Memory, Light & Medicine

by Brian S. Wheeler

  A horn shrilled behind Vicki, chiding her for the moment she stalled at the intersection after the light shifted green.

  “See, Vicki. It’s because you’re not getting enough rest. You should take more time off of work.”

  “How would we afford to keep up with the treatment payments? We might not be able to touch it, and we might not be able to weigh it, but all that light isn’t free.”

  “I know it’s not free,” Elaine growled. “Your brother should be doing more to help.”

  “Perhaps he has other priorities.”

  “What’s more important than family?”

  Vicki navigated another bend in the road. The black semi-trailer on that day waited for them on the opposite side of town, upon the playground stretching beside an abandoned elementary school. Vicki wondered where she might next find that trailer – positioned atop the tennis courts in the village park, or maybe deposited in the parking lot outside of the public pool. She couldn’t understand why that trailer didn’t settle in a single spot.

  “Why are you driving this way?”

  “I want to go by the storefront again.”

  Elaine hummed. “It’s going out of our way. You know I need to be there when the shuttle from the home brings your father to the trailer. You know how important it is that I’m there to help him adjust to the trailer’s surroundings.”

  “It doesn’t matter. He still doesn’t recognize us.”

  “He recognizes me.”

  Vicki sighed. “I don’t want to argue. I’m going by the storefront.”

  “It’s not going to make you feel any better. Nothing’s likely changed since the last time we rolled by on street.”

  Vicki agreed with her mother that the storefront likely remained empty. She doubted that anyone yet opened a beauty salon or nail clinic in the available space. She expected that the building would be vacant for a long time to come, and Vicki knew that she wouldn’t be able to afford it regardless of how much time might pass. Her father’s treatments would demand whatever she might save for opening a shop within that empty building.

  Vicki slowed as the car rolled down the street. She dreamed of the sign she would’ve installed above the storefront’s entrance to proffer new age therapies and crystal healing to her community. She had squirrelled away savings for years. She had invested in the online curriculum that instructed her how to read palms and how to recognize each client’s guardian angel. She earned certification in the treatment of muscle ailments with tuning forks, and she learned the art of cleansing chakras. She researched the power of crystals to balance the soul, and how the scent of certain candles helped open the third eye. Vicki was nearly prepared to purchase her inventory and pay the deposit and rent required to move into that storefront when the semi-trailer made its first visit to town, promising that its light would make Thomas Voss again whole.

  Yet those promised memories still hadn’t returned for good. The light offered moments of memories, but the light failed to yet make any permanent. The light summoned glimpses of Thomas Voss, enough to convince his wife that she couldn’t turn back, no matter how her savings emptied, and no matter if she was forced to rely upon her daughter to finance the treatments and give her a home. And because she couldn’t deny her mother, Vicki’s dream of healing her community with crystals and candles drifted beyond her reach.

  But Vicki still rolled her car beyond that storefront, and the empty display windows again made her wonder if she might’ve preferred if her father’s mind remained shrouded in mist.

  “You’re better off not spending all that money on such a foolish business, Vicki. There’s nothing magical about angels and stars.”

  Vicki scoffed. “How can you, of all people, say that?”

  Elaine again hummed. “Your father would never have approved. He would never have allowed you to waste so much money on your courses and seminars.”

  “I don’t care what father might’ve thought.”

  Anger flashed in Elaine’s eyes. “You won’t say such a thing when your father returns. He’ll set our family straight again. He always tried so hard to keep you and your brother focused.”

  “I always wanted to heal people.”

  “You wanted too many things,” sneered Elaine. “You wanted to be a veterinarian. You wanted to be a physical therapist. You wanted to be a pharmacist. You’re a grown woman, and you spend all your money trying to be some kind of shaman. You father would never have allowed you to waste your time on such foolish things. You’re a nurse. It’s a good job. Let me tell you, Vicki, it wasn’t easy for women to find such good jobs when I was your age. You should be grateful for what you have, and you should thank your father for helping you when he comes back.”

  Vicki slowed the car. Why was she giving her mother everything she earned? She didn’t want to return her father from the mist. She didn’t want him in her home. Father would laugh at the crystals displayed on her bookshelves. He would mock all her framed certificates. Father Thomas would bully and rage until she was again reduced to a timid girl, who said nothing while her mother hummed.

  But she couldn’t turn around. She remained the most dutiful of Thomas Voss’ children, and her heart never grew strong enough for rebellion.

  Cars were again honking. Vicki stalled at another intersection.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Elaine cringed as another horn shrilled. “Where’s your mind. If you weren’t so young, I’d think you needed the light treatment.”

  “Maybe I do.”

  “You’re being foolish again.”

  Vicki wondered. “Maybe not. Maybe I could change the colors of those lights, and maybe I could change how quickly they flashed. Then, maybe I could sit in that chamber and use that light to erase memories rather than preserve them.”

  “That’s an appalling thought.”

  “Is it?” Vicki peeked at her mother. “Don’t you have memories you’d like erased? Aren’t there things you’d like to forget before father comes back?”

  Elaine hummed and turned her attention to the buildings passing in the windshield. Vicki knew her question cut her mother. Elaine didn’t answer, but her humming kept growing louder. Vicki wondered if her mother would ever face those memories Vicki continued to fear, and she wondered if her mother might’ve long ago sliced all the hostile memories, as if they were cancer, from her mind without the assistance of any light.

  * * * * *

  Chapter 7 – No Retreat

  Logan heard a hum, and then he felt the bed vibrate beneath his spine as the machine prepared to inspect him. He had time to take a breath, to remind himself to concentrate on his breathing so that he could control his anxiety as the bed slowly pushed him into the CAT scan’s rotating ring of sensors.

  He needed to calm. He needed to find a still refuge within his mind, someplace where he could hide from the claustrophobia that squeezed his lungs. Logan couldn’t fixate on that lump he felt in the middle of his chest. He couldn’t worry and fidget over whether or not that mass was growing. The machine would tell him soon enough, if he could only remain calm. Anxiety would only lengthen the travail.

  Logan closed his eyes. He listened to the scanners rotate around him, and he imagined what colors all those x-rays might take if only his eyes were capable of seeing those invisible wavelengths.

  And then, Logan Voss slipped into his memory.

  * * * * *

  “Forward! God dammit, Logon! How many times do I have to tell you to charge the high hops? You can’t move backwards at third base! You can never move backwards!”

  Logan pounded his glove and hurried back into position before his father might smack another whistling baseball at him. He assumed the posture his father demanded – legs bent, his feet centered beneath his shoulders, his glove set upon the ground. Logan would be ready for the next bouncing baseball. He vowed he would block the hard ball with his chest if he needed, swore to himself that he wouldn’t flinch and let the baseball roll beneath his legs. Logan
would be ready to charge the next baseball if it took a tall hop in front of home plate. He would force his reflexes to move forward. He would deny that instinct to retreat. He would charge instead of shirk, and he would make his father proud by showing that a person could depend upon Logan Voss to make the play at third base.

  Yet Thomas didn’t strike the next ground ball steeply into the ground. Instead, Thomas quickly swung his aluminum baseball bat and sent the baseball skimming across the dirt and rock infield. Logan hesitated. His reflexes tripped. He hadn’t expected his father to hit such a hard grounder after his father reproached him for hesitating to charge. Logan’s glove faltered, and the baseball slammed into his shin.

  It hurt. The impact burned, and Logan knew that ugly bruises would cover his legs by the time his father ended that Saturday morning session of infield practice. But Logan ignored the pain, and he scrambled to pick up the baseball that rolled passed his feet. He felt the ball’s hide in his ungloved hand. He hadn’t lost so much time by failing to field that ball cleanly. He might still throw that baseball against the plywood his father stood behind first base to represent another fielder. He might still beat the ghost-runner charging down the foul line. Logan might still manage to make the play.

  Logan grunted and threw the baseball as hard as he could, so that his father would forgive him for his fielding miscue after watching his boy unleash a screaming throw against the intended plywood target. He tried as hard as he could, but Logan’s throw sailed far over the plywood and bounced into the concrete dugout behind first base.

  “God dammit!”

  Furious, Thomas Voss hurled his aluminum baseball bat against the chain-link fence behind home plate. He glared again at his boy, who hurried to return to his place next to third base.

  “You field like old people screw, Logan! Poorly and not very often!” Thomas stomped to retrieve the bat. “I’ve told you a hundred times that the ball will sail if you throw it while your momentum is pushing you towards the foul line! I’ve told you a hundred times that you have to force your throw into the ground! But you don’t listen! You don’t think I know anything about this game! That’s why Coach Walker plays that Morrison boy instead of you. That’s why you humiliate me by sitting the bench on Coach Walker’s travelling squad.”

  Logan clamped his teeth together. He didn’t dare tremble. He didn’t dare betray a fluttering lip, or make the sound of a sob. He didn’t dare turn away when his father screamed at him. It’s why he didn’t flinch as he watched his father retrieve the aluminum baseball bat before hurtling it a second time against the fence.

  “Thomas, don’t you think you should be careful with the park’s property? They’ll take the gate keys away from you if they think you’re hurting their baseball diamond.”

  Logan glanced at his mother sitting on the aluminum bleachers on the other side of the chain-link fence, working on another needle-point project, likely some pleasant adage about family, something to frame and hang upon the living room wall with all the other cross-stitched animals and Bible verses of mother’s sewing hobby. She never objected when Thomas screamed at her boy. She never told her husband to show her son any mercy after baseballs careened off his leg. She only hummed. She only spoke when Thomas slammed that aluminum bat a second time into fence.

  “I’m only trying to help the boy, Elaine. I really am. You think I want to be out here hitting ground balls this morning? I could be fishing with Randy and Jerry. I could be half-way through a round of golf by this time. But I’m trying to get Logan to do something more than just play video games all day long. He has to learn to work for things. He has to learn how to earn things. He has to learn that sitting on Coach Walker’s bench is nothing to feel proud about.”

  “Just remember that the boys on Coach Walker’s team are all two years older than Logan. It’s something special that they asked Logan to be on the team at all.”

  Thomas snarled. “That’s nothing but an excuse.”

  Logan bent his knees and prepared himself for another ground ball when his father picked up his bat and returned to home plate. The boy watched his father’s hands grip tighter and tighter on the bat’s handle. He knew that his mother’s logic did nothing to calm his father’s temper. His shins were stiff from so many bruises. His hand throbbed from the impact of the baseball repeatedly striking his glove. His throwing hand bled from where one of the skimming baseballs had ripped off a hunk of fingernail. He pressed his lips together. He was determined not to show his father that any of it hurt.

  Logan peeked back towards first base when he heard someone scurrying across the dugout concrete. Vicki ran down the dugout steps to retrieve his errant throw, and she quickly tossed the baseball back to her father so that Thomas wouldn’t remain angry at her brother. Logan’s eyes followed the arc of his sister’s toss. He watched his dad catch that baseball so easily in his bare hand, and he braced for the next skipping play his father would deliver him.

  “Dammit, Logan! Get your glove down!”

  Logan instantly dropped his mitt upon the dirt.

  “Don’t back up on the ball! The Morrison boy backs up on the ball! You understand me, Logan?”

  “I understand,” Logan shouted.

  Logan watched his father toss the baseball into the air before striking it with a full swing. The ball dinged off of the aluminum bat, and Logan instantly felt there was something strange about the way the ball reacted after first striking the ground. Time froze. Time seemed to fall off of its proper track. The baseball was strangely speeding towards him. It was moving faster than any previously hit at him. Everything else around that baseball diamond locked into standstill. Logan heard the baseball’s stitching whistle. His heart hardly had time for another beat. He positioned his glove to meet the baseball. He swore to himself that he wouldn’t’ flinch, and he squared his shoulders to make his body a wall against that bouncing ball.

  The ball took a strange hop just before it reached Logan’s waiting glove. It’s trajectory shot upwards. The ball’s topspin careened towards Logan’s face. Logan’s mind flinched, and then Logan slipped into darkness.

  * * * * *

  Logan winced as the doctor waved the penlight into his eyes, gauging how well the boy’s pupils tracked the light.

  “He seems to be through the worst of the concussion,” observed the doctor, “but let me know the moment Logan suffers from any kind of nausea. His face is going to feel awful tender for a while. And Logan, I know all those bandages are uncomfortable, but you’re going to need to do your best not to sneeze, so that you won’t do any more harm to your nose.”

  “The boy won’t sneeze,” Thomas promised.

  Logan looked sheepishly at his father, who continued to frown at him. Logan feared he once again disappointed his father, that his athletic ineptitude again let his father down. Logan saw how his father’s posture remained tense, and Logan worried to say anything, lest he placed some other irritant into his father’s temper.

  Logan turned his eyes back towards the doctor, and he looked into the large mirror suspended on the wall over that doctor’s shoulder. He gasped at the reflection of his hurts. Purple bruises circled his eyes, with streaks of bright yellow radiating from the pile of bandages that covered his nose. It hurt to wink. Every muscle on his face tightened with each change in his expression. The throb pulsed within his skull. And worst of all, a tickling sensation scratched within his nose, tempting him to sneeze. He squeezed his eyes closed until stars twinkled at the back of his eyelids. He choked a breath. He thought his head would explode, but Logan resisted the urge.

  The nurses demanded that they push Logan out of the hospital in a wheelchair no matter how his father grumbled against the assistance. The outside light made his eyes water. Thomas didn’t offer his son a hand as his boy hobbled back onto his feet. Instead, he hurried onward to the car, taking not a moment to turn and look at what a hard-hit ground ball had done to his son’s face. Elaine hummed alongside her son as he shuffled beyond
the curb. She too wouldn’t look at him. She had hardly glanced at him since she had forced Thomas to deliver her boy to the emergency room.

  Vicki took her brother’s hand and gave what support her small body might to Logan’s weak steps. He was the sibling with the smashed face, but Logan felt for his sister, who was forced to spend so much time watching him taking fielding practice or practicing free throws during open gym. Whenever any of Logan’s team lost a competition, Vicki had to follow her father’s edict for complete silence during any following ride home. She too had to follow father’s command that none of Logan’s family could talk or smile at any dinner table or restaurant following any competition that dealt Logan a loss. Father swore to never teach Logan how to accept defeat, and he made sure both of his children felt the misery of every loss. No matter how faultless Logan might’ve been for the errant play that lost his team a ballgame, no matter that Logan might not have been the player who missed the winning shot, or the base-runner tagged for the last out. Logan knew Vicki had to share in the misery, that father wouldn’t so much as let her dance or sing after any bad hop or foul luck cost Logan a victory.