
The Walters type held up the tape recorder and pushed play. It was a recording of Goodwin’s phone call to Sheila earlier in the day, the one in which Goodwin said, “This is Philip,” and nothing more. “You call that a phone call? You could at least have said, “Hello. I hope you feel better, but maybe you didn’t want her to feel better. According to the tracking information on your internet activity, you did visit her avatar’s website. There were so many nice options that you could have linked into, like flowers or speaking with Sheila’s avatar. We understand that the avatar is very hurt that you didn’t contact her.”
Before Goodwin could reply, though he was essentially speechless, she added as a post script to her
statement, “We also understand that you tied up the Host-Pital’s phone lines unnecessarily when you continued to push for further options knowing that there weren’t any. Hospital phone lines are for public safety, Mr. Goodwin, not your amusement. But you probably didn’t care. And to make matters worse when the Host-Pital’s wonderful electronic operator, Patricia, scolded you for asking for more options when you knew they didn’t exist all you could say was ‘chill.’ Don’t you know that chilling electric wires basically turns off their power? In other words, not only did you have a death wish for the lovely Sheila, but for poor Patricia, as well. She was so upset that she temporarily short circuited.”
Under ordinary circumstances these insane comments and in fact the very concept of hospital avatars would have been great fodder for Goodwin’s humor, but at this moment he was totally befuddled.
Another reporter shouted, “Well, let me repeat for the benefit of the American public your horrific email, which the very fine Doctor Sydney Maxine gave to us. You remember Doctor Maxine don’t you? He’s the man who tried to save your marriage and as payback for his efforts, you tell him that you want him to die a horrible death. Let me refresh your recollection and I quote: FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU AND YOUR FUCKING GIRLIE, GIRLIE, GIRLIE MAN LOVER. I PRAY THAT YOU GET STRUCK BY LIGHTNING AND THAT SYDNEY MAXINE HAS THE LIFE SUCKED OUT OF HIM.”
Because of the airing of Goodwin’s prior use of ‘fucking,’ the networks had already slipped into their time delay mode. Hence, when the reporter’s statement aired, “fuck” was replaced by “beep,” with a resultant “Beep you, beep you, and your beeping girlie, girlie, girlie man lover.” Goodwin later observed of this interplay that despite multiple use of “fuck” by the reporter, the other members of the press did not criticize him. He could only attribute this to professional courtesy.
All of this was very intimidating to Goodwin, who was accustomed to public adulation, even though this was limited to his country club admirers. He was never taken to task by anyone, let alone by members of the press, who Goodwin later said, “were task masters.” He was completely overwhelmed, unable to come up with a coherent thought, let alone speak, and for a moment thought of hightailing it into his house without responding, but he didn’t have to say a thing. A man wearing a very shiny, almost fluorescent, blue pin-striped suit, stepped in front of him and said, “Ladies and gentlemen of the press, Mr. Goodwin has been through a great deal of stress this evening. He needs to call members of his and Sheila’s family. Please show a little respect. That’s all for tonight.”
