by Peter Dawes
“No, which is why I made sure to grab a few things for you. Just in case.”
Brow furrowed, I looked at her as she paused beside an opened door. Monica gestured for me to enter and once I did, I saw a suit hanging near the shower which looked plucked directly from my closet. As I looked at her, she shrugged. “Don’t ask,” she said. “You don’t want to know. Just trust me when I say I’m never doing that again.”
“Quixotic imp.” I remained standing in place as she chuckled and walked away. Shutting the door, I shook my head, attempting to brush aside thoughts of any death-defying stunts she might have performed while I was confined to my room. Comforting myself with the thought that perhaps she had stolen it when she brought me back several weeks ago, I turned on the shower and removed Robin’s watch from my pocket first before disrobing. The hot stream washed away a week’s worth of filth and dressing in a fresh suit felt like being born again. After slipping the timepiece back into my pocket and latching it to a belt loop, I threaded my arms through the sleeves of my jacket.
My first night as a seer had officially begun.
Strolling into the living room, I found Monica curled up on the couch and settled onto the loveseat near her. Her gaze distant at first, it settled on me, and as it did, I watched her disposition shift away from its thoughtful repose. She straightened to an upright position and nodded. “Ready for the rest of the night?” Monica asked.
“As ready as I will be,” I said. “What did you have in mind?”
“Well, for one, forcing you to wear your glasses so I can switch on a light or two in this room. As much as I love lurking around in the dark, it’s bad for my complexion.” Her burgeoning grin faded, given over to sobriety. “We’ve got a lot of work ahead of us. How are you feeling?”
My posture tensed almost out of reflex. “Still a trifle weak, but I think I can be an apt student. I simply need to pace myself until I regain my strength.”
“We can do pacing. In fact, I have a good idea how we can get our feet wet.” She pointed toward the stairs. Go fetch your coat and a couple of your daggers. We’ll leave the sword at home for now. You and I are going on a little field trip.”
Coming to a stand, I raised an eyebrow at her. “Do I get to know where?”
“Not yet.”
I sighed at the way she smirked, but walked toward the stairs without further question. Within a few minutes, I had my shoulder holster on, its slots filled with sheathed knives and both my suit jacket and coat on to conceal them. As I bounded back downstairs, affixing my sunglasses on my face, I caught sight of Monica tying her scarf around her neck before reaching for her coat.
“Let’s go mingle with humanity,” she said, sliding her arms through the sleeves and giving me a wink. I followed her out into the night, assuming a place by her side as if she had become my ward and I, her bodyguard. We slipped off the main streets and into a back alley, waiting until then to speak.
“So, how are we to get to where we are going?” I asked. Glancing around the neighborhood, I attempted to place myself within the city, only recalling that we had fled northward from Matthew’s coven. As we strode to the intersection and up to the light, where we could cross, I finally caught sight of a street sign which read Kensington Ave. “Are we going to walk?”
“It’s not too far from here, so we can hoof it.”
“I suppose I can play along in ignorance and extend you the courtesy of not reading your thoughts.”
Monica smirked. “Oh, thank you, kind sir, for your benevolence.”
I exchanged the smile, acquiescing to it before sobering again. The further onward we traveled, the more the neighborhood gained a sense of familiarity until I recognized one intersection from my once frequent late-night strolls. We stopped and waited for traffic to pass while I mused on the best way to inquire about it. “We are somewhat closer to the coven estate than I would like to be,” I finally said.
“Yeah, I know,” Monica responded, breaking up her answer with a swift dash from one sidewalk to the other and continuing to lead the way from there. I followed, about to press when she added, “The good news is Sabrina’s not home right now.”
“So, you did sneak in to take a suit from my closet.”
“I snuck around trying to get a bead on what she was up to. When I realized she wasn’t home, I took the chance.” She looked up at me as if sensing the way I scowled at her. “I’m not suicidal, Peter. Would’ve been easier for me to run down to the thrift store and buy you a few things than sneak in with her there.”
“While I am grateful you did not buy me a secondhand suit, I wish you would not have taken the risk.” My lips quirked again. “You still have not told me where we are headed.”
“You’ll see when we arrive,” she said, and fell silent afterward. Within another few blocks, though, I did not need the question answered for me, as a large monolith became visible from down the street. The moment I recognized it, I stopped walking. Fortunately, Monica did the same.
“Why did you bring me back here?” I asked, transfixed on the sight of the hospital where I had worked for nearly three years. As I stared at it, I heard the faint echo of voices I had long since forgotten, belonging to friends and co-workers who maintained the same breakneck pace I had in the emergency room of a major city. Spinning to face Monica, I studied the pleased expression on her face before shaking my head. “This is the wrong place to bring a vampire.”
She laughed. “Oh, it’s the worst place to bring a vampire, but it’s a fantastic place to bring a seer.” When I failed to respond, Monica reached for my hand, tugging me along until I continued walking of my own volition. As nostalgia whisked my mind away again, I felt my stomach sink, remembering little about my final days in the hospital and not knowing what to expect when I entered. If this was to be my classroom as a seer, a part of me knew I would have to make peace with that while the other part wanted to recoil and return home.
“What do you hope this will accomplish?” I asked.
We passed by two doctors, standing outside smoking cigarettes. Steam rose from vents in the pavement and as we approached the main doors, Monica paused and turned to face me. She lowered her voice, ignoring a man walking up to the sliding doors holding an arrangement of flowers. “Because each of us has a place that brings out the benevolence in us. A large part of your powers are fueled by your ability to feel the world around you and I know you got a taste of that the other night. You felt remorse for what happened to Robin and Lydia, and look at how much that changed the way you saw everything else.”
I could not deny the truth in her statement. Reaching in my pocket, I touched the timepiece I had tucked there, running my thumb along the cover before nodding and sighing. “Teach me how to feel again, then,” I said. “If you are so confident I can discover that here.”
Nodding, Monica strode up to me and picked a piece of lint from my coat. In her smile, I saw both appreciation and compassion, relieved when pity never made an appearance. Instead, she stepped back and pointed ahead of us. “After you, then,” she said.
Taking a deep breath, I advanced forward. The glass doors parted to allow me entrance and as I stood in the middle of the vestibule, the pervasive sense of nostalgia worsened. Monica paused beside me and spoke as if she could read my thoughts.
“Welcome back to Temple University Hospital,” she said. “Dr. Peter Dawes.”
Chapter 27
It was survivor’s guilt that had placed me on the path of medicine. For months after the accident which had taken my parents, I remembered wrestling with nightmares of that fateful night. Years later, I could still hear my father and mother laughing together while I sat in the back, seat belt unbuckled and not a care in the world. Thirteen years old during the summer of 1967, my cares and concerns extended no further than my chores around the farm. It all shattered around me within seconds.
I recalled the deafening sounds of metal impacting metal as tiny shards of glass showered us with crystalline r
ain. I was thrown forward into the back of my father’s seat, my leg bending at an unnatural angle as the world spun, pain shooting from the point of impact intensely enough to make the world go black for a few moments. When I opened my eyes again, I saw a copious amount of blood staining my pant leg and, more terrifyingly, coating my mother’s window. My father’s head rested against the steering wheel. Neither of them moved.
I thought I heard labored breathing while drifting in and out of consciousness. I would find out later, as I was pulled from the twisted remains of my father’s vehicle, that we had been hit head-on by a drunk driver and it had taken the police an hour to find us. My father’s sister drove to the hospital and later broke the news to me. John and Marjorie Dawes had died while we waited for help to arrive.
Two surgeries and a lifetime’s worth of scars later, I was an orphan. My aunt took me in and I went from living in rural Pennsylvania to piecing together the remnants of my existence in Abington, a bustling suburb of Philadelphia. Amidst the struggle to figure out what to make of life now, my mind continued revisiting the accident and I wondered, what if I had been able to help my parents? The notion found its genesis while I sat in the hospital during my surgery follow-ups and gained fruition when I started school that September. By the time I received my high school diploma, I had been accepted into Temple University’s medical program.
The work ethic of life on a farm translated into my studies with devoted obsession. I made all my classes and studied as hard as possible, as though I would be able to teleport back to the accident afterward and save my parents. For eight years, I had been surrounded by textbooks and teachers, cadavers and skeletal models, diagrams of veins and capillaries. The endless hours of tests, lectures, and dissections led me to the point where I signed on to specialize in emergency medicine. I wanted to save the world, one human at a time, after losing the people who had brought me into it.
They remained heavy in my thoughts when I showed up for my first day of internship at Temple University Hospital, beginning my initial year of residency. It was first day of what would be a gauntlet run, or so I thought at the time. July had never seemed hotter, and the ink on my medical school diploma had barely dried. The world expected me to apply my knowledge in the gravest of manners, in the emergency room of a hospital located in the heart of North Philadelphia.
And I was scared to death.
Senior residents barked orders and instructors condescended as they led us on rounds. The entire world seemed tipped on its axis while spinning quickly at the same time. My first week provided me precious little sleep and by the second week, I wondered how I would make it to the other side of three long years. One especially frustrating shift found me sitting in the locker room, holding my head in my hands. Two weeks in, and my nerves were already shot to hell.
As I strolled back into the emergency room, I passed a desk and found myself scowling at the nurses as they tried to speak to me. I was not angry at them so much as I was simply frustrated with the world at large and bent to take it out on everyone. A portly, middle-aged nurse raised an eyebrow at me, but I turned away before she could speak. The intersected gaze was enough, though. She stood to give chase and I sighed, aggravated enough to spin on my heels as I heard her approach.
She smiled in the most disarming way possible, extending a hand. “Well, hello there, young man. I’m assuming you’re one of the new interns. We haven’t been properly introduced. The name’s Chloe Poole. Who would you be?”
I mustered as much of a grin as I was apt to reciprocate. “Peter Dawes,” I said, shaking the outstretched hand. “Yes, I’m an intern.”
“Thought as much.” Her grip was firm, almost a challenge or a dare, but relaxed within seconds. “Those senior residents work you fellows ragged. I always have pity on the interns.”
“Yes, they’ve been...” I ran my fingers through my hair, peering at the other doctors before regarding Chloe again. “This behavior’s normal for them?”
Her grin became a smirk. “Honey, it’s a tradition. The world likes to shake you up and see what you’re made of from time to time.”
“So noted.” I frowned. “I don’t know if I can take much more of this.”
“Well, this is life in the E.R., Pete.” Her eyebrow arched again. “Why did you become a doctor?”
I sighed, recalling the first time in my medical school career I had been asked that question. “Because,” I said, reciting the same thing to her I had told my teachers, “I lost my parents in a car accident. Couldn’t help them, but I wanted to be able to help somebody else.”
“Ah, you’re one of the idealists.” Chloe started to walk, motioning for me to follow her. I did so, glancing around while listening to her speak. “I see it happen so many times, Pete, when pre-med and med school doesn’t take the luster out of an intern’s eyes and they get thrown into this lion’s den. It’s not the gold medal marathon the movies make it out to being, but when you help somebody who needs helping…” Her smile brightened. “It’s worth all the other horse shit you need to shovel along the way.”
I nodded. “I haven’t gotten to the part where that’s happened yet.”
“Then you’re looking at it the wrong way.” She pointed toward one of the occupied beds. “I know it’s hard to find something noble about treating the same alcoholic who fell down another flight of stairs, but even the people who come in here with minor sniffles and sneezes aren’t wasting your time. They’re everyday people and they might not be bleeding and broken, but you’re helping them get on with their lives.”
Turning my attention toward another bed, I saw a young woman raise her eyes toward me in an apprehensive manner, a blanket pulled up to her shoulders with dark circles framing her eyes. Chloe slapped a chart against my chest that I reflexively took in hand while shooting a glance toward the nurse.
She smiled. “Go save the world. Don’t get cynical like the rest of us.”
Nodding slowly, I watched Chloe walk away and opened the chart she had handed to me. Inside, I found the information taken down by whoever had first spoken to the patient. Persistent insomnia. No medical insurance, but a quick note scrawled across the bottom said it had gotten to the point where she had nearly been involved in a major car accident. My heart sank to think about what could have happened. Did she have a family who could have been harmed? Could she have been like the drunk driver whose car impacted ours all those years ago? Looking up at the young woman, I drew a deep breath inward and started my examination.
She left not too long afterward with a prescription and a few bits of additional information regarding her condition. The next patient complained of persistent stomach pain, and I determined he had a burgeoning ulcer, which would only get worse if left untreated. He thanked me while confessing the stress he faced every day and even as I sent him on his way, he spoke of a wife and children dependent upon his income to make ends meet. Each patient, it seemed, had some story to tell which struck a chord with me that night. When I entered the hospital for my next shift, even the badgering of the senior residents could not deter me from grasping firm hold of my newfound perspective.
Not that every night from that point forth bore a resonance of ‘sacrifice for the greater good’, but it helped me limp through the months until Lydia was there to reassure me when a hard day of work had failed to make me feel accomplished. It had been a small, but very real, slice of pleasure I relished until I met Sabrina and started down into an endless spiral. Monica was quite astute, though, to think my old place of employment would be the best place to take me. No matter what transpired, I knew exactly what job I had to do and how to handle the challenges presented to me.
It would be a valuable lesson as I faced a test of a different sort.
It was hard to believe it, but there I stood, in the middle of a place that had once been my second home. As I marveled over the sight, fighting back a flurry of nerves, Monica swatted me on the back and broke me from my stupor.
“Let
’s get a move on, Peter,” she said. “The night’s dwindling.”
I frowned and continued walking with her, glancing about the vicinity in as casual of a fashion as I could manage. Idle speculation as to what the other doctors might have thought when I vanished ran through my head, running the gamut between wearing my guilt on my sleeve and assuming, by now, enough time had passed for the feeding frenzy to have died down. Still, those questions circled. Had they heard about Lydia’s death? Were they questioned by the police? Again, I wondered why the hell Monica had been so foolish to bring me there regardless of her answer. Suddenly, my temples throbbed despite the absence of a pulse.
Raising my hand to adjust my sunglasses, I kept my gaze fixed on the ground while burying my hands inside my pockets. I did my best to avoid making eye contact with anybody, but this did not prevent somebody from stopping as we approached the emergency area. I winced as they called out my name.
“Pete?” a familiar, female voice asked.
Monica stopped walking, but I continued onward. The woman who recognized me was not to be deterred, though. “Dr. Peter Dawes?” she called out toward me. “Is that you?”
The footfalls hurrying toward me broke into a jog. I sighed, resigning myself to the imminent conversation and turned to face my pursuer. Mustering a halfhearted smile for the short, curvy nurse was as cordial of a gesture as I could manage. “Chloe, it has been ages,” I said, hoping she did not hear the strain latent in my words. “You look well.”
Truth be known, Chloe Poole looked tired – far more than I recalled her being when I worked with her. Her face bore some extra lines and her hair revealed shocks of gray amidst a sea of brown. She sighed. “Oh, stop bullshitting me. You always were a terrible liar.” Reaching forward, she threw her arms around me without hesitation and I froze in place. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.”
