Systematic (The System Series Book 2)

by Andrea Ring

A spokesman for the family confirmed that she was taken off life support: “It is with great sadness that we announce that Lora Paradis passed away this morning. Lora was more than a gifted actress and the daughter of a legend; she was a truly caring mother and wife and gentle soul. She will be terribly missed.”

  Paradis was married in 1995 to Cyrus Brooks, a then-struggling radio personality. In 1997, the two gave up their partying ways when daughter Olivia was born, and both became Christians. The next year, Brooks founded the Sinners Ways Church in Villa Park, now one of the largest congregations in Orange County. Paradis once said, “It’s our desire to help people, to show them the right path, that has led us here. Life is about more than money, more than getting high, more than finding your next fix. With the Lord’s help, your life can have meaning.”

  Paradis recently finished filming a biopic on Meryl Streep, and her home life with Brooks seemed charmed. They were last seen together three weeks ago handing out backpacks and supplies to schoolchildren in Santa Ana.

  Daughter Olivia was also injured in the accident. Mother and daughter were walking home from an afternoon of shopping when a driver ran a red light and struck them in the crosswalk.

  Olivia remains in the hospital in good condition. Doctors predict she will have no lasting physical affects from the accident.

  Calls to the Brooks home have been unanswered, but Paradis’ cousin, Charlotte Tanner, appeared stunned when speaking with reporters.

  “She was a light, such a strong light,” Tanner said. “This is an absolute tragedy.”

  Donations can be made in Lora’s honor to the Sinners Way Church.

  I stare at the paper.

  Wife dies tragically, unexpectedly…and Olivia was injured back then, as well.

  Just don’t forget the big picture…

  Pastor Brooks doesn’t want to lose his daughter after losing his wife.

  Pastor Brooks wants to save people from themselves.

  Pastor Brooks has A LOT of money, but claims money doesn’t matter.

  Pastor Brooks…what? What the hell is the big picture?

  Damn if I can see it.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Kenneth and one of his chemist buddies come up with a super pill that will release nutrients to my body slowly as I heal. They also doctor a giant batch of Gatorade, giving it three times the electrolytes it normally has, and they dub it Dwellerade. We determine that if I take one pill and drink sixteen ounces of the Dwellerade every hour, I can heal for six hours straight without any ill effects. Honestly, I could heal a lot longer (I think), but Kate won’t let me.

  But I’m in charge now. If I want to heal longer, I will. But I’m also not above taking good advice.

  On Tuesday, Kate, Kenneth, and I head to the Brooks’ home with my backpack full of pills and four bottles of Dwellerade. I don’t plan on using them, but I like to be prepared.

  Kate is sitting in the passenger seat. As soon as we’re on the road, she whips out her notebook. “Let’s go over the plan one more time,” she says.

  I glance at Kenneth in my rearview mirror. He rolls his eyes with a smile, and I smile back.

  “Okay,” I say. “First, I explore a bit. Get a feel for things, see if there’s anything that might prevent me from healing her.”

  Kate slaps her notebook against her thigh. “I really hate that part. I know we already agreed to it, but it’s too vague. Can’t you be specific about the kinds of things you’ll be looking for?”

  “I already told you I don’t think there’s anything that will prevent me from healing her. I mean, I can’t conceive of anything that I can’t heal, given enough time.”

  Kate sighs. “Fine. What’s the next step?”

  “Back out of her body and debrief you on my findings. That’s it. Then we go back to the lab and work up a more specific plan.”

  Kenneth catches my eye in the mirror. “What are the chances you’ll actually stick to the plan?”

  I fight not to smile. “I’d say 50/50.”

  Kate laughs, oblivious. She believes I’ll stick to the plan.

  But Kenneth knows me better. He gives me a solemn nod, preparing himself for anything but Kate’s grand plan.

  ***

  The Brooks family lives in Orange Park Acres, an equestrian community. The houses are large and the lots sprawling, many of them with stables or barns or those rings they train horses in. I know very little about horses—never had the need to study them. And I’ve certainly never been in a private home as large as these. I’m suddenly feeling a little out of my depth.

  We cruise down a winding driveway of cobblestone and park in one of the marked spaces to the right of the main house. Who has parking spaces at their house?

  Pastor Brooks strides out from behind the garage, pulling off leather gloves, as we exit my car.

  “Thomas!” he says, taking my hand and pumping it enthusiastically. “Thank you for coming.”

  “You bought the house,” I say. “Just upholding my end of the bargain.”

  “I’m grateful,” he says. “And Dr. Kate, Dr. Kenneth. Such an honor to have you all here. Please, come on inside, and you can meet Olivia’s team.”

  Okay. She has a team?

  The house is even more intimidating on the inside—stained mahogany moldings, expensive jewel-toned rugs, heavy brocade drapes. It looks more like a museum than a home. I hope he doesn’t ask us to sit because I don’t want to leave a butt print on the velvet couch.

  “You have a beautiful home,” I say.

  Pastor Brooks laughs. “I know what you’re thinking: this home is way too extravagant for a man of God. And it is. But it’s all my late wife’s money. Her father was film director Arthur Paradis. She was used to this life. And I just haven’t been able to bring myself to change anything.”

  “I’m sorry to hear about your wife,” Kate says. “Was it recent?”

  He shakes his head. “Twelve years ago now. That’s the other thing that makes this situation with Olivia so hard for me. She’s all I have left.”

  We all nod sympathetically. I know what it’s like to lose a mother, for a husband to lose a wife.

  We follow Pastor Brooks up a split staircase to the second floor. I marvel at the cleanliness of the carpet—for horse people, their ability to keep mud off the carpet is impressive. We head left off the stairs.

  “This is Olivia’s wing,” he says.

  She has a wing?

  “This is the guest bath,” he says, waving a hand at the first door on the left. “Feel free to use it at need. And this is Olivia’s music studio.”

  Pastor Brooks opens the door opposite the bathroom, and we peer politely inside.

  “She’s a singer. Never could keep her quiet, especially when she was little. She would sing her way through her day.”

  There’s a booth with a microphone in the back corner, walled off in glass. There’s mixing equipment, speakers, a keyboard and a guitar. Olivia sure has some expensive hobbies. Or maybe they’re so loaded that every time she got a whim to try something, Pastor Brooks built her a new room for it.

  “And this,” he says, “is her wrapping room. She was always so generous, giving gifts to the staff or to her friends. I can’t bear to go in there—it was sort of her special place—but please. Have a look.”

  I open the door and peer into the pitch black. I fumble for the light switch and flip it up.

  It’s a laundry-sized room, narrow and deep. Dowels line the back wall, each holding a roll of gift wrap. A long counter runs the length of the room, cluttered with assorted bows and baubles. Two wrapped gifts sit undisturbed, waiting to be delivered.

  Who has an entire room devoted to wrapping?

  Kate and Kenneth take a quick look inside. They don’t comment, but I sense they’re as weirded out by the room as I am. I flip off the light and close the door. “It’s a unique space,” I say. “I can see why Olivia liked it.”

  Pastor Brooks nods. “And up here, the staff have rooms
right next to hers. They are on the clock, twenty-four/seven.”

  We pass the staff rooms and stop at the end of the hallway, at two giant mahogany double doors. I shiver for no discernible reason.

  “I made sure she was decent before you arrived,” he says, opening the door wide and gesturing us inside.

  I take a deep breath, and we follow him into Olivia’s room.

  ***

  We enter a sitting room with two people chatting softly in matching wing chairs. It smells like vanilla in here, and I get a sense memory of Grandma so strong I have to fight to stay on my feet.

  “Welcome,” a young woman in pink scrubs says, rising and taking my hand and patting it gently. “I’m Rachel, Olivia’s primary nurse.”

  “Hello, Rachel,” I say. “Thomas Van Zandt. This is Dr. Kate Mullen, and this is Dr. Kenneth Mullen.” They both shake her hand.

  “And this is Dr. Park,” Rachel says.

  I hold out my hand to Dr. Park, a sour-looking man in his mid-forties. He looks at my hand pointedly and ignores it.

  “I don’t believe anything Cyrus has told us about you,” he says. “Let me get that out of the way right up front.”

  “Thomas is the real deal,” Kenneth says, stepping up next to me. “I know it sounds extraordinary—we didn’t believe it ourselves, at first—but I ask you to keep an open mind.”

  Dr. Park ignores Kenneth and focuses on me. “You won’t touch Olivia unless you prove yourself.”

  Pastor Brooks sighs from behind me. “Now, Henry, we’ve had this discussion.”

  “She’s been poked and prodded enough, Cyrus,” he says. “Her condition is well-documented.”

  “I agree,” I say. “I’m not here to conduct tests.”

  Dr. Park narrows his eyes. “Then why are you here?”

  “To heal her.”

  He stares at me. And then he shakes his head. “A little laying of the hands, is it? I don’t have time for this.”

  “Then you can leave,” Pastor Brooks says. “This is happening, whether you like it or not.”

  And Dr. Park stands and storms out.

  “So…what’s the next step?” Pastor Brooks asks me.

  I blink a few times, trying to regroup. It’s like I’ve entered an alternate reality, one with hostile doctors, desperate fathers, and gorgeous nurses. I must have fallen down the rabbit hole.

  “Let’s take a look at her and see how she’s doing,” I say, improvising. Kate gives me a nod of encouragement.

  Rachel smiles at me and leads the way. We round a corner and I find myself in a bedroom fit for a queen.

  A queen in a coma, anyway.

  Medical equipment lines the wall at the head of the bed, a hospital bed, narrow, giving her “team” easy access to the patient. Olivia herself looks young, younger than sixteen, but it’s difficult to make out her facial features with the tubes hooked up to her. Her black hair is tied into a neat bun at the very top of head, allowing her to recline without lying on a lump.

  I look at Pastor Brooks. He nods at me, and I approach the left side of the bed. The vanilla scent is stronger this close to her, and I wonder if the pastor is afraid of the smell of sickness.

  “Hello, Olivia,” I say, taking a seat in the chair beside the bed. I scoot it up close to her, so close the arm of the chair bumps the bed. Kate and Kenneth stand behind me, notebooks and pens ready to record their observations. I try to ignore them, as though I’m doing this on my own. After all, I am doing it on my own. “I’m Thomas Van Zandt. I’m going to take a look at you, see what we can do. Rachel, do you have her vitals?”

  Rachel squats down next to me with a clipboard. “Everything’s normal,” she says, holding the records out to me. I scan them quickly, making sure Olivia’s blood pressure and heart rate, especially, are where I want them to be.

  “Good,” I say. Rachel moves away. I shift to one hip and fish the knife out of my pocket. “May I?” I ask the pastor.

  “Do what you will,” he says. Then he quickly moves out of my field of vision.

  I cut my palm and take Olivia’s hand in my unharmed one. Her hand is swollen and plump, probably from her hydrating IV. I slice it as gently as possible and press my wounded hand to hers. I look at my watch and note the time.

  I told myself I wasn’t going to heal her today—we have a plan. But maybe I can do one thing, just one little thing that will start the process.

  I clot her blood and cut off nerve sensation from her wound. I make my nerve connections, dragging Protein T in my wake. When I get to the top of her spinal cord and enter the base of the medulla oblongata, the center for autonomic nervous system functions, I gasp aloud—nothing happens. I don’t have awareness of her, of her body. I sense nothing.

  “Thomas?” Kate asks, nerves in her voice.

  “Everything’s fine,” I assure her.

  And then I relax. Of course I’m not getting anything—nothing in her brain is functioning properly. I have to blindly heal the basics before I can get the whole picture.

  I glance at my watch. It’s been thirteen seconds. I take quick stock of my own body, and everything’s normal.

  I want to heal something that will elicit an immediate change in Olivia’s circumstances.

  Olivia has a tracheostomy—a hole was made in her neck so she could be hooked up to a ventilator, which is breathing for her. It’s a violation, this tube, this hole where no hole should be. It’s like a parasitic worm planted in the tender flesh of her neck.

  I want it out.

  I want her to breathe on her own.

  I hook in firmly to the medulla oblongata. It’s called the little brain, because it controls most of the autonomic functions like breathing, heart rate, swallowing, and even vomiting. I still can’t sense anything other than my immediate surroundings, so I pause.

  “Rachel?”

  The nurse hurries over to the opposite side of the bed and clutches the rail. “I’m here,” she says.

  “Usually when I do this, I have control of the patient’s brain, and I can clot the blood, control pain, the whole deal, but Olivia’s brain is too damaged. I don’t have that control yet,” I say.

  “What can I do?” she asks.

  “Two things,” I say. “One, I’d like to sedate her. As I heal, I’m not sure at what point she’ll wake, if she’ll even wake, but I don’t want her frightened or in pain.”

  “Thomas,” Kate says, but Kenneth cuts her off with a “Let him work, Kate.”

  Rachel nods. “And two?”

  “I’m going to get her breathing. I’ll eventually push the trach out and heal the wound, but I don’t know how fast I’ll be. There may be a mess.”

  Rachel turns to the cabinets on the wall. She pulls out a vial and syringe, several towels, antiseptic, and gauze pads. She fills the syringe from the vial and squeezes the contents into Olivia’s IV.

  “Do you want me to place the towels and stand by with the rest?” she asks.

  “Here,” I say, patting Olivia’s upper chest. “Towels here. I’ll give you some warning when the trach’s coming out.”

  Rachel arranges the towels and hovers over us.

  I take a deep breath. “Pastor Brooks? Are you doing okay?” I ask.

  I can’t see him. I know he was last pacing behind me, but I lost track of him in my exploration of Olivia.

  He clears his throat from the sitting room. “Fine,” he calls, voice strained. “I’m just…around the corner.”

  “Okay,” I say. “Just checking in. Everything’s going as expected.”

  “Don’t let me keep you,” he calls back.

  I turn my attention back to Olivia. “Here goes,” I whisper.

  ***

  I examine my own body. That is Kate’s Rule #1: Assess your body, ensure adequate resources are available, before proceeding with the patient. I took stock two minutes ago, but a lot can happen in two minutes.

  I’m still good. I haven’t done much yet but grow a few nerves. I note the time on
my watch.

  Kate’s Rule #2: Define each move. Ensure adequate resources prior to each step. Do not heal on a whim.

  Damn. Kate’s probably brooding behind me, trying to figure out how to withhold coffee for a week as punishment.

  I can’t define each move, because I don’t have a clear picture of all the damage I have to heal. But I have some information from prior scans. Particularly, the posterior part of the medulla oblongata, which contains nerves that connect to the spinal cord, appeared pinched and distorted. I need to right this part so nerve signals from the rest of her body can communicate with the brain.

  I wander around. I find dead brain cells, stretched nerves, even odd blank spots, and I heal them all. I dissolve nerves that are beyond salvage and grow new ones. I find that the PICA, a main artery branch that supplies the posterior part of the medulla, is slightly blocked, so the oxygen supply to the brain is not as high as it should be. I unblock it and glance at my watch.

  Three minutes, forty-five seconds.

  I inwardly cringe. It’s never taken me this long to heal before, but I’m used to having instant access to all the information I need. I examine my resources, find I’m slightly dehydrated, and that I need more Protein T.

  I momentarily waiver. Do I stop and take some Dwellerade, or do I continue on? I’m close, so close. A few more nerve cells, then I can move on to the tracheostomy.

  I hear Tessa whispering in my head. “Promise you’ll come back.”

  I keep my promises.

  I sit up straight and swipe my forehead with my free hand. “Rachel, could you open up my backpack and take out a bottle of Dwell…of, uh, Gatorade, please?”

  The backpack is still on my back. Rachel unzips it, retrieves a bottle, and zips it back up. She twists off the cap and hands it to me over my shoulder.

  “Thanks,” I say, chugging half the bottle. I hand it back to her, and she places it on the nightstand next to me, then resumes her position.

  “Anything else?” she asks.

  I shake my head. “I’ve got the medulla fixed, almost. Another minute or so, then I’ll push the trach out.”

  “She’s been on it for six months,” Rachel says, her brow creased. “Shouldn’t we wean her off of it?”