When Mary’s mother died, the outside gossip circle froze. An unexpected phenomenon occurred. A woman with meningitis passed, and on the same day was confirmed with no trace, but instead colon cancer. The funeral was held in a wealthy, green-lawn cemetery, with a short sermon but a large attendance. Neighbors, relatives, and friends all gathered to mourn around the lifeless body in an oak casket. The sun was covered, and the old pastor with his white ceremonial gown spoke with ease, another funeral in his eyes. The noises consisted of sniffling and crying, but Mary stood in the back of the memorial with Mark, gently holding his hand. Unlike the others, Mary didn’t weep, cry, or even mourn while the pastor asked for anyone to say a few words on behalf of her dead mother. She didn’t shake when her all-black-attired aunt was taken off the podium by Mary’s round, bald uncle as she burst with tears for her younger sister. Her gaze wasn’t affected when a young, close friend began to speak about how much her mother changed the world with her beautiful smile and admirable personality. When her mother had passed three days earlier, Mark drove over to Mary’s house in a rush and arrived to find Mary speechless, seeming to have a mind occupied with absolutely nothing, as if her mentality decided to abort from the body, leaving the remaining parts to only comply with basic functions and tasks that would continue her natural lifestyle from before with the least amount of effort. She was sitting in a white bench outside their front door when he came, with a blank expression and a straight, awkward posture. She gave him a light hug and tucked her hand into his robotically. The next day, her father sent a formal letter to Mark. He told him that Mary would “enjoy your presence at the funeral, on Wednesday at 3:00 p.m.” So two days later, Mark came in with a worn coal-black suit and dirt-brown sneakers from his father’s closet. All Mary did was hug his waist gently and fragilely hold his hand, again without anything special in movement or emotion. Aaron told Mark he wouldn’t miss it for the world, sounding as sincere and supportive as he could, but he never came. Mark continued to watch the main road into the cemetery crowded with engraved stones. When her father stepped onto the podium, she spoke for the first time in three days. Her voice was not soft, but controlled and clearheaded.
“She knew.”
Mark quickly turned his head toward Mary. She never looked away from her father’s formal speech, watching him cry for the first time in her life, even before his speech.
“What did she know?”
“She knew about the cancer, the risk.” Her voice was angry, clenching his hand harder than before. Mark knew what she wanted him to ask, so he did.
“Why didn’t she do anything?”
“Because she was a coward. She was afraid of the treatment.”
“I’m sure that wasn’t the case, Mary.”
“She told me herself!” Mary yelled under her breath. There was a period where they only watched the speech as Mr. Kenny continued to sob into the skinny microphone, projecting it through tiny square church speakers. However, every emotional word was comprehendible, from both a combination of Mr. Kenny’s adequate speaking skills and the simple idea that sorrow understands sorrow. Then Mary spoke again.
“Our entire family covered for her, even the doctor.” She squeezed his hand. “I’ve never felt so terrible in my life.” Mark went down on two knees and pushed her into a tight hug. She began to cry aggressively. Angry tears burned on his chest like battery acid.
He murmured softly, “I’m sorry honey,” and closed his eyes. Mark wanted to cry, but didn’t, and in fact did not until seven years later, tears that landed on Mary’s shoulder while they both sat on the carpet, the same day they met Christian. “I got you, shh, I got you, I’m not going anywhere. You’re safe now.” She shed bitter tears with loud whimpers. Many looked over and assumed she was mourning like the others. In a way, Mary was. Some stared and whispered into each other’s ears; others ignored her and the noises she made, being thankful they were not the daughter to the polished oak casket.
“If only Aaron came,” Mark whispered and lightly chuckled. “He’d cheer us up. ”
“That’s a joke. All he does is make me feel like a tool,” she snickered. Mark laughed again, knowing beforehand what she would say.
“Yeah, it was a joke, hun.”
“He means well, and when I’m not around, he’s nice, but he just needs to accept me.” She let go and found herself staring into his eyes. Later that day, Mark would barge into Aaron’s trailer; he would almost seem to be waiting for him to arrive.
“He will, and when he does, we’ll celebrate!” Mark hugged her again, and she began to cry, although softer. Words didn’t have to be said—she missed her mom.
◆◆◆
Kennedy walked Mark toward Tyler’s room, through the patterned hallways and the smell of bleach, but when he arrived, there was a cart full of gloves and aprons. Kennedy told him to gown up, so he did, very used to the procedure. Before Mary was quarantined, this was what Mark did. When Mark was finished, he had on a pair of large dark purple gloves, a traffic-cone-yellow apron, and a plastic mask wrapped around his head. He knocked on the single door and grabbed the cold metal handle. There were rules to the door: it couldn’t be open for too long or the room would begin to screech. Every room was equipped with their own air-conditioning units to keep the patients away from others who could pose a threat. Many didn’t have immune systems, so this system was critical, and no one was able to visit—this is all Mark was told as Kennedy repeatedly glanced to each end of the hallway. Mark somehow knew that once he entered the room, she would leave with an air of ignorance. Kennedy would pretend that nothing of the abnormal happened on the sixth floor, and if asked about the event would curse her own mother’s grave before risking herself.
“You have five minutes, don’t touch him.” Kennedy rushed with a harsh whisper. “He has neutropenia, and if he isn’t up for talking, don’t blabber off. Leave him alone! He also might be asleep. Tyler just got out of a surgery. Very lucky, but that doesn’t mean he’s okay. You understand the basics, right, Mark?”
He turned to his right. “Yes.”
“Then go on!” She motioned him.
“Wait. Kennedy.”
“Yes?”
“Why was Tyler driving to the hospital? What did he need?”
She whipped her face toward his, then turned away just as brisk. She tapped her foot like a hummingbird, crossed her arms, and let out a long sigh.
“Morphine. He needed morphine but ran out and couldn’t wait. So he called us to admit himself. Now please, go inside before I change my mind.” Her words rushed out like a fountain as she led him again toward the door.
He opened it with caution as his heart slammed against his skin. Kennedy folded her arms again with haste, tapping her foot and feeling a force of dread. She knew Mark wasn’t the same, though she didn’t know how or why. Yet forces she knew too well pushed her against her own will. Kennedy gave him what he wanted for the chance of finding peace with her own mind. Mark was the root to her haunting guilt, and seeing him again with a request gave her hope that the past could be forgotten.
“Hello? Tyler?” He peeked inside the room.
Everything was familiar. Across was a thick, semi-opaque sliding glass door covering the bathroom. On the right, farthest away, was a mini whiteboard bolted to the wall, with Expo markers of three colors on the metal holder below. It had the name of the patient, the caregiver, the date, and a blob of scribbles from a child, some child that has been there before him. In the top middle of the wall on the right was a miniature television, angled low by the anchors from the wall, playing Fox News on mute. Underneath was a miniature plastic chrome fridge. There was a half-eaten plate of fruit, with a green tea and a woman’s purse. Closest to the door was a medical supply bin full of syringes, bandages, port-a-cath needles, tubes, and almost everything needed for the nurse locked in their shelves. On the other side was a sink, with a hand-sensitive paper towel and soap dispenser above. There was a dresser against the left wall next to the bed, full of clothes and notebooks. On top was a clock, holding up a row of books by authors from Jim Gaffigan to Ernest Hemingway, and another notebook face down, with a pen on top. Someone brought all of this in one day’s time.
On the far side of the bed was a long pole with two brains attached, which were machines that controlled the flow of medications through the IV. Two brains alone were bad news, one on top of the other, pumping antibiotics, IV nutrition, a newly placed blood bag, and saline fluids for hydration, all hanging on the pole with casual existence. Above that was a screen hanging from the wall, monitoring blood pressure, pulse ox, and heart rate by different colored numbers on the screen. The typical heart rate line ran from side to side, with the noise dimmed down to almost a silent whisper. All body activity was monitored. Directly in front of Mark was a thin couch that flattened into a bed; it had a thick royal blue soccer blanket with a pillow and a bag of makeup, all spontaneously thrown into different positions on the couch. Above was a window, overlooking the gigantic plum-purple Arizona mountains. Between the bathroom and the couch was another bag that seemed to have just recently arrived. It was brown, with two leather straps and a razor sticking out of the side pocket.
Tyler saw the man peeking from the door and began to speak.
“Are you a Jehovah’s Witness?”
“Um, no?”
“Telemarketer?”
“No?”
“Then come in, friend! Just drop the pizza off on the side of the bed.”
Mark walked in. Tyler was drugged without doubt—every motion was very slow and clumsy, as if he were made of licorice.
“Sorry, buddy, I don’t have a pizza.” Mark checked his pocket and found no pizza.
“Good, I didn’t order one!” He laughed hysterically and rocked in his plastic bed. Tyler had a neck brace and a cast on the left leg and arm, with bandages in multiple spots, including the head, body, and knees. The skinny body fit into the small twin-size bed. There were many thin blankets from the hospital, but he wore nothing but scrubs. What have I done? Mark thought. What have I done? He closed the door and slowly walked toward the bed.
“How do you feel?”
“I was in pain, but I got morphine. Then the morphine made me hyper. I’m better, but…” Tyler smiled and looked down.
“What?” Mark asked. Tyler hesitated to speak about himself, almost identical to the way the nurses reacted before.
“I don’t enjoy it, though, any of it.”
“What don’t you like, the hospital?”
“No, the drugs.” Tyler looked up and began to laugh again. Mark was struck back and surprised that he’d share something like that with a stranger, and so quickly. But he also felt guilty of his judgment on Tyler, guilty that he assumed the exact opposite.
“Why not?”
“It’s been a while since I’ve felt normal. To walk and feel no pain in your feet, to laugh and feel no blisters in your mouth, to think without drugs fogging your thoughts. Those are the three big ones. I wish I could walk, and I wish I could think, but hey, at least I can laugh.” Tyler let out a loud laugh. “So I’m blessed, even if it’s a fake drugged laugh, I’m blessed by God.” Tyler fell into another laugh, cradled his head from a headache, yawned, and laughed again because of his yawn. Mark’s eyes fell in anger.
“But you’re, you’re bedridden, drugged, sick, and hospitalized, how can you laugh?”
Tyler was silent, as Mark, his anger toward God, was shown. Then Tyler laughed again and spoke with ease.
“Because I have God.”
“But how do you know God’s not the one who gave you cancer and the inability to walk? What if he’s letting people drown, starve, and die?” Mark began to race with memories after yelling across the room. He wasn’t understanding what Tyler’s condition was. Tyler spoke, this time very calm and sober, while enjoying the fact that someone was yelling at him.
“If God is the enemy, why are we alive? What’s the point of being the founder of life and death? To just create and destroy, to give life to a chicken and then murder it. A hypocritical God, a God who looks down on the world, on his children and tortures them, no, that’s Satan. A God who says he loves but hates the same person at the same time, no, that’s Lucifer. And if you’re still not certain, then how can death lose its sting? If God is the founder of death, then how can I rise above?” He closed his eyes and lay back down. “Where, O death, is your victory? Where, O death, is your sting? The sting of death is sin, and the power of sin is the law. But thanks be to God! He gives us the victory through our lord Jesus Christ. Therefore, my dear brothers and sisters, stand firm. Let nothing move you. Always give yourselves fully to the work of the lord, because you know that your labor in the lord is not in vain.” Tyler opened his eyes. Mark was shocked from the kid’s knowledge and whispered, “But why do I suffer?”
“I don’t know, friend, I’m only sixteen. Please don’t ask me.” Tyler smiled gently with weary eyes. “I don’t understand your struggle, your life. You said it yourself, don’t ask me.”
Mark was silent, with wide eyes and a frightened feeling of accusation on his shoulders. The boy knew he was the officer. The officer who slammed in the back of his Camry, accused, cursed, wanting to sue and arrest. As well as the man who put him in surgery, two casts, a fracture, and countless bruises, then later Tyler’s death. But through the helpfulness of Mark’s quick thinking toward Tyler’s interaction, he knew an apology would have been worse. He could have apologized, told Tyler the situation would have changed if he only knew. But Mark didn’t, that wasn’t valued—pity would murder the joy. When a normal life was wanted, pity was the real fault. The plentiful saw him as a disability, a boy with a disease, to look at and pray you never become. People either avoided contact or craved it. It looks beautiful on your resume. I helped cancer patients. Or to gain a few followers, just caption it this: My best friend.
A selfish game played by the plentiful, but soon enough they leave. All who are left are those in public, who see the boy as a truth that can destroy their happiness, their day. Or just someone to make you feel blessed, glad that you’re not him. Thank you, Lord, that I am not him. So why didn’t Tyler tell Mark when he was pulled over? Why didn’t he take the benefit others believe is the sweetness of cancer? The slip, three meaningful words that slide you through hallways, lines, VIP rooms, and events. His decision explained itself, so Mark smiled instead.
“Tyler, you look like crap.”
“Not as bad as you. Wait, that’s your face, old man.” Tyler laughed. Mark quietly placed two hands over his heart.
“Don’t surprise me. You might just give me a heart attack.”
“The ER is on the second floor, third door to the right.”
“And you would know, did your shedding make anyone slip?”
“At least my hair will grow back. When yours falls out, don’t come crying to me.”
“It’s okay, I’ll find your hair and glue it on mine.”
“Gross, haven’t you heard of a wig?” Tyler laughed.
Mark followed and sat on the bed. He then saw a basket full of random gifts. Many people come through the cancer center and give gifts to the children, usually small knickknacks or cheap presents. The baskets are typically for the younger children, around three to ten, past that age the little things never caught their eyes. Teenagers were usually left out when it came to the general public, but nurses and foundations like Make-A-Wish usually covered for the loss of attention. Unique visitors occasionally walked in and passed out books. Candy was given as well, but most patients usually couldn’t eat. In the basket was a deck of cards, a very generic brand sticking out of the side, next to a slinky and a superhero coloring book. The basket must have been dropped off when Tyler was in surgery. He picked it up and began tearing off the clear plastic.
“You want to see a magic trick?”
“Is it good?”
”You tell me.”
“I guess I will tell you. Especially if it’s bad.”
Tyler smiled heroically while Mark shuffled and bent the stiff cards. The boy laughed, placed a hand on his head, then laughed again.
“Do you have a Sharpie?” Mark spun around and snatched an Expo marker, asserting his own question. He then took a card and showed it to Tyler, who gently smiled.
“What card is this?”
“King of Hearts?”
“Yes, now write your initials on the card.”
“Steady it on my cast!”
Mark did what he said; when those initials were written, he snatched the card back and showed Tyler another.
“Now what card is this?”
“The King of Spades.”
“Good, now I’m going to write my initials with a message.” Mark took the marker and wrote his initials in the bottom right of the card, next to the spade. “What should I write?” Mark looked up, smiled and scratched his head.
“I don’t know.”
“It can be anything!”
“Really?”
“Yeah, whatever you want.”
“Sexy beast.” Tyler smiled and Mark wrote the message on the card, with the heart monitor occupying the silence. When he finished, he gave Tyler the King of Hearts.
“Okay, now look it over and make sure it’s your card.” Tyler did what he was told, and confirmed that it was. “Now I’m going to take this card I signed.” Mark openly showed the card to Tyler and began to tear the card into little bits, onto the ground. “And I’m going to tear the card up. You better pick that up.”
“Are you crazy? I might contaminate the ground.” Mark and Tyler both laughed, then they stopped and Mark spoke.
“So everyone enjoys sending letters, either to a girl across town, a close friend, or even your mother. Now the cool thing about magic is that I can also send messages, but without a mailbox.” Mark shuffled the cards and spread them over the bed. “Pick a card without looking, and put it with your other card.”
“I’m not sure I can trust you.”
“It’s magic, of course you can’t trust me.” Mark smiled, and Tyler, while trying to see him through, swiped a card from the deck. He took his time and placed the new card with the other, thinking what this new card might be.
“Now close your eyes and say a magic word.” Mark clasped his hands together while Tyler squeezed his eyes shut.
“What’s the magic word?”
“Whatever is magic to you.” Mark gently smiled while watching Tyler think of a magical word. He thought for three minutes; Mark thought he has fallen asleep, until Tyler finally spoke his magic word. A word that could define and save his life, that could lead to a thousand possibilities, with only this one goal.
“Cured.”
“Okay, then say it louder.”
“CURED.”
“I’m a little old, I can’t hear you.”
“I SAID I’M CURED!” Tyler screamed aggressively, and Mark’s eyes watered, but he held them back. Tyler wouldn’t appreciate tears, rain. Kennedy behind the door heard his scream and silently cried, not even a sound. Then she left in a hurry, back to the front desk and away from her shame.
“Check the ground, Tyler,” Mark spoke with a firm voice. Tyler opened his eyes and peered under Mark’s feet. The bits from the card were gone. He looked up with amazement. Mark gestured him away. “Don’t look at me, you’re the one who said it.” Mark boldly stared at Tyler and smiled. “Now check your blankets, Tyler.”
Tyler reached under the sheets and felt the two cards. He slung them in front of his eyes and found Mark’s card intact, with the words “sexy beast” gone. The message flew onto the other card, his card, with a few extra words. It said:
TC, you are a Sexy Beast! From your favorite old man, MW.
“Wha—How did this happen? I must have gotten too much morphine.” Tyler looked over the cards and the ground again. Mark watched him struggle to comprehend the miraculous trick and plainly looked under the bed. That was where he’d kicked the card bits. Mark quietly laughed and stared back at Tyler.
This shocked me, children, because he hadn’t been happy like this in a long time, and I mean a long time. That’s one depressed man! But as I’ve explained, he didn’t always have this old, tough personality. Mark was once gentle, kind, romantic, and godly. But he hit the road one day and died. Of course not physically, but you understand. His kindness died, that’s what I mean. When Mark lived his life in kindness, around the time the second colonoscopy test rolled by, Mark and Mary celebrated. He was nineteen, and she was eighteen. They were both still so young with the future in sight. Oh, and of course it was negative. I got carried away, sorry about that, how clumsy of me.
Anyways, she was home alone, and heard the doorbell ring. Sitting upright outside her door was a bouquet of flowers, a huge bouquet, with a note. It read:
Put on something pretty. If you have trouble, just know that with you in it, it’s perfect! Meet me at the park in an hour, you know where I am.
Love,
Your Hand Mitten
◆◆◆
Mary used the entire hour that day painting her face with makeup, fighting for perfection in eyeliner, mascara, liquid foundation, blush, lipstick, and loose powder, juggling to rush through the door and see Mark with her normal routine complete. She always took obsessive amounts of time just to impress him, even though he’d proven to Mary that looks were not everything to him. Mark loved who she was, her natural appearance. The park was a golf course; its terrain was filled with hills, slopes, and an occasional lone golfer. Naturally, it was empty, since the old and outdated course had only two holes, cheaply produced grass, and accidental cactus obstacles. Golfers were now attracted to the much newer and modern courses with lakes, turf, and trees. When she arrived, Mark wasn’t hard to spot; the light bouncing off the ground from the sunset made him seem like a light at night. Mark watched her slowly make her way up in a large red dress.
“I thought I told you to wear whatever you’d like,” Mark laughed and swatted a fly from his face.
“I thought you’d come down here and help me.” Mary looked up and smiled. She watched him take his time down the hill, raving on about how she can make gourmet meals but can’t do this simple task. But while Mark babbled, Mary glanced down, and purposely snagged her dress on a short cactus near her feet. “Mark, my dress is caught! Mark, this is a very nice dress!” She panicked. Mark trotted over with a sense of care in his steps, like a quail to its partner.
“It’s okay, I got it.” He calmly ran down the hill and knelt on one knee to untangle the dresses threads from the ground. Mary smiled, lifted a leg in the air, and balanced while watching Mark pick out the last few needles from the dress. When the cactus was fully removed, Mary pushed him down the steep hill, thrusting with her legs. Mark yelped and gripped the grass before rolling down the hill again.
“Mary!” He yelled while Mary cried in laughter.
“Oops, my bad. My foot just slipped.”
“Mary!”
“Sorry, I can’t hear you, the air is too thin up here.”
Mark called her name a third time. She froze. Something was wrong.
“Mark? Honey? Are you okay?”
“I fell on a cholla, it’s everywhere.” Mark moaned and rolled over. A cholla is a cactus with an obvious tree-like base that grows fairly tall. It drops little spiky six-inch limbs on the ground, and when you’re caught, the cholla hooks in the skin, making removal very difficult. The typical way is to take a fork, let the teeth go in between the area it penetrated, and yank it out. Then you run your scars through water, hoping it doesn’t later burn from the bacteria on the edge of the thorns, depending how old the limb was. Mary ran over in a small panic.
“I’m sorry, I’m really sorry. I thought it would be fun, I’m so clumsy, it’s my fault.”
Mark rolled over on top of the wound but never screamed. He smiled, frowned and screamed again.
“It’s on my leg, agh! There’s a lot.” He looked up and found himself in a hug with Mary.
“I’m sorry.”
“Mary, my leg.” He patted her back while moving the wound. She ran over and searched for the cholla, but there was none.
“Hun, where’s the cholla?” Mary looked back and found him smiling deviously.
“There is none.” He lifted his leg and kicked her off the hill. She lost her balance and grabbed Mark’s shoe. He took hold of the grass, but for the second time, it ripped and left them rolling down the hill, flopping over each other. This time no one stopped, they both continued to roll off, until the incline disappeared, and they were on flat ground. Mary pinned Mark to the ground. Her dress was stained by the grass, and hair thrown out of control, with a leaf tangled inside.
“So much for your dress.”
“So much for the cholla. I thought you were dying!”
“I had things under control.” Mark smirked while his eyes wandered to the side, but they found their way back to her.
“I’m pretty sure I have you pinned to the ground. I could do whatever I’d like right now, and you can’t do anything.” She smiled, because it was a lie. He looked around, at her thin arms, small body. Then toward those beefy biceps, long outstretched legs a foot past hers, the weight difference, and looked back into Mary’s eyes.
“Yep, nothing I can do.”
She leaned in and kissed Mark, who took her fingers into his hands. “I like your nails. It reminds me of your art.”
Mary giggled and let him look them over. They had palm trees bending in different directions for every individual nail. There were sunsets as well, with yellow and orange colors reflecting off the sandy beach below, as well as little white dots that were without a doubt coconuts, with almost unnoticeable coconut holes, punctured by pink bendy straws.
“Thank you! It took me days to draw in the little details.”
“But it’s missing something.” Mark frowned.
“What is it?” Mary threw her other hand in eyesight and looked very closely at the details
Mark reached deep in his front pocket and without trouble, pulled out a ring and slipped it on her finger. The diamond wasn’t large, and the band was thin, although on the side there was an engraving that said: Forever.
Mary’s eyes looked away from the nails, saw the ring, and began to cry. She spoke in a whisper. “Mark. It’s beautiful.”
“Well? Is it a yes? Life is going to take us, but wherever it does, I want to go with you.”
Mary spoke under his arm. “Just please promise me one thing.”
“Anything!” Mark yelled enthusiastically and watched her rise and stare in his eyes.
“Let’s adopt, no child deserves what I—”
“Yes baby, yes. We’ll adopt.” Mark felt her kiss on his smile and began to tear up. “We’ll be okay. I promise with everything I have. We’ll make it out all right.”
“Mark, it’s okay to cry, I’m here, I’m here, baby.” Mary fell back into a hug, and Mark lightly tugged the back of her head. In one way or another, Mary wanted him to cry.
“Why cry? The world is so great.”
“Just don’t bottle up.” Mary pushed up with her arms. “I’m here for you.”
Mark snickered and pushed her messy brown hair behind an ear. “You’re beautiful.”
They continued to talk, flirt, and plan a future while lying together on that golf course. That day they told everyone of the big news. Family and friends gathered from thousands of miles away to the wedding six short months later, and when Mark swooped Mary off her feet for a kiss, the crowd cheered. It was an event where even God clapped and blessed their wedding without a doubt that their hearts were completely made for each other; many called it the perfect wedding, because they were the perfect couple.
◆◆◆
The day was slowly dying, and in the distance came another storm brewing through the mountains in the east. In the distance, black clouds with streaks of rain poured down onto the range, another quiet night of rain approaching, without even the howls from wolves at the moon. The hospital still sat under the glaring sun, vaporizing the past storm’s residue, but not for long. Soon the sun would set, the houses would close, and the storm would begin again with rage. On the second floor, in a vacant room, Aaron and Kenny argued while Mark finally made the decision to run up the stairs toward Tyler and to later perform a magic trick. The heat of the argument was escalating to a climax. Kenny paced in a circle, shouting down to Aaron who sat on a wooden stool listening to every word. Tom walked back in and groaned lightly. They were still arguing, and he wasn’t in the mood for their bickering over simple solutions, so Tom walked out and left it for Mark.
“You told me he was under control, you told me he wouldn’t have another episode!” Kenny yelled. “Then he assaults my entire staff and turns my hospital room into a battleground! That’s not civil, that’s not justice.”
Aaron closed his eyes and slowly nodded with grief. “I know.”
“Then also covering the fact that his blood pressure is skyrocketing from his last visit. Have you made sure he’s taking all medications?”
“Yes.”
Kenny’s voice shifted from a scream to an outdoor yell while wiping the sweat off his face. “Aaron, I’m sorry, but I can’t let him stay on the force this time, I can’t cover for him, even if he’s a community resource officer. He’s become a danger. You can’t control him.”
Aaron stood up for the first time and whispered, “But Kenny, this is all he has. It was my fault. I let him chase that call.”
“What if the next child dies? Is it still okay?” Kenny’s voice rose again, and Aaron fell back down into the seat.
“No.”
“Also take in account that both of you are now being exposed for committing international crimes that could throw you both in prison for life. Have you thought of that? Do your emotions change for Mark now?”
Kenny walked to a clean metal counter, leaned over with his palms far apart, and stared at a wall with his back toward Aaron. The room was quiet for minutes. Aaron watched him fold a napkin that was on the counter into a perfect square and take a huge breath that filled the blank, clean room with noise. He then spoke in a quiet voice. “Mark has serious issues. He needs to see someone even if he refuses. This needs to be done. It’s better if I arrange this before a third party does.”
Aaron stood up again. “But Kenny, what about the risk?”
Kenny shifted his body around and yelled back, “The risk? There’s already too much risk. This is something we have to do, no matter how much it’ll hurt him! He’s forgotten who I am, is periodically inattentive by conscious dreams of the past, and can’t take care of himself without steady watch. He’s getting worse. You understand?”
Aaron sat down and whispered, “Yes Kenny, I understand.”
“Make sure he goes to the psychiatrist I prescribed, who has every right to diagnose him with any mental disability or gain access to any medication. He’s a good friend of mine. Please don’t argue with this decision,” Kenny said calmly. “And don’t think I’m a bad guy, feel blessed I was on shift when it happened, that Mark and I are not close enough for him to be transported to another doctor. Mary is a big part in his life, I would agree with anything he’d diagnose Mark with and any method he would use that he deems necessary. This is the only way we can help him and always was. It is good to start now than to never at all.”
Aaron jumped up a final time to speak, his heart pounding with nerves. “I can talk to Tyler’s parents and straighten things out—”
“NO!” Kenny yelled. Aaron flinched like a spooked horse. Kenny closed his eyes with a slight pinch to his nose and began softly. “No, Aaron. Please don’t interfere anymore. You will only make it worse. There are times in life when you cannot make the circumstances any better than they are, you can only prevent them from becoming worse. If you speak to Tyler’s parents a day after the accident, nothing will be resolved. There will only be uncontrollable emotion and irrational demands.”
Kenny walked over and placed a hand on Aaron’s shoulder, then he froze with a motionless gaze toward the ground. Kenny groaned under his breath and turned pale, but before Aaron could speak, he began. “Aaron, it’ll be okay. We’ll all make it through. Just please, if Mark gets exposed, try to act as if you didn’t know.” Kenny’s old, wrinkled face to Aaron wasn’t noticed often, but the light from a dim bulb and his burdened features struck it in a way that exposed his age, those deep wrinkles, gray hair, and old brown eyes. Aaron nodded and stood up with a sense of dread, walked to the vacant room’s door, then stopped. Aaron grabbed the frame of the doorway to his right and rested his head with closed eyes and anguish.
“Don’t get excited, Kenny,” Aaron said while he tapped his head on the frame, as if he were trying to ignore the sounds around him. “Mark hasn’t changed.”
Aaron didn’t head toward Mark but to the cafeteria and ate. He ate like a madman, devouring the meatloaf and Indian-style rice, with a bread roll and an eight-ounce carton of milk. There were crumbs on his lips and pasta sauce on a faded Beatles shirt, of the four stepping across Abbey Road. Frozen in time with their hypnotizing and internationally recognizable pattern. Aaron didn’t worry about Mark because he ate swiftly, without hesitation, without time to think about the taste of the fluffy bread roll or the unopened soy sauce packet to the side. In the winter of 1982, three months after the stunt girl argument, his father was singing “Hey Jude” while opening the front door to their house. Aaron’s eyes were glued to the show Hill Street Blues, wondering with slight childhood curiosity what it would be like to be a police officer at Hill Street Station. The control and authority were what he loved the most. He remembered his mom screaming in the kitchen as his father pulled her hair and took her outside, singing “Hey Jude” with ease, pulling his mother’s hair as if it were like brushing his teeth. Aaron burned with uncontrollable fury while he watched the outdated box television, and instead of either turning up the volume or running to his tattered mattress on the ground of his room, Aaron turned off the world in Hill Street and Captain Frank Furillo, rotating toward the screams of his mother.
Useless, he thought to himself while in taking a large mouthful of spice-less meatloaf, thinking about how pointless his actions were that followed on that night in 1982. Aaron ran over to his drunken, skinny father of thirty in the cluttered backyard and slapped him across the face. He yelled like a Spartan entering the Hot Gates in the Battle of Thermopylae and banged Bailey Hudson’s left cheek like a ceremonial Asian gong, staining an ember-red imprint of an adolescent hand as the effect. Useless, Aaron thought again as he remembered his father’s cold stare and devilish, intoxicated grin as he rose onto his feet. Then he remembered the arguments he had with Mark about Mary and her beautiful, straight chocolate-brown hair. At the time, Aaron was so in love with her, so compelled to the thought of their future that he remembered those involving daydreams. Their children, barbecues in the summer and fireplaces in the winter. He thought of cruises every fiscal year and how they would run to somewhere in California together and gain wisdom through every risk they took and hardship they faced. Aaron didn’t care much for Las Vegas and their career in magic. He cared more for her, and whom she was with.
However, like in 1982, despite everything Aaron did, he was no closer to the goal he desired. In fact, every new attempt he made to alter the events he thought he could control would soon build a tumor of fright in his gut. Aaron slowly began to realize the events he knew would happen would, the dominoes that would tumble did, and all he ever did was yell at a brick wall in New York City while the wrecking ball demolished a building in Los Angeles. The Passenger Effect, Aaron thought, the damn Passenger Effect still controls me. Even if it seems that I made a difference, it is only an illusion. Mark is still destined for what I know will come. He is still idly drifting to that green door at his house, drifting back to her. Then once he walks in there, he will surely die right before my eyes. He continued to eat for eight more minutes, gulping down the food like icy water after changing an unexpected flat tire in July. Aaron, the chief of police, convinced the deputy chief that Mark was prepared for the call. He convinced everyone that this was the only chance to distinguish the constant dead ends on the local drug smuggling case, while secretly wishing for Mark to head home with accomplishment, to brighten up the bitterness he felt for his dying wife. His idea backfired, turning into another domino, leading to the end. The passengers and the drivers, Aaron began to think once more. No matter how much I fight, I scrape and kick at the walls of my placement in society. I will always be useless, heading in the direction the driver desires. Unless, unless I somehow convince these drivers to make the difference in the world, to help me accomplish my needs as a third party, I can narrow the gap. Those people who seem to always achieve what they strive for in life, always heading toward their passions, passing through obstacles like a current of electricity through a copper rod. Yet now the distance from hope is lengthening. What was once a condo turned into a house, and what was a house has turned into a ballroom, to the point where even the drivers will become passengers, and soon we will all just sit and watch like powerless trees to a forest fire, like a window to a fast approaching baseball, and we will all bow down to the damn Passenger Effect, preparing for impact.
Kenny lay on the bed that was neatly made, like a stiff rock onto a cushion. He felt a boulder of grief in his heart, while thinking about what Aaron had stated before exiting. Yes, it was true; Mark had not changed. He was still delusional, in deep grief because of his wife’s deadly illness, and would not change unless a miraculous work of God was placed onto the town of Tucson. Kenny had lost hope in Mark’s recovery, his weakness bitterly and shamefully resting on his shoulder like the sinking feeling in Aaron, almost identical to the shame that plagued Kennedy. Yet something in Mark returned when he smashed his face into the off-white airbag and the Bearcat was thrown through the window, smashing on the black concrete of First Avenue. Something must have clicked inside the inefficient parts of his mind and rebooted all its functions for an extension of memory he had so desperately blocked from his mind. Hope, Kenny thought, there’s hope again. A spark has fired off in me that I lost so long ago, a spark of hope for us all. Then, maybe, when our final mark on the world is on a gravestone, we can actually die with peace. Yet even though it may not last, he may wake up tomorrow and the connections could be lost, there was a step in the right direction, a step closer to dreams that have died long ago. It is possible to change Mark’s fate and save his life. With this hope there are possibilities, there are opportunities.
Kenny closed his eyes and lay in the plastic bed, feeling his age more than ever. At the age of seventy-two, he was two years from retirement from the hospital and, once a good decade or two passed, planned to die there as well. Yet the newly arisen tension and excitement of the day reminded him of the aches and pains in his body, the arthritis in his left knee, which, on that humid day, made the pain even worse. His periodic migraines were caused by his hypersensitivity to dehydration, and high blood pressure kept him from fast food and hot tubs. He felt more aware of his age more than ever but knew he could still replace an alcoholic’s failing kidney like a grandmother sewing together a hole in a blanket. He could widen arteries in the brain to prevent strokes like a fourth-generation plumber removing a ball of hair from a drain. He had saved the lives of thousands; certain he could save one more. I could change everything, Kenny thought, it is not too late. Kenny reached for his hospital pager in the right pocket of his black satin pants and told his floor nurse that he would be on break for an hour. She immediately agreed, as it was not her place to argue with Dr. Kenny; in fact, no one did. Dr. Kenny was the most experienced doctor in both the trauma center and the emergency room. In the medical world, his hands were magic, his opinions were never questioned, and to observe him in the operating room was like observing Moses descend from Mount Sinai. While performing surgery, he was as steady as a rock and as calm as a vacant pond.
Yet a call came in thirty minutes later that needed Dr. Kenny urgently: a car slipped from the rain and crashed with another. Men from both sides stormed out, yelling and screaming because of the wreckage but not noticing their own scars. The storm consumed them, made them mad. Their sense of reality was gone. The past was more important than the present, or the future, until an on-the-scene medic yelled them out of their insanity and exposed their eyes to their shredded bodies. Reality hurts; one fainted upon realization, the other laid himself down on a stretcher and asked for help, praying quietly to himself. Mark passed the two men and bumped into the nurse who exposed their scars when he ran out in blind fury from the sixth floor. The man who fainted woke up without knowledge of the bloodshed, only the accident, but the one who asked for help remembered both.
After thirty-five minutes of Aaron sinking in sadness and a secret meeting with Tyler’s father, which was a failure, he walked back to find Mark had taken his police car. But before that, Mark sat on a chair next to Tyler, talking, joking, and laughing. They talked for almost thirty minutes. Kennedy came in after the magic trick to take Mark, checking the hallways like before to see if anyone had taken notice, but when she saw Tyler smiling, it was more important to preserve that joy. Kennedy checked the blood infusion and left. The danger of Mark didn’t matter; being distraught while unimaginably ill was more dangerous. At the end of their talk, Tyler lost his strength and began to slowly fade from their conversation. His body also began to hurt from the laughter. Mark hadn’t seen his mouth sores until that moment. They were sores cancer patients got from the chemotherapy, which began in the throat, and if severe—which they always were—they would travel through your entire GI tract, following down toward your bottom. Which made pooping an excruciating experience. Talking was almost as bad; every word was a burning, blistered feeling in the back of the throat. Although not as bad as drinking or eating, most patients quit eating because of the pain and loss of taste, which led to nutrition from a disposable bag. At that point, everything tasted like dirt, since taste buds are reproducing cells killed from chemotherapy along with red blood cells, white blood cells, platelets, hair cells, and skin cells (but not nail cells, if those are a thing). On the other hand, there’s no acne, since zits require skin cell reproduction. Go tell a cancer patient that they’re lucky they’re not you because they don’t get acne, quick.
Sorry, I’m rambling on too much, just forget everything I said. Anyway, Mark found out in that moment that he wasn’t benefiting Tyler or helping him feel better. It was quite the opposite. Tyler did everything for Mark. Every word he said was a burning pain, a reminder of mortality. His yell for a cure was equivalent to a scorching fire burning and bleeding in his throat, a devilish spirit wanting him to mute his words, wanting him to never be heard again. That’s what cancer is—a demonic spirit, yet superior to the other demons that may be lurking in your soul, an incomparable difference. Mark, realizing the pain he had caused, pushed off the mattress while lightly smiling, adjusted his gown and gloves, and gave a short but sweet farewell. Tyler mumbled a response from the bed, tumbled on the pillow, and delicately fell asleep. Mark watched from afar for minutes, the sunken eyes covered by black bags and pale, deeply fair skin around the face. Eyebrows were wearing thin, and all the hair on his head was gone…and the weight. His thin arms lay still under light, white blankets. Everything was mocking him. The casts were small and white, like the scrubs, fitting as a robe. The stitches were white and deep, around the entire face, whispering to Mark. The conversation was not only physically but also mentally draining in Tyler’s condition. The amount of antibiotics, narcotics, and injuries was tiring; to spend that amount of time communicating and interacting was quite a feat. The drugs dulled the pain but also the mind and drive to communicate; most patients blew off visitors for rest.
Mark scanned the furniture and felt dim-witted. There were no oral medications, so Tyler accessed everything through IV. Murderer! the IV pole yelled. Murderer! Mark covered his ears and closed his eyes.
“No, please no.” Mark ran for the cold, thick door. The voices were surrounding and closing in. His thoughts crowded and took control. While Tyler spoke to Mark in the rain the night before, his throat was already coated with blisters, the voices cried. Murderer! He reached for the door, but the door opened by itself before he ever touched the knob. It was Tyler’s mother. The door swung from the opposite direction. He stood a yard away but felt closer. When their eyes met, the voices fell silent, the crazy ran out, and her gentle smile made mystery flood through the air. When they met, the clouds outside began to sprinkle, wiping off the dew from trees and wetting cement spots once dry by the sunlight, which was almost gone. It wasn’t long until darkness spread from mountain to mountain, animals hid in fear, people gathered around dusty board games, and the sky cried, with rage shortly behind. He was being watched by Tyler’s mother, the one who gave birth, nurtured, and raised him, with a sense of certainty like Mark’s own mother, Isabell Wegman. The one who spent sixteen years sharpening the boy only to watch him whittle away in the white plastic mattress and thin hospital sheets. She was staring into Mark’s eyes. Mark, the middle-aged man whose car’s tread slid as he braked, hydroplaning down into the back of Tyler’s Camry from the dirt-brown slush of gathered rain water. Mark, the man who had made rash judgments and accusations of her son and would soon walk out with only minor whiplash and a sprained arm from the grace of a God he didn’t even believe in. But as her emerald-green eyes gazed bitterly into his own, she smiled. The motherly grin was weak, but it was there. Mark would have told her about the deep guilt he would feel for the rest of his life. He would have pulled out one of the few loose blank checks in his wallet and written $2,000, telling her that there would be more for the safety of her son. He would have even bought Tyler a refurbished car from the Auto Mall. The guilt was haunting Mark, another demon forming to soon join the legion in his worn soul. Yet the earlier epiphany was a reminder of haunting memories all separate on their own, in the years where things began to fall apart, melt, and bend like a gingerbread house under a furnace. Their sweet life slowly turning to mush, liquefying. Soon he couldn’t even see the woman staring into his eyes, a foot away and with dreadful curiosity for his presence in her child’s hospital room. He could only smell the bleach in the room, the aftertaste of injected saline in his mouth, and the colorful walls of the children’s hospital rooms getting closer, closer.