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Randall
RANDALL HAD JUST FINISHED up a physical therapy session at Edenhurst Regional Hospital Integrative Sports Medicine when he got a call from Detective Pernell.
“Just a heads-up, we got the results back. The weapon Charlotte Carter used matches the one that killed St. John. We're going ahead with this and you'll be hearing from the commissioner. Mayor Gundry too, no doubt. Hurry up and heal, buddy. Now that we’re in the same weight class, I don’t want to hear any excuses when I beat your record. I’m bench pressing two-ten now.”
“You’re dreaming,” Randall chuckled. “And, thanks for the update.”
He stopped by the administrative offices on his way out to review the invoices and make another payment. He was assured that the limp would not be permanent but pushing himself too fast would make it worse. He had not been in this section of the hospital since the last time he saw his father alive. Nothing had changed. He propped the ashwood cane against his leg, leaned over the counter and watched the clerk pull the tall shelving units back and forth until she found the folder for ...
“Wells, Randall J.” She looked up and smiled at him, “Is that right?”
“No, not for me this time.”
“Ah, okay. Miss Doretha. Got it right here.”
“Yes, thank you.”
He pulled out his wallet from his back pocket, took out a check, and scanned over the lists of treatments, medications, and recommendations on the pages of the medical bills. He didn't try to comprehend any of it. Paying these bills was simply a quarterly necessity, a mental reflex. It was not a time for introspection. “Just write the check and get out of here,” he told himself and picked up the pen, pulling the attached chain to its full length. He sighed. It was the little things that got to him these days. The clerk gently removed the pen from his fingers and replaced it with a hefty ballpoint. He gave her a half smile of gratitude.
“Do you know if she is ...” He tapped the pen over the name section and cleared his throat. “How she's doing?”
“No, we don't get any information about that down here. You can stop by the nurses' station in the H. M. Anderson Center and they can answer any questions you have.
“Maybe another time.” He shrugged it off.
“Sure, I understand. It's good to see you getting around, sir.” She reshuffled the documents back in the file, took his check and paper-clipped it to the top of the folder.
“Thanks.” He grabbed the panther head carved handle of his cane, pivoted and started back down the corridor following the yellow and red stripes on the floor. Yellow led to the parking garage. He glanced at his watch. He was moving slow but there was still time to drive through Red Roasters, grab some lunch, fill up the tank and get back to Traci before it was too late. When he reached the corner, the yellow and red stripes split off in different directions. He followed the red.
In the H.M. Anderson Center, the nurse stations beamed with large screen monitors on the walls and rolling in-patient processing carts were parked along each side. He ignored everyone and they graciously allowed him to pass unchallenged. When he reached room 33-S, he took a breath, knocked once, and walked in. If he had taken the time to imagine what to expect, he was sure this would not have been it.
Doretha Wells laid in the hospital bed, eyes wide, staring at the ceiling. The sheet shifting up and down over her chest was the only indication of life. Randall walked closer, rolled a chair next to her bed and sat down. He stared at her for a few minutes hoping she would somehow acknowledge his presence. She did not.
“Mother, Brad's home. I mean, he's back with us ... here in Keeferton. I thought you should know.” He decided to start the conversation where they had left off twenty years ago. “We've got to figure some things out still, but I think he'll be fine. We'll work it out.”
He stood up, left his cane against her bed, limped to the other side of the room and looked out the window. He watched the hospital personnel walking to and fro in the parking lot below. Shift change, no doubt. Too many smokers in the bunch standing around, though. That didn’t make sense for hospital folk.
“You know, Brad brought up some things from our childhood the other day, stuff between you and Pops. Funny how you can live through the same experience and see it totally different.” He adjusted the blinds up and then back down again to the halfway point on the window. “But we both believed you didn't love us. That you changed your mind about our family. And maybe that's how life works. People just leave, give up and walk out on you simply because they can.”
His phone buzzed again with a text from Traci.
“Don’t be late.” It said with little heart emojis. He sent a thumbs up and stuffed his phone back in his pocket.
“But then I realized I never heard your side of the story. Something made you sad enough, or mad enough to leave your two boys. And, Pops. Maybe if we had done better, been better ... maybe you would have stayed. I don’t know ...” He shook his head, lost in thought.
“You must be the son.” A woman in scrubs stepped into the room as if summoned.
“Yes, Randall Wells.” He turned and shook himself back into the moment.
“Ah, yes, I can see the resemblance. And, I recognize you from the news. You and Mayor Gundry about that shooting in Mag ...”
“Yeah, yeah ...” He waved her off the subject and nodded toward Doretha. “How's she doing?”
“Well, at this stage we don't expect much. We focus on keeping them comfortable for as long as they remain with us. But overall, we ... “
“Okay, I get it. Thanks.”
The woman checked the numerous monitors and charts in the room, then left as silently as she had appeared.
He walked closer to Doretha and bent over her bedside. “I don't know how this is all supposed to work out. Nobody can predict the future. I just wanted you to know ... me and this woman, we're about to make it official. We've been through hell together already. I think we can make it through anything that comes our way. But there's this kid ... she's really attached to him and ... I don't know if I can be that guy to ... you know. Well, I just want her to be happy ... and to not be afraid to tell me if she's not. To trust me, I guess that's what I'm trying to say.”
He sat down next to her and lowered his voice.
“How can I tell ...” He wiped his hand across the top of his head. “I don't even know if you can hear me.” He let out a deep sigh, then retrieved his phone from his pocket, found his favorite picture and held it toward Doretha’s face. “Anyway, here's a picture of her. Her name is Traci, Tracinda. She's really pretty, right? Beautiful. Better than I deserve.” He grinned and sat down again. “See, I don't want to mess this thing up ... like Pops.”
He plucked a tissue from the box next to her bed and cleared the drool from the edge of her mouth. Her eyes turned and focused on him for the first time. He slipped his fingers gently under her hand and she pressed back.
A thousand memories rushed forward in a moment, pulling him back into the darkest days of his life. He recalled hiding liquor bottles from his father after the news about Bradford being MIA. The drinking, the anger and rage about every little thing. And finally, the scene on the highway where Big Remy had swerved in front of a tractor trailer truck. Yellow ambulance lights and rain coming down like sheets beating against him and the officers holding him back from trying to rush into the debris to help. The Jaws of Life prying open the mangled wreckage to retrieve his father's body, pierced through the windshield, no seatbelt. It would not have made a difference; the authorities had said. Randall had decided to believe it would have.
Then back further. Nineteen-year-old Randall getting the news that his only sibling was lost in a war that no one could explain to him. What was the location? The purpose. The plan ... that failed and left him behind. What was the plan to find him? What was the plan to heal their family's pain and fill the void? No one answered him. No one was accountable for it. How could they get away with that?
And, ten-year-old Randall with the neighbor lady standing behind him, her hands on his shoulders, as his mother cupped his face in her hands.
“I'll be back and bring you something sweet. So, be a good boy, okay?”
“Okay, Mother ...”
He looked at her now, still looking back at him. His face in her face. He reached down and touched the wedding band that she still wore even though the divorce was final over decades ago.
“Okay ... Mother,” he echoed aloud and cupped her hand against his face.
Her fingers moved slightly under his touch. He could feel that dam of emotions trying to break forth. He kissed the palm of her hand and let the tears flow.
