Dr. Bolger led John through the heavy service door leading out of the hospital and up a rusted set of stairs that brought them back to ground level. John had lost his bearings during the winding tour; they were now standing at a distant corner of the hospital where it joined with the empty building.
John followed the old doctor behind the abandoned hospital, struck by the utter desolation. The corners and crevasses of the long-abandoned building accumulated decades of wind-blown debris: leaves, fast-food wrappers, grocery bags. John smiled to see a Bob Dole ’96 flyer tangled in the mess; Dole would’ve definitely had his old man’s vote.
A rusted industrial dumpster blocked another door, this one leading into the old building. Dr. Bolger squeezed behind the dumpster with surprising ease and brought a key to a heavy padlock. His hand was shaking.
The door swung open, and a chalky mustiness rolled over them. The old man reached inside and grabbed a flashlight. “Watch your step,” Dr. Bolger cautioned. “It’ll take a while for your eyes to adjust.”
* * *
The light became patchy as they moved deeper into the dead hospital. The walls were a dour institutional green. The floor tiles, cracked and fading, were ancient. The sun came through in dust-speckled beams pricking through boarded-up windows. The stale, unbreathed air hung heavy. John stopped and took in the ghostly surroundings.
“Dr. Bolger?” John whispered, realizing he was alone. He immediately felt a little boy’s chill as his adventure turned scary. “Hello?”
Through the pale light he noticed that a path on the floor cut through decades of dirt and debris. In every other direction, not a single footprint, and yet down one hall, a clear trail had been nearly worn clean. The old man seemed to know John would follow.
He found him sitting on a bench outside a long row of closed doors. John assumed the old man was winded, his shoulders heaving as he looked to the floor. But as he turned John saw he was crying.
“He asked me to do this,” the old doctor pleaded. “When it began, I was just doing what he wanted. Please believe me.”
Something grave was suddenly in play.
“Do what?” John asked, his heart beginning to race. “What are you talking about?”
“We knew—that very first day—that the stroke was too severe, the damage was too extensive. But his body wouldn’t let go.
“He was fighting. And he went on and on, for almost a year,” the old man pleaded.
“You and Mike were young, we were all determined to shelter you from more harm, but your mother … The pressure, the not knowing, it was killing her. We needed to bring it to an end, John. We needed to say it was over. For her.”
He turned and stared at John.
“But Larry just kept on fighting.” A pause. “He never stopped.”
John looked to a door across the hall. The trail leading from the new hospital ended there.
Room 116.
Something heavy and immutable broke loose in John’s mind. He looked to his father’s friend for passage back from a dream that could not be happening.
The old man softly gripped John’s forearm. “He’s never coming back, John, you need to understand that. He’s never coming back.
“But he’s still here,” the old man said simply.
John looked again to the door, then turned slowly back to Dr. Bolger.
“What are you…?” John pleaded, the words queasy in his ears.
The old man buried his face in his hands. “I swear, I just didn’t know what to do.”
John’s feet slowly took him down a dusty trail to the closed door. His hand reached for the knob.