From The Dead

by John Herrick

  “You mean, he could die?”

  “If he hasn’t already.”

  Limp, Eden sank back in her seat. She looked too shocked to say anything else; instead, she stared at the dashboard clock as the minute digit leaped by one.

  Blake glanced her way. “Do you have your cell phone with you?”

  “Yes.” She rushed to open her purse.

  “Call Chuck. Tell him to get over there.”

  * * *

  When Jesse opened his eyes to discover he’d survived the procedure, words couldn’t describe the sense of relief. If not for his post-procedure weakness, he would have bounded to his feet and howled with delight. He soaked up his surroundings inside his hospital partition. Had he ever felt happier to see a bland environment rather than a bright, heavenly one?

  His bandaged flesh felt sore. The staff had collected marrow from his hip bone. Groggy from the anesthesia, he peered over and found Caitlyn and Drew seated in chairs beside his bed. Jesse could hear the steady bleep of a monitor accent the periphery as a nurse shuffled behind him.

  Caitlyn ran her fingers through Jesse’s hair. “Welcome back, sleepyhead.”

  Jesse sighed under his breath in response. It was all he could muster as the anesthetic haze retreated. He managed an inkling of a smile at the corner of his mouth before he shut his eyes again.

  Thirsty—his tongue had become sandstone—a nurse lured him out of reprised slumber with a plastic cup of ice water, which he quaffed within seconds. The nurse fetched another cup; Jesse consumed it along with a few graham crackers.

  Minutes later, when Jesse appeared to reach near-full attentiveness, the nurse and attendants departed for a while so he could recover with his family at hand. Drew’s eyes seemed glued to his father, who lay in a hospital bed for the boy’s own sake.

  This is what it looks like when your dad loves you, Jesse’s motionless body communicated.

  If asked to reach into the farthest crevices of his memory, Drew, Jesse hoped, wouldn’t recall feeling as important to anybody else as he did at this moment. Even through Jesse’s squinted eyes, Drew’s flesh appeared to warm a notch, the tangible effect of a father’s love in action.

  Caitlyn bent down and whispered into Jesse’s ear. “Thank you.” Then she raised her voice to its regular volume so Drew could overhear as well. “You know, Drew was concerned about his dad.” She rubbed her son’s neck and said, “I’ll be back; I want to get a bottle of water from the gift shop downstairs. You two catch up.”

  And she left the father and son together in the partition.

  Drew gazed at Jesse’s hip. The boy looked mesmerized by the bandages that covered the wound.

  Though tired, Jesse could still speak. He reached out and took his son’s hand. “Do you like the flimsy apartment they set up for me here?”

  “Did it hurt?” asked Drew, who left Jesse’s attempt at humor unnoticed.

  “I don’t know. I slept through it,” Jesse teased. “It’s a little sore, but no big deal.” Jesse felt a bit short on breath. “Come here, buddy.”

  Drew came close to Jesse, who wrapped a weak arm around his son. They huddled together. Jesse drew his son’s head closer.

  Jesse pressed his cheek against Drew’s head and said, “Do you know how much I love you?”

  “Yes.” Drew had spent his whole life without this affection from his father. But now, Jesse could feel security emanate from Drew as his father’s arm surrounded him.

  “Never forget that love, buddy. I hope—”

  Jesse’s body lurched as a knifing pain stabbed him inside. A wince, then he grunted under his breath, tightened his lips as he tried to maintain composure. He didn’t want to scare Drew.

  The pain grew sharper. He winced again.

  “Are you hurt?”

  “No, I’m fine.” Frightened, Jesse gasped for breath.

  It’s happening.

  “Jesse?”

  To Jesse’s ears, Drew’s voice sounded muffled. Jesse shut his eyes, endured the intense pain. He wanted to tell Drew to find a nurse but couldn’t breathe.

  The monitor shrieked in alarm.

  Drew froze.

  Jesse held him closer. He sensed his time was short.

  When he located a wisp of voice, Jesse aimed his mouth toward Drew’s ear. “The nurse will be on her way. I don’t have much longer.” With every word, Jesse felt his oxygen drain away.

  Drew sobbed.

  “Your mom’ll need a lot of love over the next few months,” Jesse struggled to whisper, “so take care of her and give her lots of hugs, okay?”

  “Dad …”

  “You’ll be okay.” Jesse pressed his head against his son and their teardrops mingled. “I love you, Drew.”

  “Daddy …” Drew bit his quivering lip. His face flushed red and hot tears poured from his eyes.

  In an obvious panic, Drew broke away and ran into the corridor. He screamed for the nurse, who was already a few feet from the door, a white-coated doctor behind her. Another attendant grabbed Drew and held him tight as the boy tried to break free and cling to his dad.

  When they reached Jesse’s bed, the monitor retreated to one long, steady tone.

  * * *

  On the first floor, Caitlyn sipped her bottled water as she left the gift shop and rounded the corner to the lobby, back toward the elevator. Behind her, the hospital’s automatic-entry doors slid open as Blake and Eden ran through. When they saw Caitlyn ahead, they dashed faster and shouted.

  Out of breath, Eden caught up with Caitlyn and grabbed her by the shoulders. “Where’s Jesse?”

  “Upstairs. Why?”

  “He’s in trouble.”

  Blake raced for the elevators. “Chuck’s on his way! Hurry!”

  * * *

  From the corridor, they heard the commotion and the monotonous, foreboding tone. When Caitlyn, Eden and Blake arrived at the partition, they found Jesse surrounded by two staff members, who prepared electric paddles in a second effort to revive him.

  A red-eyed Drew, his face scarlet and streaked with tears, ran to his mother and clung to her. Caitlyn held him while she stared at Jesse in alarm.

  Drew tried to speak through hysterics. “Mom, he started hurting and fell asleep. They couldn’t wake him up …”

  Caitlyn wrapped her arms around Drew and covered his face from the sight.

  Chuck, in a pant, arrived at the door, his eyes on the electric paddles. He stared at his son, a father unable to rescue his boy. “Jesse!” And the preacher fell to his knees at the foot of the bed.

  EPILOGUE

  Late April the following year, Drew, now twelve years old, carried a duffel bag into his grandfather’s office at the church. Alone. Seven o’clock sharp on a Saturday morning.

  Chuck wrapped up some paperwork. “Hey there, champ! All packed and ready to go? It could be a twelve-hour drive with all the pit stops, you know.”

  “Ready. Can we go for pancakes on the way there?” Drew wore a red baseball cap, which Chuck had bought him at a sports shop in town.

  Chuck laughed as he walked around the desk with a duffle bag of his own. “Sure thing.” On his knees now, he stared into his grandson’s eyes and still seemed astounded to see the boy alive. “You know how much your dad loved you to do what he did, don’t you? He was willing to give his life for you.”

  With a nod, a healthy Drew smiled, his confidence in a clear boost. “Yeah.”

  “That’s how valuable you are, big guy.”

  “Tell your grandpa to get a move on!” Jesse walked through the doorway, duffle bag in hand. With the other arm, he grabbed Drew in a bear hug. “Ready to go, slugger?”

  “Let’s go. Grandpa promised we’d eat breakfast on the way.”

  Chuck snorted as he packed his Bible into his duffel bag.

  After the medical staff revitalized Jesse, they conducted further tests, which confirmed the existence of Baer’s Disease in him. But under a physician’s guidance and a medical regimen, Jesse and
his physician brought the symptoms under control. With his son safe, Jesse felt relieved to be alive.

  As expected with Jesse’s blood condition, staff deemed his marrow ineligible for Drew. Jesse, however, harbored no regrets, and in due time, they located a donor through the national marrow registry. Jesse wondered at the extent to which he had tried to rescue his son, regardless of the cost. Given the same scenario, would he have risked his life again? Probably so, he figured. After all, Drew was his son. Jesse loved him more than life.

  But one positive result came about from the experience: Bound together by the tragedy, Jesse and Drew were inseparable nowadays.

  Chuck rose to his feet again. He stared at his own son and bit his lip. Jesse returned the gaze.

  Alive from the dead.

  Repeatedly the preacher had told Jesse that he could break down into tears each time he recalled how the doctor revived Jesse. The play-by-play had seared itself in his mind with crystal clarity. The critical final seconds had stretched for what seemed an eternity as Chuck prayed at the foot of the bed and begged God for a miracle.

  This morning, the preacher shook his head.

  Prayers do get answered, his smile seemed to say.

  Duffel bags in hand, the three men—three generations—walked toward the door, single file, to begin their road trip. On their way out, Chuck patted Jesse on the back. Jesse guided Drew by the shoulders. Chuck turned off the light and shut the door.

  The next day at 12:05 p.m., the Indians would play the Cardinals in St. Louis. And the Barlow trio had twelfth-row seats.

  ###

  PREVIEW:

  THE LANDING

  A Novel

  by

  John Herrick

  Available August 2012 at major online retailers!

  CHAPTER 1--MAY 2007

  Danny Bale leaned against the restroom wall, ran his finger along his wrist.

  Running his fingers through his beach-blond hair, he exhaled with a heavy grunt and tilted his head toward the ceiling, the details of which he had surveyed many times before. The circles of water damage. The hole at the edge of a beige panel. An aging light bulb that had developed a mysterious, maize-colored tint. Since his arrival at Sunset Beach, this room had grown familiar. He had branded it into his memory and could re-create it with his eyes closed.

  His skin was tanned, a shade between local-light and tourist-brown. Bleached by the penetrating sun, his dark blond hair had developed a bright sheen and shouted his status as a permanent beach dweller. Leaning toward the mirror, he examined the creases that had begun to form along the corners of his eyes. It seemed premature for signs of aging to begin.

  Danny felt tired. He blamed it on sleep deprivation, to late nights spent writing after Sunset Beach calmed. But the root of his fatigue didn’t result from poor habit or a need for a twenty-seven-hour day. Rather, a pattern of bland constancy had emerged, leaving Danny drained at heart from years of plugging away at his craft and seeing no manifestation of success.

  Not that Danny could pinpoint a definition for success.

  At first, he had defined it as freedom—one he could obtain by spending his late twenties seaside and inspired. In truth, Danny’s heart had departed for the beach long before he did. Prior to his arrival, Danny had invested four years in the college scene, where he had conformed to an uninspired status quo disguised as a ladder to breakthrough. It seemed a lifetime ago.

  And now, by age twenty-eight, he’d grown exhausted.

  An elusive notion, success.

  As he eyed his beaded necklace and linen shirt, Danny wondered how he’d managed to spend another four years of his life at McGrady’s. On weekdays and weeknights, he engaged in the mundane work of a cook. But on weekends, McGrady’s slated him as its featured entertainment. Danny would strum his acoustic guitar and sing the songs of Bob Dylan, James Taylor, and some original pieces of his own. It provided Danny with a performance outlet. And by the time McGrady’s closed for the night, Danny figured, half of the drinkers wouldn’t know the difference between songwriters anyway.

  Danny jumped at the sudden burst of the restroom door.

  “Danny Boy! How’s it going, chief?”

  Even when he dabbled with subtlety, you couldn’t help but notice Jay McGrady’s presence. Forgoing college and opting instead for a family business that would one day become his own, Jay earned his living as the McGrady’s manager and oddity specialist. On any given day, you could spot him fixing a water pipe or grilling a burger, taking out the trash or chewing out a waitress. But Jay approached it all in good fun.

  Danny rubbed his eyes. “Never better. I mean, you’ve got the water, the ladies. This is paradise, right?”

  Jay made his way to the sink and started to wash his hands. As luck would have it this evening, he would assume the role of senior chef, a title he’d created on the fly.

  “Man, you should see the woman out there at table eleven,” Jay said with a knowing chuckle. “Mmm, she’s hot. I’ll betcha she’s about fifty years old, too.” Flipping water from his hands, he wiped them with a paper towel until they were damp at best, then shook his head. “But that guy she’s with—I don’t understand it, man. What a slob! I mean, his knockers are bigger than hers, my hands were probably cleaner before I started washing ‘em—and some dudes are just not meant for biker shorts, you know what I mean?”

  “Geez, Jay!” Danny snickered, gritting his teeth. “I hate when you do that. I have to look at these people when I’m out there singing, you know.”

  “I’m serious, man! How could a woman like that be so hard up?” Jay stretched his arms toward the dingy walls surrounding him. “A prince like me and an inheritance like this place. What more could a woman want!”

  “That slob probably owns a hotel down here, Jay!”

  A quick chuckle and the fortunate son headed toward the door. “You coming?”

  Danny nodded. “Yeah, I’m on my way.”

  Jay and his mouth departed as swiftly as they had burst in, and a few seconds later, Danny could hear him joking with customers in the hall. An amiable guy, you could always count on Jay for a stupid laugh. Not the intention Jay had in mind, per se, but his speech tended to accelerate faster than his tact. To his credit, the benevolent Jay was also responsible for complimentary rounds of beers among the staff, McGrady’s profit-sharing program in its most primitive form. Danny, unlike the other staff members, had developed a solid friendship with Jay over time.

  Pounding his fist into his other hand with determination, Danny shook the heaviness from his eyes and walked out the restroom door.

  Danny didn’t get far. Jay caught him by the sleeve of his shirt and tugged him toward a pair of patrons. “Guys, this is Danny Bale. He’s our entertainment for the weekend,” Jay said. “Danny, this is Chris Clark and Kyle Clark, two brothers I met on my way to the dining area.”

  Danny exchanged handshakes with Chris, the older brother, who had blue eyes, brown hair, and an athletic build. “Nice to meet you, Chris. What do you do for a living?”

  “I sell document management software,” Chris said. “Sales are great, but I was ready for a vacation and convinced my brother to hang out for a week at the beach.”

  At that, Jay gestured to Kyle with his thumb. “Kyle and I discovered we share some common ground. Tell him, Kyle.”

  Kyle, who had brown eyes and light red hair, chuckled. “I’m a chef in New York.”

  “I told him not to be intimidated by the ol’ five-star establishment he set foot into here,” Jay joshed.

  Despite numerous attempts by competitors to challenge its dominance throughout the years, McGrady’s remained the most visited restaurant at Destiny Landing, a tourist dive in the heart of Sunset Beach, South Carolina, referred to as “The Landing” by local residents. One of the first businesses to set up shop at the development, McGrady’s remained the standard bearer for out-of-towner attraction, though no one could ascertain its appeal—other than the fact that it didn’t have
a niche appeal. A catch-all establishment, management identified its clientele as casual dates and families, who would arrive sunburned in flip-flops and printed T-shirts purchased at hole-in-the-wall souvenir shops. McGrady’s made no effort to impress, and its patrons sunk to meet the challenge.

  With a final handshake, Danny wished them well and headed out to the dining area.

  With the convergence of the dinner crowd, Danny figured the number of voices had doubled. In the narrow hallway, he nodded to a man and woman engaged in a conversation. A pair of human lobsters, their skin had burned to a wow-that-must-hurt degree. When he entered the dining area and surveyed the range of people in the audience, tiredness dissipated from his body. He sensed a rush of energy, an aggressive rise in the rate at which his blood coursed through his veins.

  Danny was home.

  He hummed to Dave Matthews Band’s “The Best of What’s Around,” which blared through speakers hung years ago by two teenagers with a roll of twine and a questionable sense of safety. Perched upon metal rafters, the speakers loomed like crows over the talking customers, who ignored them. From a distance, Danny waved at a group of waitresses, tanned beauties who came to Sunset Beach during Spring Break but never bothered to return to the world of academia.

  Toward the kitchen, Danny counted a handful of patrons sitting at the bar, but the majority of his audience partook of faux-rustic cuisine at the hut-shaped restaurant. Along the perimeter and throughout the midsection, he watched them eat at tables of various sizes and matching brown tint. Ashen fumes dimmed the room as they crept in a hypnotic blur beneath the overhead lights. In a front corner sat a small platform, occupied by an empty stool and an acoustic guitar, which sat behind a microphone. Two large speakers sat on the stage floor. Tonight it would be Danny’s stage.