Rebels (John Bates)

by Scott Powell

  “Most likely, John was born with this condition and over time for reasons we’re unsure of, his heart began to thicken,” the doctor says as he rustles through his pile of papers, to find some sort of literature on the subject. He gives a pamphlet to my father, who ignores it and presses the doctor with more questions.

  “What?” my father questions the doctor, almost yelling, with his stern voice. “How can that possibly be? We have no family history. John is healthy as a horse, and now you tell me he has a heart problem?”

  I have never seen my father this way. He is always calm and collected and has always instructed me to control my emotions or they will control me. My mind is becoming foggy, unclear, with this horrific news. I am going to die. It is a death certificate. No more credits. I will be deemed unworthy. Dad and Mom will have to feed me on their credits until I will perish. The Johnson children will now die because no extra food will come for me from the Young Army.

  “Sometimes these things just happen.” I can tell the doctor is concerned with my father’s reaction, but he maintains his composure. “See here,” the doctor says, pulling out a picture of a heart, which really could have been anyone’s heart. “This is John’s heart and this is what a proper heart should look like.” He pulls out another picture of the heart, and honestly I can’t tell the difference between the two pictures.

  I can tell my father isn’t buying what the doctor is selling. “Why hasn’t anyone ever noticed this before?”

  “Besides his heart, John seems like a perfectly healthy young man. Sometimes people don’t think to check these things.” The doctor opens his clipboard. “We need to take care of this right away. Birmingham is the best place. Do you think you can have John in Birmingham at the UAB Hospital by Monday?”

  They are going to treat me? Why? Why me? Are there not hundreds of others who deserve the help more than I? I have never seen the State move like this for anyone, and now they are going to go through the expense of helping me, a fifteen-year-old in a small city, heal my heart. I know I am in the Young Army, but to go through such an expense makes me question their motives. For a moment, I place my right hand over the place where my heart is and feel my heart beat, trying to see what the doctor is even talking about. I feel no abnormality or shortness of breath. Just the day before, I had taken on the State’s most elite tactical group and felt no residual affects, and now this doctor is telling me I have a major heart issue!

  “Monday?” My father leans forward in his chair, his whole face questioning the doctor.

  “Yes, we’ll make sure you have a pass for work and tickets loaded to both of your watches, so you may take him.”

  “Surely there are other patients in line for a surgery like this?”

  “Of course,” the doctor says, his hands waving off my father’s question, “but the government feels they have an investment here with your son. His potential to serve the greater good is vast, and the time and money already put into him in training, food, clothes, and equipment warrants his move to the top of the list.”

  I guess I should feel honored that the State finds me so valuable. But how many people have suffered and suffer now because the State does not see their value, or cares what happens to them or their family, based on a system they have implemented? Where is the humanity of saying that one individual is more valuable over another, yet here we are. It just happens, for whatever the reason, my life is considered valuable enough by the State to be given this treatment.

  Fear starts to fill my breast, not knowing what will be asked of me now that I am receiving such attention, something I don’t want to even conceive. What will they want in return for such a gift?

  Saying we have no other choice is an understatement, so of course, my father answers, “We will be there.” He is shaking his head as if he doesn’t quite believe the words of the doctor, but what can we do?

  There’s no option for a second opinion. It is surgery or nothing, not doing what the doctor deems medically necessary for you could warrant your dismissal from all medical care for your entire life. When a government doctor says it is so, it is so. If I don’t get the treatment, I might be taken away from my parents, the State accusing them of child abuse and placing them in jail, with me forced to get heart surgery, anyway. Why now? How did this ever come to this point, my mind again is filled with uncertainty. I can only imagine what my mother will think when she is told concerning the heart surgery.

  “John, of course, is not to attend school until he has recovered from surgery. We don’t want to push that heart of his. I will call the school today and let them know that you’re permanently excused.”

  My father nods with blank eyes, eyes that no longer seem to see the white and cream examination room but are somewhere else entirely. My father, who has always been a picture of health and vitality in my life, suddenly seems frail and old. I have to help him out of the black chair, out of the exam room, out of the doctor’s office, out of the elevator, and out of the glass and metal building.

  Chapter 10

  After a long, silent bus ride, we arrive home. It is already dark, but Mom still has a warm dinner for us. We say blessing on the food, and we check our watches. Dad explains to Mom what the doctor said. I think he still doesn’t believe the doctor. His anger and distrust of him is evident in his words that flow freely over the dinner table.

  Things don’t seem right to me or to my father, but my mother thinks differently, “I’m sure the government wouldn’t make you get open-heart surgery when the nation’s healthcare has so little.”

  There is, of course, no second opinion, so it really doesn’t matter what my father and I believe. My mother is an optimist, even when the situation appears gloomy and even when the State is involved. It is a quality that has helped me during my life, and has made dealing with the State almost bearable.

  That night, I can hardly sleep. My mind is racing over what is happening. Just the day before, I had beaten, with my fellow Young Army members, an elite group of State soldiers. Now all that work and experience is gone due to my stupid heart. Why is this happening to me? I don’t completely believe what I have been told. The State has made countless mistakes. How many have died because of their foolish lack of care? Will I be one of those?

  I can feel my heart racing with adrenaline. But I don’t feel any pain or anything that clues me into the problem with it. With my strength and my training, my physical body has only increased, and my mind is sharp. But here I lie waiting on my future with surgery. Something does not add up. What choice do I have but to go through with it? I close my eyes and say a silent prayer, a prayer that I hope I am able to endure what I am about to go through.

  The next morning, I awake a little earlier than normal knowing I did not have to go to school. I am of course excused from school because of my poor heart condition, though I feel perfectly fine. It gives me time to be with my mom and spend the day with just the two of us. I help her make bread, weed the garden, and can some tomatoes. Even though she tries to hide it, I can tell my mother is worried—worried something might go wrong, perhaps I might not survive the surgery. Many people do not survive surgery with the poor medical care, doctor’s groups making sure that a doctor never gets fired, and dirty equipment that leads to infections even if a surgery does go well. I find her sitting at the table quietly crying while she snaps the green beans. I walk up beside her and kiss her on the top of her head.

  “It’s going to be okay, Mom,” I say, even though I am not sure myself. I sit down next to her; she dries her tears and smiles up at me, patting me on the hand. I start in on the green beans and together we finish the bowl.

  After helping my mother with her daily tasks, I take the opportunity to go out into our backyard and find the one unplanted spot that has been reserved for meditation. If there was a time in my life I needed to prepare my mind and body, this is the moment. I remember my father always stating that God never gives you more than what you could ever handle. I believe I am re
aching that point.

  What if this procedure is not successful? What if I die or if I am disabled? My life credits will be gone, our special treatment as a Young Army member will be gone. Everything I have worked for would be gone. I am only fifteen years old!

  I start to push my fears out of my mind, knowing such emotions are counterproductive. I need to have hope. I know these experiences are for my own good and for the good of my family. After spending at least an hour in the hot sun, I feel peace. I know somehow, someway, this moment in time will work to my well-being and for the good of my family.

  On Saturday, I take a long walk around my neighborhood to clear my mind, and as I pass the decrepit houses the State has provided, I can only think about my surgery. Why has the Sate chosen me to receive this operation? I am the best in my Young Army group, but I was nowhere near the level of experience or the conditioning of the Steel team. This operation will not be cheap. I am concerned as to how many of my life credits and credits of my parents will be used. Will we have anything left after this? I try to shake these concerns from my mind and replace it with the assurance that this will be a life changing moment.

  Sunday, the three of us look at old photographs. I listen to my parents tell me stories of the first time they met, of their wedding day, and the day I was born. My mother cries freely as she talks about the first time she held me in her arms. We are even excused from church on Sunday, so my father sits back in his chair and reads to us out of the Bible. But as much as I enjoy this weekend, it is like I am attending a funeral. My funeral, my own wake.

  Chapter 11

  Monday morning comes way too soon; my father and I have to wake up before five o’clock in order to get to Birmingham in time. As I get dressed, my father comes in to see what I am wearing, which is shorts and a T-shirt. This seems good enough to me, but my father has other ideas.

  “Son, I think maybe you might want to wear jeans and a light jacket.” It will be almost ninety today, but I don’t question. My father is usually right about these sort of things, so I put on long jean pants and tie the sweat jacket around my waist and, for luck, I grab the cap my grandfather gave me before he died. It is green with a convenient rim in the front and the word Mayflower stitched on top in yellow letters.

  Mother sees us off, handing us each our own brown paper sacks while holding back her tears. My father carries with him a large, red backpack he gets out of the closet; I am amazed that I have never seen it before. We walk to the bus stop and wait for it to come and take us to the station. There we switch buses and get on one that is heading to Birmingham.

  I stare out the window, watching one eroded building after another past by. I wonder if life will ever return to what it used to be. Where people were truly free, free from the State, with the ability to choose their own fate. I hope this surgery will be successful—not only for myself, but also for my family and those I have been helping. It feels like the bus is going extremely slow as every passing minute feels like an hour. I can feel anxiety building within my mind. I take in deep breaths and focus on how this is a good thing and how in the end somehow, someway, this experience will work to my good. As I focus on these new thoughts, my heart calms down, and then my father leans into me whispering.

  “It will be okay, John. No matter what life throws at you, remember you are never alone.”

  We arrive in Birmingham at about twelve thirty. As we draw closer to our stop, my father points out building after building that belongs to the hospital. The hospital is a city unto itself. Having eaten our lunches on the bus, we stride forward to the enormous UAB Hospital. We walk under an impossibly large awning that leads to the entryway of this massive structure that is full of gigantic cement pillars as big as redwood trees must be. I look up in awe and wonder.

  Again, I don’t understand how the State builds such edifices while so many of its citizens live in poverty and others die because they decide who lives and who doesn’t. I understand the importance of research, but to neglect those who empowered you makes no sense and reminds me how fortunate I have been to be in the Young Army, or otherwise my life would have been forfeited due to the expense of this procedure.

  “It’s built this way to make you feel small,” my father said. “To make you feel insignificant to their greatness and authority.” We go through the large doors that open by themselves. I have never seen anything like it. I want to go back and try them again, but the security guard at the front desk stops me.

  “What is your name?” he asks.

  “John Bates,” I answer him, turning around in order to face him fully. The guard sits behind a vast mahogany desk it is shaped into a semicircle. The lobby is full of giant trees that are artificial but are surrounded by other living plants in the same container. Other plants are placed along the wall and in boxes around the glass and metal escalator. I wonder if they are real or fake. The flooring is granite tile. A giant government flag hangs from the second floor, and above it all is a fantastically large pyramid-shaped skylight. The first thing I do is walk forward calmly and take a map of the hospital from the desk, folding it and placing it into the back pocket of my jeans. The security guard rustles through some papers that are attached to a white clipboard and asks, “And why are you here?”

  “Heart surgery,” my father answers before I can.

  The guard continues to rifle through the papers.

  “Yes, I see your name here.” He comes forward, placing on my left wrist next to my watch a hospital ID tag. This thing is little more than paper and some glue. “Your father will not be able to accompany you beyond this point. When the nurse comes, your father will have to leave.” My father only nods and then turning to me, he thrusts the red backpack into my arms and hugs me tightly in his monstrous embrace.

  He whispers in my ear, “Remember, son, remember that I love you, remember who you are, remember that you are a patriot, remember that you are a God-fearing man, and son, remember Jesus Christ.”

  Just as he let go, an enormous, well-built woman dressed all in white comes down the hall. “You must leave now,” the nurse sternly instructs.

  My father turns to depart and as he does so, I can see a glistening teardrop in the corner of his eye. Without so much as waiting for an okay, the nurse leads me up the escalators, across a suspended walkway between the buildings, with only glass and metal between me and the road below, down a generic hospital hallway before stopping in front of a small room. “I am Nurse Garrison,” she says, pulling a device out of her pocket. “Give me your arm.” I give her my right arm. “No, the other one, with the watch.”

  I place my left hand inside her free one. She takes the small device and scans it over my watch, and it releases its grasp on my wrist as link by agonizing link withdraws from my skin. The pain is exquisite, and I have to bite my tongue in order not to cry out, as the chains retract back into the disk, ripping and tearing the tissue that had grown over it. It leaves a white wrinkly circle on the back of my wrist with a gash on either side that quickly fills up with my blood; the nurse wipes it with an alcohol wipe and wraps it in gauze and tape. Obviously, she is not the caring type. I can tell she and I are going to be best friends.

  My wrist feels strange to me, with the watch no longer attached—the watch that made sure I brushed my teeth, ate my vegetables, told on me when I had eaten too much candy, made sure I went to church and recycled. If I run out of here right now, the government will never find me. But by the looks of this place, escape would be challenging, especially if all the nurses were built like her. But for a few minutes I would be free. But then I remember my heart condition. How long would I truly last? I am going to wait and see how this plays out. These thoughts soon fade away as I return my attention to Ms. Sunshine.

  She hands me a set of hospital clothes and escorts me into a room where she leaves me to change into the white jumpsuit made out of a cotton fabric that looks to be quilted together. Before I dress, I take out the map of the massive hospital and study it, m
emorizing every useful detail. Truthfully, it isn’t a very detailed map. For example, this room is not on it. It only shows each building and how each walkway is connected to the different structures and where various exits exist throughout the facilities. I do this because you can never be too prepared. Who knows if there might be a fire or any other disaster that would mean immediate evacuation of the building. Understanding and knowing the map might be the difference between life and death. When I am done, I carefully fold the map and place it back inside my jeans pocket.

  I dress in the white hospital attire; it is extremely comfortable, not at all what I had expected. When I finish changing, I am told by the stern nurse that I am to leave my things and follow her. We walk down the pastel hallway as one of the overhead lights flicker, threatening to go out. We turn right and then left before going through a set of double doors that leads into a brightly lit room. The room has dull carpet and various pieces of exercise equipment in it. Sitting in an orange chair is a man with a dark complexion and a white overcoat. He is deeply engrossed in his clipboard.

  Chapter 12

  “Dr. Pruitt?” the nurse calls, though there is only one person in the room.