Chapter 3

The next morning I got up around eight and ordered breakfast, called home for a while, and read the paper. Around ten Mitch dropped off another packet, and I was relieved to see it was much smaller. He let me know that he was running a couple of special errands north of town so he wouldn’t be around, but I should still call him if anything really important came up.

“She’s really glad you’re on board,” he said as he left.

That’s where the trouble began.

I opened the packet and found some additional medical records. It seemed a bit fanatical considering that it was just routine reports from the last 24 hours. There was also a paper notebook, with a note clipped to the front saying, “You’ll want to see these.” She’d apparently gotten this notebook just a few days ago, because right on page one was the November 16th-dated item that she’d had photocopied and sent to me the other day. I flipped through to the end, noticing that she was almost fanatical about dating everything. The very last entry was this morning’s, and was mostly complaints about sleep and food and trying harder not to abuse the nurses. Flipping back some more, I scanned some stuff about how her plans were taking shape now that I was on board and how she hoped it would all work out. I spotted one entry in particular which was a little disturbing, but which I had to admit was funny, especially since she still appeared to be alive this morning:

?[Begin Journal entry]?

21 November 2004

Finally the woman leaves and I attack the latch on the case. To anyone else the aroma would be underwhelming, but my mouth waters as I tear open the first foil-wrapped package. They are condensed rations?a high-energy blend of carbohydrates, fats and proteins meant for soldiers in the field or those who spent long stretches in the wilderness. Each packet contains 2500 calories. I am finishing the second when a nurse looks in.

“Miss Baker!” she exclaims, striding to my bedside with obvious intent. I lash out with my one hand, seizing her by the front of her tunic and pulling her face to mine.

“Touch this and you’ll take your next meal through a straw!” I hissed, “Now get out!” Then I push her away and continue eating. She scurries out like a scared rabbit.

Dr. Omar arrives within minutes. I actually like him, but he is still an obstacle. He watches me as I polish off another ration bar and shakes his head in that endearingly patriarchal manner of his.

“You so enjoyed your surgery that you wish to have it again?” he says.

“How were my X-rays?” I reply, and smile as I watch his face sour.

“From the look on your face can I assume there’s no need for the rest of this fiberglass?” I ask, flicking my finger against the pelvic cast.

“We are still reviewing the results,” he says. He is a terrible liar, bless him. Now that my stomach is not screaming at me quite so much, I can relax and smile at him.

“Dr. Omar, I am a terrible patient. Just ask the nurses. They’re trying to do their job and I’m making a mess of things. My attitude is atrocious and I treat them like prison guards. If my pelvis, my blood pressure, and everything else are stable you’ve no more reason to keep me in the ICU. I’m not asking you to discharge me, just move me downstairs where I can have the freedom I need without turning this place into a circus. Now, do the pictures bear me out, or are you going to force me to call my lawyer again? I assume this facility’s legal department is growing weary of being harassed on a daily basis.”

?[End Journal entry]?

I shook my head. There it was again, that odd mix of personal drama, strict manners, and firebrand. “Hospital food that bad, Princess?” I muttered to myself. As I was chuckling over that, I was surprised to hear the little cell phone she had given me ring. I picked it up.

“I do apologize for bothering you, but, we will be making our engagement at noon, yes?”

“Yeah, sure, I just got the packet and I’m looking through it now. You should be nicer to those nurses.”

There was a pause. She was breathing a little heavily. “Yes, you’re probably right,” she finally said. “It’s just that I’ve felt like Prometheus chained to his rock these last five days, and they’re the people I see most often.”

I rolled my eyes, but reminded myself that she was in a bad way. So I kept my voice pleasant. “Well, anyway, I’ve read through most of it, and I’ve got several questions I’d like to ask you.”

“I’m sure, and I want to talk to you about it as well, especially as I’m sure some of it seems strange. But speaking of our meeting,” she said, still breathing heavily, “I made a dreadful mistake this morning and sent Mitch off before I remembered… I normally wouldn’t do this, please believe me but… I’m very, very hungry, and they won’t give me anything but liquids here, and… could I impose upon you to pick up a few things for me at the market on your way up? Just to get me through the afternoon, until Mitch gets back?”

“Certainly,” I said, frowning. “Just let me scribble it down.” She rattled off a list, thanked me profusely, and hung up.

Now I was getting a little more disturbed. I wouldn’t mind grabbing her a burger or something, but where the hell was I going to get two whole pounds of beef jerky, two pounds of cheddar, and a bottle of antacids? And should she be taking those anyway?

As I sat there, I noticed there was one final envelope inside Mitch’s packet. It was from a big-name security company, and it contained reports: One on me; one on my wife; and one on my son. They were not particularly detailed, just credit checks, criminal record checks, other basic background information, and also some photos taken from our family web site. But what the hell was she doing having these people investigating not just my background, but also my whole family? Wasn’t some of that against the law without authorization? And these were dated three days ago, on Thursday!

I was growing livid. I sat down and scrutinized her journal more carefully, reading it thoroughly from the beginning. When I got to the part where she described our meeting the previous day I got up and went to the hospital.

I barely waited after knocking as I strode into her room. She looked startled, and moved into a slightly defensive posture.

“Okay, Princess, here’s the deal: you may be sick as hell, but you seem to be in denial about that, and plenty tough otherwise. So maybe it’s time you answer to someone.” I heard a mild bustle in the hallway behind me, but I ignored it. She looked up at me, her eyes big, but her face otherwise expressionless. I continued.

“One, I do not shop for you. Two, I want to know what the hell this is.” I dropped the background checks into her lap. “I know you’re sick, and maybe I’m yelling at a cripple, but if you’re well enough to push other people around, you can sure as hell explain yourself.”

I had to give it to her, she looked a little surprised, but her voice stayed even. “I apologize. I will not ask you to shop for me. Let me look at this.” She picked up the background checks, and looked at them. “Oh, this must…” Her voice trailed off. She looked back up at me. “You must understand, I wanted to show you everything. I see now I should have….”

I interrupted her and said, “My family is off-limits to you, do you understand that? And what the hell does my credit, our credit for God’s sake, have to do with any of this?”

She opened her mouth, but before she could speak I dropped the notebook in her lap, opened to the page where she had described our meeting the day before. “You know, I think it was when I read this that I decided I wasn’t interested in working for you.”

Her eyes turned to it:

?[Begin Journal entry]?

I am instantly aware when he arrives. The nurses are unaccustomed to having their careful procedures disturbed by anything other than medical emergencies; an admirable efficiency, but antithetical to my needs. Forcing others to my will is not my preferred way, but I have been left no choice.

He enters the room, hesitating just a moment before his shoulders drop in relief. He had expected far worse. I smile, greeting him by name, watching his reaction, his stance, and the track of his eyes across my form. Empathy, not pity.

“I’m so pleased you chose to come. Please, do sit.” I gesture to the chair I had arranged to have placed in my room, and he takes a seat, setting down his briefcase and a large pink carrying case. My stomach identifies it before my eyes do; suddenly I am almost drowning in saliva. Then I return my attention to him.

I let him know that I enjoy his writing, and try to answer all the obvious questions I know he wants answered. I flirt with him, just a little, as is my way when meeting new men. When I hand him the digital recorder, I brush his knuckles a bit with my fingers, and when I do so I become certain that he will take the project.

I then let him see my weariness. I hate to push someone out so quickly, but there is the case, and there is time to see him again if things do not work out. I believe he will suit my purposes. I make sure to give him my best smile as he leaves, and put a little warble in my throat as I do. Then the fool nurse comes in just as he walks out. She is fortunate I that do not take a bite out of her arm.

?[End Journal entry]?

She looked up at me, her eyes a little wider.

“Are you always this manipulative?” I asked.

Fury flashed in her eyes, but when she spoke her voice was cold as ice. “I will not be spoken to in this manner. You are not even giving me…”

“Do you know what I think of you?” I interrupted. “I think you’re a spoiled rich drama queen who’s pushing people around, playing head games and manipulating people because you can’t come to grips with the fact that you’re a cripple and just might die. Well, I’ve seen people with worse tragedies in my life, honey, I really have, and this crap don’t fly with me. I’m real sorry about what’s happened to you, but neither this nor your money gives you any right to treat people like objects. You get yourself another writer.”

I flipped the recorder onto her bed, turned, and walked out the door. Three of the nurses gave me quietly restrained cheers as I left.
In the car on the way back to the hotel the cell phone began to ring and I snarled at myself for not throwing it in her face along with that recorder. I ignored it. It only rang a few times, and then stopped.

A few hours later as I was packing, it rang again. It was Mitch. I was polite, and so was he. I apologized for yelling at his client, but told him I just didn’t see any point in our working together. He wanted to tell me some things, and I agreed to listen. At the end of the conversation, I agreed to spend some time thinking about what he’d said.

Chapter 4

?[Begin Journal entry]?

22 November 2004

The hospital is almost tolerable tonight. The Intensive Care ward is kept under constant low lighting, but I have been moved to a room at the far end of the unit where it is somewhat quieter, and the brighter lights from the nurse’s station do not intrude so much. The bustle and noise of the day has begun giving way to the quieter cadences of night, and my distance from the patients requiring the most attention of the nurses has increased. All this permits a reasonable facsimile of sleep to take me. Until my phone beeps quietly.

“Hello, Mitch,” I say.

“He wants to see you. I wasn’t sure you’d be awake.”

“It’s alright. I told you, he gets whatever he wants. Please ensure the hospital does not interfere.”

“Of course. I….” He hesitates for a moment.

I sigh a little and say, “Go on, Mitch. Is something bothering you?”

“I just want to say I’m sorry for what a mess I’ve made of things for you. I was trying to do what you told me to, and…”

“No, Mitch,” I say. “It’s my fault, not yours. An old, dear friend of mine once counseled me never to make irrevocable decisions when one is either tired or hungry. Unfortunately for me, I’ve been doing almost nothing else for almost a week. Something was bound to blow up on me sooner or later. It’s not your fault. But do try better next time, eh Handsome?” I force a smile and a sound of approval from my voice. He really is a good young man, and I can practically hear his spine straightening.

Ye Gods. Twenty-five, and fresh out of Law School. Barely sentient, by my standards. He thanks me and we hang up.

I quietly comport myself, readying for my visitor. I am uncertain as to what I should say, or what I should expect. I find that unsettling. Equally unsettling is that I have come to understand just how important it is to me that he accepts this task, that this stranger should accept me for what I am. I confess this much to myself: I may not have the courage to start all over again. It may be this one, or no one.

A quiet commotion outside tells me he has arrived, and I listen to the duty nurse reminding him how terribly unusual this is. He is surprisingly calm with her. He is not easily intimidated, this one. He knocks at the doorway, and I invite him in.

“Please leave the lights down,” I ask as he reaches for the switch. “Once they’re on I’ll be unable to go to sleep again.”

“Sure thing.” He keeps standing near the doorway, hands in his coat pockets. He looks at his feet. “I’m sorry for overreacting this afternoon.”

“It is entirely my fault. I accept full responsibility.”

“Mitch told me you didn’t order the security checks.”

“It doesn’t matter. They acted under my imprimatur and that makes me ultimately responsible. I was careless. I suspect they were merely going overboard to protect me?or just looking for an excuse for more billable hours. But it’s my fault. When I told Mitch to send you everything on hand that you might possibly want, I don’t think he knew they were important, and I didn’t know he had them.

“But I want you to know,” I go on, “that I didn’t see them, and I do not do business like this. I trust my instincts, not men. I chose you because of those instincts, and for no other reason.”

He shifts a bit, looks me in the eye, and nods.

“Okay.” He has decided to believe me, but he has not sat down yet. I must say more.

“You were right about what you said earlier, you know. I am manipulative. Unhealthily so, at times. It’s been a long time since anyone had the courage to point that out to me so forcefully. And, I am a cripple. In more than one way.”

He blushes, and opens his mouth. I interrupt him.

“Please don’t apologize anymore. But it would make me happy if you would sit and talk with me.”

He relents, and sits. “You’ve got an amazing story here,” he says, carefully. “You’re incredibly lucky you’re not dead.”

“It was a close thing, was it?” I say, smiling.

“No. Not really close. The only thing missing from those records is your autopsy report. Are you aware of everything in your records?”

I shake my head. “Although I know the basics, I haven’t been all that interested. I planned on giving them some attention after recovering more fully.”

“You lost two-thirds of your blood volume, and your blood type is so rare they had to call in a specialist just to identify it. You took a nasty shot to the head that was life-threatening all by itself, and those were the most minor things that nearly killed you.”

I listen quietly as he goes on, listing each major injury, and several other things besides. He mentions every oddity detailed in my medical records, every time I should have died, everything odd about my recovery up until now, and the doctors’ belief that I have a horrible cancer and possible brain damage. Finally he winds down, as if he has run out of energy. I can see that despite all this he is not confused, or angry, just resigned. He has come to the conclusion he is the wrong man for this job.

“I’ve thought about it for the last few hours, and I’ve honestly come to the conclusion that I’m not your man. Yes, I have a bit of medical knowledge and can write popular accounts of such things fairly well. But I don’t do biographies, and,” he grimaces, “I have to be honest. The truth is that ?miracle recovery’ books are a dime a dozen, and aren’t all that interesting to me.” He looks at me, hoping he hasn’t hurt my feelings. He has no idea how utterly endearing I find that.

“All that you say might be true,” I say, “if I were trying to write such a book. But that’s not the kind of book I want. I want something quite a bit more serious.”

“Well, okay, but really? Why me?” he asks.

“I picked you because I have read your work. I admire your good sense, and your honest skepticism regarding any subject you write about. You reject emotion-based pseudo-science while retaining your basic human empathy. You understand pain and treat your subjects with dignity?sometimes more than they likely deserve.” I incline my head at him, and smile. His eyes glitter, but he says nothing.

I continue speaking: “I also just happen to like your writing style and, having met you, I have concluded that what I saw in your writing is a direct reflection of the man. I would therefore like to work with you.”

He smiles only slightly, and says, “That may be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.” He does not gush though. He will not be flattered. “Well, we do have your miracle recovery to start with. So what else would we be writing about?”

“I’m not particularly interested in telling the story of my ?miraculous’ survival. In fact there is nothing miraculous about it at all, at least from my perspective.”

I pause then, but he is silent, waiting for me to continue. I have begun speaking softly, forcing him to listen and focus intensely upon me. I will not risk him mishearing me.

“This is not the first time I have been gravely injured. Doubtless it shall not be the last. I’ll grant that this is by far the worst physical injury I’ve ever suffered, but, when you’ve lived as long as have I, these things are unavoidable.”

He smiles with condescension and a bit of irritation. Leaning forward, he says, “Okay, you’re very, very good at being melodramatic. I used to be that way a little too. But you’re twenty-seven years old, and believe me, whatever you think you know about life….”

“Mary Genevieve Baker would be twenty-seven now, had she not died when she was eleven months old. I chose her because her name reminded me of someone who was very dear to me, very long ago. I’ve had to change names like that many times in order to be accepted by people.”

He stares at me.

I take a deep breath. “My name… I’m sorry, I don’t say this very often. But I call myself Zsallia Marieko. I am some three thousand, five hundred years old. I cannot die, you see.”

He barely reacts. No snort of derision, no sitting back in his chair; just a slight dilation of his pupils, nearly undetectable in the low light.

“Sha. Lee. Ya,” he pronounces slowly. “That’s an interesting name. Hungarian?”

“I think not. I chose it because I liked the feel of it, and I was tired of my name changing every time I moved from one place to another. I don’t know how to explain exactly, but having my own name is important to me, even if only I know it. There are only two others alive at the moment who do.”

He sits back noncommittally, and his fingers drum the arm of his chair very lightly. He is trying hard not to give away anything, he is not becoming angry, but he does not believe me. I sense no pity. He has decided to test me. I decide to let him.

“Are you aware that I have insane people in my family?” he finally asks.

Mildly surprised, I say, “No, not until you just said that. Do you believe me to be insane?” He pauses, trying to find a nice way of saying it. I decide to save him from it. “Yes, you do. I can accept this.” Then he surprises me a bit.

“What I believe in is Occam’s Razor. All things being equal, the simplest explanation is most likely correct. But since we’re laying it all on the line, Princess, I’ll tell you that I do consider that to be the most likely assumption.” He contemplates me for another moment, choosing his words carefully. “Are you aware that your doctors believe you may be mentally unbalanced?” he finally asks.

“Yes, although they do not know as much of the truth as you do now.”
He pauses, then chuckles. “Okay. You promised me something. Do you remember what it was?”

“Yes. I will not lie to you, because I need your trust, and I need to trust myself.”

“Do you think you’re deluded?” he asks, quite pointedly.

“No, I do not.” I say.

“Thirty-five hundred years you say?” he says, finally getting back to it. “That’s a pretty long time.”

I blink in acknowledgement, inclining my head, but say nothing. He goes on.

“Where were you born?”

“To be honest, I’m not certain. I believe somewhere in northern Europe, perhaps Scandinavia, but I honestly have no way of knowing.”
“How old are your parents?”

“I never knew them. I’m not sure I had them,” I say evenly.

“So you’re some kind of spirit, maybe a goddess?”

I take a deep breath, and wish for a cigarette. I try very hard not to sound angry when I say, “no.” It comes out rather more forcefully than I would like, but he does not seem taken aback.

“No relation to Prometheus?” he asks.

I blush, and blush harder when I realize I am blushing.

“That was a turn of phrase. From a woman who was feeling very sorry for herself. Please…don’t tease me about this. That’s not what I am. At all.” This is becoming difficult to endure, but I keep a tight grip on my emotions.

He drums his fingers some more on the arm of his chair, then says, “So were you ever a mighty queen, ruler of a great people?”

I stare at him for a moment, and my mouth drops open. In my entire existence no one has ever asked me such a question. Startling myself, I suddenly burst into laughter. I find myself coughing, but I continue to laugh. My head goes light and I experience a bit of tunnel vision, and worry that I have offended him.

As I get myself under control and blood begins to return to my head, I refocus on him. He looks concerned, but is leaning forward and grinning now.

“So that would be ?no,’ I take it?” he says and that causes me to laugh again, and my vision actually goes black for a moment. But this time I get it under control more quickly, and manage to shake my head.

“No, no” I wheeze, looking for my water cup. “By which I mean, I was never a… no.” I suddenly feel drained, and light, but more relaxed than I’ve been since waking up from the accident.

“Well, you certainly are an interesting one, Zsallia Marieko, I’ll give you that,” he says. I let him know with my eyes that it is up to him where he wants to go next. But there is a twinkle in his eye. I think, perhaps, I have almost won him over.

“So do you have any other super-powers? Other than not-dying, I mean?”

I look at him with a bit of annoyance, but say, “I’ve picked up a trick or two here and there,” and shrug.

“Can you show me an example?” he says.

He is half-hoping I will claim to do something he cannot see, or perhaps remove all doubt by levitating from the bed, although he does not really believe it. I look carefully around the room. Spotting the tissue box on my bed-tray, I pull out two. I moisten each a bit in my water cup, just to give it a bit of weight, and squeeze each into its own little ball. I hold them both in my right hand, then look him carefully in the eye. I begin to flip each deftly into the air into its own little arc, juggling them one-handed.

His head goes back in a loud laugh. Then he stands up, leans forward, and clasps my hand.

We have an agreement.

?[End Journal entry]?

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Methuselah’s Daughter, A Novel

Posted on March 5th, 2007 by Zsallia
Filed under: The Novel

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