Methuselah’s Daughter, A Novel - Part One
Methuselah’s Daughter: Part 1
Where The Sidewalk Ends
Child of mortality, whence comest thou?
Why is thy countenance sad,
and why are thine eyes red with weeping?
(Anna Letitia Barbauld, 1743-1825)
Prelude
Jeremy was dying and we both knew it.
The sound of his breathing filled me with dread, for it was wet and rasping. When he coughed it was with the roughness of agony and ruin. The fire was as warm as one could hope and I had done what I could towards sealing our dilapidated cabin against the wind, but the chill remained far too deep. Nonetheless I coaxed Jeremy to unwrap himself and lose some of his fevered heat to the air, particularly when his temperature would soar and his mind would become clouded with delusion. When he was lucid I plied him with hot cups of herbal tea made from plants and roots I knew could be relied upon to ease his discomfort and aid his breathing. The pickings were slim, for the season had long turned, but there was enough to be found in the grounds surrounding the cabin and from my kit to provide a slender reed of hope to which we both could cling.
As it was we were lucky to have found this empty cabin in our wanderings. Meager as the little wooden stand was, Jeremy had become too sick to travel. Its walls helped me keep him sheltered from the cold better than could our tent. The ramshackle cabin was not meant for more than temporary quarters, being no more than a small square room built entirely of cut logs, wadded balls of dried grass and mud. It appeared to have been built by trappers based on the few things they had left behind since their last visit: a broken trap, a skinning knife, and two furs that looked as if they had been discarded due to rot or improper tanning. The floor was dirt and the furnishings consisted of only a rude table, a simple wooden bed piled with moldy straw and a crude fireplace in the corner near the bed. I had worked to stuff the many cracks between the logs with whatever I could find: dirt, some spare cloth, and occasionally some packed snow were all that I had. Against the north wall I had laid the canvas sides of our tent to keep out the worst of the hungry, howling winds. It was not much, but he might even now be dead had we not found it. I tried my best to hold at bay the notion this was merely staving off the inevitable.
“This is vile,” he rasped after sipping at my latest concoction, “but I prefer it to the bloodletting and purgatives of the doctors I’ve known.”
“I’ll do my best to keep you from the clutches of those fiends!” I laughed, showing far more cheer than I truly felt. He was so very ill that a visit from a real doctor might well kill him.
I listened to the wind outside, which had been gentle at dawn but was now picking up as the sky turned a dull, depressing grey. The temperature was falling and the scent of storm was in the air. The trees were bare and lifeless, only the majestic spruce and firs showing any signs of willingness to struggle through the coming storms of late November. We had been fools to travel alone in the
Our mule, tied on the leeward side of the cabin, shifted nervously, grunting noises of unhappiness as he chewed the slender fare I had gathered for him. I had thought to bring the mule inside with us, but I knew I would soon have to shoot him for meat and I preferred to do that work outside. It would be a dangerous corner turned once done, for it would mean spending the winter in this cabin. It would mean Jeremy’s death, for we were in no way prepared to spend four or more cold, harsh months in this place.
I had made two trips out and back, each time returning with several large stones for my makeshift hearth, when I heard the sound of hooves on the frozen ground, accompanied by the voices of men. My first thought was to run back inside to fetch the pistol. I silently chided myself for neglecting it, but then the voices were upon me, coming from the trees along the same path Jeremy and I had followed three days prior. I stood straight under the overhanging logs of the crude roof outside and leveled my gaze upon them. Their demeanor was unthreatening as they approached with their horses at a slow walk, each trailing two pack mounts.
One of the men was older as evidenced by the grey in his full beard, and as he turned to look at the other man and gestured his head toward me, I noticed that his right ear was missing, the hole in his head surrounded by rough frostbite scarring. He had obviously seen other harsh winters in this land. He sat easily in his saddle and I could see no threat in him. The other man was younger and, while not sporting a full beard, certainly had several days’ growth on his face. He too appeared unthreatening to my eyes. They were likely father and son and as they brought their mounts to a halt before the cabin they both tipped their wide-brimmed hats to me.
“Mornin’, ma’am,” the older man said by way of a greeting, “I’m Tom Kelly. This is my boy, Will.”
“Elaine,” I replied, adding after a moment’s hesitation, “…McAllister.”
I surprised myself at feeling hesitation over that small lie. I had never presumed to call myself Jeremy’s wife even though we freely allowed others to see us as married. For some reason I felt it necessary to be explicit with these men. I only hoped Jeremy would not expose the lie.
“A bit surprised to see anyone out here, what with the winter startin’ to set in and all,” the gruff-voiced man said from the back of his horse. “We use this cabin ourselves now and then but wouldn’t want to spend a night here this time of year. We wasn’t goin’ to stop but we seen the smoke, so we thought it best to see who was visitin’, if you take my meanin’.”
“We stopped here three days ago. My husband is very ill and I had no inkling of the distance to any town. When we happened upon this place it seemed prudent to…”
The door to the cabin flew open with a crash and Jeremy lurched through it, his rifle in his hands. His eyes were glazed and he was shaking violently, his skin gone ashen. Mr. Kelly and his son both reined their horses back, the boy reaching for his own musket before his father stayed his hand.
“What goes here?” Jeremy roared, “Who are these men?”
I turned just in time to catch him as he staggered, his knees buckling. I put my shoulder under his and bore him up as I took the rifle from his hand. I heard the men dismounting behind me, then a moment later Mr. Kelly took Jeremy’s other arm. Together we brought Jeremy inside and settled him back upon his bed of blankets. He was on fire with fever, now moaning incoherently between racking coughs. I struggled to settle him down again, holding him down and speaking soft soothing words.
Both Mr. Kelly and his son were inside the cabin and as I looked up at them I could see the grim certainty in their eyes. As I turned to face them I set myself firmly, meeting their gaze in defiance. Mr. Kelly frowned, and his eyes wandered over the interior of the cabin, settling on the fire and the stone hearth I had been constructing. He nodded approvingly.
“That’s a fine idea, Mizzus McAllister,” the older man said, and then turned to his son. “Will, why don’t you go help the lady gather up what she needs to finish this up? Mr. McAllister and I need to have a few words.”
I looked back at Jeremy where he lay. His eyes were open and clear, his sudden fevered delusion easing, and he nodded at me. Mr. Kelly drew a tattered book from within his jacket, a Bible, and pulled the one stool we possessed over to Jeremy’s bed. I was reluctant to leave for I knew what these men, so polite and gallant in their certainty, would have to say to one another. Nonetheless the young man’s help with the fireplace would be appreciated, so I gathered my coat and hat and set out with the younger Mr. Kelly. I would deal with the good-intentioned foolishness of my man and Mr. Kelly once other tasks were well completed.
“Me an’ my pa kinda got a late start,” Will Kelly told me as we gathered stones and piled them into a sack. “Should’a been back t’ camp near a week ago,” he went on. “Got held up dealin’ with the traders back at
“Your camp,” I inquired, “how far off is it?”
“Maybe two days ride due north, if’n the weather holds. Sure don’ feel like it, though. Gonna be in a real state o’ things, we don’t make time. That’ll be tough on ‘em that’s waitin’ on us, we get ourselfs dead out here.”
“You’re bringing supplies? How many are there?”
“Oh, it’s a good tradin’ outpost, maybe a dozen. More, dependin’ on who straggles in for winter.”
I digested that as we hefted more stones into the sack on our mule’s back. The trading post he referred to must be the one owned by Jeremy’s old friend. A two-day ride was tantalizingly close, but there was little chance Jeremy would survive even one day of travel in his condition, particularly not with his fever and this cold. Grimly I kept my thoughts to myself as we gathered stones. These men had four loaded packhorse, and the trading post might enjoy those supplies, but I doubted it was a matter of life or death. My thoughts were going down dark paths I did not wish them to follow but I took their full measure regardless. Contemplation of such things was heavy on my heart, particularly with this young man working by my side.
As the son and I returned to the cabin we found that his father had been working on the hearth as we gathered stones. We added our stones and after some time and grunting he pronounced it as fit as it was likely to get.
All hope of that died when I spied my own pack fully loaded and propped up near the door. I had not noticed it while we built the rude hearth, but I suddenly stood still and stared at it. I then looked to Jeremy as he lay propped in a sitting position near the fire.
“Elaine…” he began.
“No.” I said, quietly but firmly, shaking my head.
“Mizzus McAllister…” Tom Kelly began, a pleading tone in his voice.
“No!”
“Elaine, please,” Jeremy pleaded, “come here and listen to me.”
Angry and determined I moved towards him, intent upon explaining in no uncertain terms why I would not be sent away, but as I passed Tom Kelly I was suddenly seized from behind, strong hands gripping my arms and pulling them back. I struggled and lashed backwards with my heel, but Mr. Kelly slipped aside, then caught my legs and firmly, but carefully, pressed me forward to the ground.
“He said you’d fight like a wildcat,” the elder Kelly grunted in my ear. Jeremy looked away as Kelly continued. “Now Mizzus McAllister, listen here, your husband and I had a long talk and this really is for the best.”
“You’re going to leave him here to die!? That’s for the best?” I tried to squirm out from under the man but his grip was strong and he held me fast. “Jeremy! Tell him to let me go!”
Jeremy coughed spastically, shaking his head as he held out his hand, trying to signal me to stay calm. I stopped struggling, listening to his breathing as he brought the coughing under control again. There were tears in his eyes, and surrender was writ upon his face.
“Elaine,” he whispered, his voice too hoarse for anything else, “I am done. Look at me… look at me! I’ve been holding so… afraid to leave you alone.” I stared at him, calculating what I might say. “I told him you would fight, my love,” he pleaded. “But…” he coughed uncontrollably a few times, and then looked at me weakly. “Elaine… you must, you must go. Preacher Kelly will take you to safety. He’s given me his word.”
I stared at him some more, my heart ripped by his nobility, his sacrifice and his utter stupidity. I knew in that moment that I could not reason with him and would just have to fight. Everything dissolved then into a flurry of screaming, kicking, cursing and pleading as the Kelly men finally lashed my feet together and bound my hands, there being no other way to control me. The Elder Kelly then hefted me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and turned for the door. Jeremy was slack in his huddle of blankets, eyes closed, his face pained as he wheezed for breath.
“He’s unconscious!” I wailed, “You can’t leave him like this! He’ll die if the fire fails!”
Outside, our pack mule had been added to their train of horses and I was carefully laid over the mule’s back, face down. I pleaded with them, then cursed them as they calmly secured me in place. Young Will Kelly carefully wrapped me in blankets against the cold, moving stiffly as I pleaded with him not to do this. Then Tom returned and stooped down to look into my face.
“He’s awake, ma’am, and I stoked the fire right good for him. We’ve left whisky and water and food, more’n he’s like to need. I don’t expect you to thank us. I know you’ll be cursin’ my name ‘til your dyin’ day, but at least that’ll be some time down the road, not this winter and not in this place.”
“Please!” I wept, “You can’t do this! You can’t!”
“Will! It’s time we got on our way.”
Chapter 1
I usually play video games with my wife and son on Thursday nights. Our rule: if the phone rings, we ignore it unless it’s important. Since not much is more important than helping my son blast assorted nasties to bits, the phone rarely was answered. Still, I’m no fool, and when the caller said, “…we have a freelance job available for you from a well-paying client if you can pick up the phone now. Are you in? It’s now 6:15pm Eastern Time and if you can get back to me before…”
“Dude, frag that Elite!” I yelled as I picked up the phone. Then I forced a smile into my voice. “Hello, hello, well-paying client? What can I do for you?” I try to be moderately informal, even in business. I only freelance on the side, so I like to have fun with it. I don’t like dealing with uptight clients anyway.
Caller ID showed a blocked number, but he identified himself as working for a company in
I laughed a little. It wasn’t the biggest offer I’d ever gotten. On the other hand, it was the biggest I’d gotten in a few years. He repeated that he was serious, but wasn’t allowed to give me any more details. He said that if I could accept delivery of a package with a written offer tomorrow morning by
“Well, what the hell,” I said. I told him I’d accept his package and call him back.
The next morning, at about
“Hey babe,” she said. “Did you get that envelope?”
“Yeah.”
“So what’s in it? Lots of money, I hope.”
I laughed. “Well, there’s what looks like a short story manuscript, a first-class ticket to
“You’re kidding, right? A traveler’s check? Not a company check?”
“There isn’t even a company name, unless ‘M.G. Baker’ is a company. Then there’s just this note that says I should send it back if I don’t want it, but if I come to
“Short stories? You don’t do a lot of that kind of work.”
”Yeah, I know, but that’s what it looks like. There aren’t many details. I just have to call this guy by 11 if I accept.”
“Why haven’t you called him yet? When do you leave?”
That’s my woman. Short, to the point, and not many questions when money’s on the table. That’s what I love about her.
“The ticket has me flying out of Detroit Metro at
“Call him. I’ll make sure you’re packed and ready.”
“Hey, ten grand will buy a lot of beer.”
“Twenty. They said another ten thousand when you get there.” She never misses a beat.
We hung up. I sat back, shuffled through the thin packet of papers, and looked it all over again, airline ticket, traveler’s check, note with a phone number, and a hand-written story snippet. The snippet had been in its own sealed envelope and was obviously a photocopy.
I gave it another read:
—[Begin Journal entry]—
Dennis is screaming at me, his hands gripping my arms, shaking me, his face, twisted with pain and rage, screaming.
“Why couldn’t you save her? Why did she have to die? Why?”
Driving away… then nightmare images, the world spinning, pain and fear, my chest on fire, I cannot breathe! Hands on my shoulders, forcing me back, too many, too strong, voices trying to be soothing, voices shouting, agony in my belly, fuzzy images of my abdomen laid open, men in masks, shouting.
“Dammit, I can’t work with a conscious patient!”
“I’m pushing the limit now! Just finish it…”
There is momentary nothingness, blank oblivion. Then thoughts, a memory of pain and horror as consciousness returns as if from the bottom of a cold, dark cave. It is slow and confused and wrong in so many ways. I want to retreat into the darkness, but I cannot, I know I must not.
My eyes open, the light painful to behold, but I compel myself to look through the dazzle and blur, attempting to force sense to emerge from the unfamiliar shapes and forms around me. My teeth close about something thick and resilient—there is a tube down my throat. Suddenly the sounds and images snap into stark relief: a hospital. I can hear the rhythmic whirring of what can only be a respirator. Carefully, quietly I assess myself, flexing my feet, my legs, my hands… I cannot feel my left hand or my left leg. My chest and belly are sore, but not unbearably so. My head hurts, but my thoughts grow clearer by the moment. I am in a cervical collar. My hips are immobilized.
I am starving.
Movement catches my eye. There is someone in the room, a doctor? His back is turned as he makes notes on a hand-held device. I cannot speak with the tube so I raise my right hand. I notice that it is in a restraint, but one that permits a fair range of motion. I manage to snap my fingers after a couple of attempts. He turns with a start. The surprise on his face is evident as I wave him over.
“Well now, are we… awake?”
I gesture to the tube. Take it out.
“The tube? I’m a nurse and I’m afraid that’s up to the doctor, but I’ll page him for you. But first, can you focus on my finger? Just follow it with your eyes…”
He runs through a basic neurological examination. I do as he asks and when he is done I fix my gaze upon his until he looks away. A bit flustered, he tells me he will go get the doctor right away. He avoids even looking at my left side as he leaves looking uncertain, and I count off the minutes waiting. Finishing my internal audit I conclude that my left arm is missing at the elbow, and most of my left leg seems to be gone. The right side is sore but functional. Finally, the doctor arrives outside the door, and I listen as he and the nurse murmur about me. Both are incredulous, but I cannot make out the words. Finally he enters the room and approaches me. He is a young looking forty or so, with the unmistakable bearing of a dignified black man from
“My name is Dr. Omar. I was one of the surgeons who took care of you when you were transferred up from our emergency room. Do you understand me?” He has a Nigerian accent.
Thumbs up, then a gesture to the tube: Take it out.
“I’m sorry, nobody likes the tube,” he says in a loud, carefully enunciated voice. “But you have been hurt very badly and have stopped breathing more than once. I have some questions we need to answer. Are you up to it?”
I make a gesture, miming writing.
“Of course. Here you go.” He lays a pad on the small rolling table and slides it over to me, handing me his pen.
How long?
“You came in five days ago. Do you know what happened?”
I was in my car, don’t remember, an accident, yes?
“Yes. Miss Baker, are you a drug user?”
No. Take out the tube.
“We’ll see after we check you out again. I asked about drug use because we had a very tough time with you. You came out of anesthesia three times during your surgery.”
I remember. That gives him pause.
“I didn’t see any track marks but… your blood work was unusual.”
Enough. Take out the g d tube!
“I’m going to examine you,” he says. “You’re not going to try to hit me again, are you?” I blush. I do not remember that. I form an “OK” with my fingers. He unbuckles my right hand and says, “I need to leave your left side immobile for now.”
He is obviously being reticent, but I let it go. He is trying to be kind. He begins a chest evaluation, probing for pain, listening to my breathing. He repeats everything the nurse did and clicks his pen light into my eyes. Eventually, he relents. Soon two nurses and another doctor extract the tube. After a few moments of coughing and clearing my throat I feel much better.
“I’m hungry,” are the first raspy words to pass my lips, followed by “I need to make a phone call.”
—-[End Journal entry]—-
Scrawled at the bottom were five words: “Come. I will pay you.”
I don’t do a lot of fiction, but I figured this could be interesting. I gave the guy a call and told him I’d be on the plane first thing in the morning. He told me I’d be met at the gate.
The sun was up but the skies were still gloomy when my plane landed. Stepping out of the gate, I immediately spotted two guys holding a sign with my name on it. One was obviously a driver from an airport limo service, and the other was a young guy in a three-piece suit. The latter worried me a bit because I hate neckties and I hate clients who expect me to wear one. Still, I smiled and shook the guy’s hand. He kept the conversation carefully confined to light pleasantries and indicated that we’d talk business once we got to the car.
The limo was a little odd. Instead of your typical airport limo, it was a white, stretch party job, the kind people normally rent for weddings and such. When we got in and I noticed that the driver’s compartment was sealed off from us, I got the idea. I also noticed that the bar was stocked. He offered me a drink but I declined. I’m not opposed to eye openers but I’ve been trying not to drink so much lately. He launched right into it once the car pulled into traffic.
“You should know that your client is Miss Genevieve Baker. I’m an attorney with a law firm that represents some of her interests. I know it sounds odd but, Miss Baker is such a stickler for privacy that she prefers not to let people know she’s our client. So for now you can just call me Mitch.”
“I’m not entirely comfortable with all this,” I said.
“Hey, it’s not like I’m a secret agent or gangster or something,” he chuckled, making little quote marks with his fingers. He certainly seemed normal enough. “It’s just how our client wants it.”
“So, ‘Miss’ Baker, eh? Kind of an old-fashioned lady?”
He paused and cocked his head. “Well, yes,” he said, drawing out the second word slowly. “In a weird sort of way. In other ways, no. No, no, no.” He paused. “I’d say she’s eccentric, but she’s a little young for that.”
I smirked. I didn’t say anything, but now it seemed obvious. She was probably a rich brat and a frustrated novelist. I’d never done any ghostwriting work and wondered where the hell she’d gotten my name. My buddy, Jerry, maybe? But I kept silent. I was pretty sure I had the idea now. This probably wouldn’t be much fun, but the money could be useful.
“Anyway,” he said, sobering, “I assume the
I paused. “Uh, no.”
“Oh. They should have… oh. Okay.” He ran his hand through his hair, sighed, sat back for a second, then leaned forward with a pained expression and serious voice. “She was in a terrible car accident last week. It’s been horrible seeing her. Not that I’ve known her for long, but I mean… Christ. It’s bad. It’s a miracle she’s alive at all.”
My mouth went dry. “But she’s been writing stuff?”
“Oh yeah, I’ve been getting clearly written instructions from her for a while, and that hasn’t changed since she came out of the coma. I can’t believe how calm she is. But a few of us from the firm have been sent out here to negotiate with the hospital for her. The hospital doesn’t want her to move and she’s agreed to that for now, but she’s unwavering about wanting certain things done certain ways and won’t bend an inch. It’s been like trying to negotiate a Middle East Peace Treaty. Money talks though.”
Suddenly, he stiffened, and looked at me a little sideways. “I’m sorry, that’s more than you needed to know. In fact, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention that I was complaining. I…we at the firm are very happy with her as a client.
“Anyway, now that you’re here, she wants me to give you this envelope. There’s a check in there for you, and a note. She’d like you to follow the instructions on it. Oh, and here.” He pulled out a small flip phone from his breast pocket. “She says you can use this for anything you want while you’re here. My cell number is on the first speed dial entry, here.” He spun a little wheel, and his name showed up on the screen. “Call me any time. I won’t be going up with you today, but I’ll be around the hospital. And yes, you’re allowed to use it in the hospital. Anything else for now?”
I sat back and contemplated. There didn’t seem to be anything else to ask. I opened the envelope and saw the traveler’s check and the note. I decided not to read it until we got to the hospital.
When we arrived, the limo dropped me off at the visitor’s entrance. Mitch said he’d take care of my luggage and that they had a hotel room set up for me. He said that Miss Baker had been very specific, that the note would have all further instructions I’d need, and that he was to have me come up alone. So I was left standing there, my briefcase and the note in one hand. In the other I had a fairly heavy, pink carrying case that he said I was to deliver to her. He gave the case an odd look just before closing the limo door and riding off.
I set down both cases and opened the note. It was written in the same handwriting as before, but a bit crisper and more elegant:
—[note begins]—
I apologize sincerely for the secrecy. I am aware this seems quite melodramatic, but I assure you it is necessary. I need you to understand that at this point, after we meet, you need not tell me whether you will accept my commission. If you choose, after our meeting, you may simply call Mitch and tell him you wish to be sent home. You may keep both traveler’s checks as gratitude for your patience and inconvenience.
I need your help. This is a matter of some importance to me, hence the machinations employed to bring you here. You are uncomfortable, walking blind, alone and with no proper introduction, into a sick woman’s room. I ask that you recognize I find this awkward as well. I plead necessity for reasons I cannot entirely explain in this note. I am certain you have many questions and when we meet this morning I promise to answer those questions. Rest assured, you have nothing to fear from me.
Go to the reception desk and tell them you are here to see me. You are expected, and I eagerly look forward to our meeting.
Yrs,
MGB
—[note ends]—
I stood there for a minute, thinking about what was happening. It’s tempting to say that I found it all bizarre, but really I just found it a little uncomfortable. So I picked up the cases, walked inside, gave my name and said I was there to see Genevieve Baker.
When I reached her floor I couldn’t help but notice how gloomy it was, but Intensive Care Units are usually like that, lit at a constant, dim level. I checked in at the nurse’s station, gave my name again, and told them whom I was there to see.
Several of the nurses stopped and looked at me. One of them in particular frowned, and her mouth got small. I smiled nervously and said I was just a visitor. They directed me to the appropriate room. I heard the annoyed one mutter something about “her majesty” but one of her companions shushed her. I began to wonder just what kind of hellion I was about to encounter—in an Intensive Care ward, no less.
The doorway was unusually wide, and completely open. I knocked politely on the doorframe. There was a brief pause, and then I was relieved to hear a friendly contralto voice sing out.
“Please do come in!”
I walked in self-consciously, bracing myself for what I would see. It was way less gruesome than I’d imagined. There was no blood, no smell of sick. She was pale, with a number of machines hooked to her, but mostly through thin wires or tubes tucked discreetly under blankets. She was sitting up with no tubes near her face, and no breathing mask. Her right arm rested comfortably below her chest, with only a single IV going into her wrist.
She looked like no more than a pretty coed who’d been pulled through the wringer.
Her cheeks were sunken, and her eyes were bulgy and dark under the lids. Wisps of red hair stuck out of the bandages around her scalp. She looked like she hadn’t eaten in a week and was very tired. A fierce energy seemed to vibrate out of her large green eyes, an energy that turned surprisingly friendly when her eyes met mine.
She smiled brightly, greeting me by name, and gestured toward a chair set next to the foot of her bed. “It’s so gracious of you to see me. Please do sit down.”
I thought for an instant about shaking her hand, but it would be a bit awkward to maneuver around the machinery, and she put her hand back down so I just sat. As I did, I put the cases on the floor. Looking up, I noticed that her eyes had seized on the pink one as if it was suddenly the most important thing in the room.
Her voice changed completely in tone as she asked, “By chance, is that the case Mitch had made up for me?” She looked ready to lunge at it.
“Uh, yes,” I said. I gestured toward it and said, “Would you like me to…”
She stared at it a bit longer, then gazed back up at me with the same disturbing look in her eyes. Before I could say anything further she suddenly flashed me a smile. “Thank you for bringing it. I must apologize again for the unusual circumstances under which you were brought here. I trust you were not unduly inconvenienced?” Her look was friendly again, although that fearsome intensity still seemed to burn beneath. Her eyes were very large and very green.
I sat back and shook my head. “Well, in my line of work, traveling on short notice is isn’t all that uncommon.” I gave her a half grin, still trying to take her measure.
She nodded graciously. “I promised to answer your questions. First, did I write that manuscript, and was it written shortly after I awoke? I did, and it was. Writing helps me to organize my thoughts. I have kept a journal of sorts for… quite some time. The accident was very traumatic.” Disturbingly, she lifted the bandaged stump of her left arm, but I was careful not to flinch. “I lost most of my left leg as well, but that is not my primary concern at the moment.”
She paused, looking at me intently. As I gathered my thoughts, she continued. “I need to tell a story, and I hope you will be the one to write it. I will be at your disposal to answer questions, discuss details, and provide evidence. I am offering a large sum of money up front because once this begins you may decide that I am at best a liar, or at worst, deranged. You are already wondering if it’s the latter, and I accept that.
“Here, this is for you,” she said, reaching to the small tray-table next to her bed to pick up a smallish silver box. “It’s a digital recorder. I’ve taken the liberty of activating it already, so you will have a record of our conversation today, and may review it at your leisure. You’ll also need it as we go forward—assuming that we do.” As I stood and took it from her outstretched hand her fingers brushed lightly against my knuckles, and she smiled at me brightly. I sat back down, looking at the recorder. It had apparently been running since I’d walked in.
“I ask only that you listen, suspend your disbelief and let me give you what you need to draw your own conclusions. You are under no obligation. At any time, for any reason, you may choose to walk away and all monies you have been paid are yours to keep, but I hope I can convince you to give me just a few days before you make up your mind.
“I chose you because I saw qualities in your writing that I believe will be enormously helpful, but I had to meet you to be certain, hence my efforts to bring you here. Having met you, I am now convinced you are the man I need for this endeavor. There are others who might suffice, but I do believe you and I will be able to work together.” She paused and took a sip of water from her bed table. I was startled at the certainty in her voice because I really hadn’t said much of anything yet.
“So this story,” I said, “you’ve written some of it already? I’d like to look over any other material you have. That manuscript was a bit… intense.”
She gave a short laugh, not creepy but a little loud. “You have no idea. Assume nothing. I’m going to have Mitch make you an offer you’re unlikely to refuse. This would be your primary focus over the next few months at least, so I’ll want you to take a leave from your day job. It will be worth it, believe me. If you’re willing to consider this, Mitch will have a set of documents for you to review. I’ve also arranged for you to have full access to my doctors. They are under strict instructions to share everything with you.
“I’d like you to stay nearby for the moment, but you won’t have to remain in
“I understand how this sounds. I understand you have reservations, but please, give it careful consideration—just a few days are all I ask. Do you have any other questions?” She sagged back into her pillows, suddenly looking small and very tired.
“No, not at the moment, other than, ‘what next?’” I said.
“Mitch will take you to your hotel. Read, and consider. I’m sorry for making this so brief, but as you can see I’m not entirely well. I am unaccustomed to being so unforgivably rude, but I would take my leave of you now.”
“Of course, I understand,” I said. I picked up my briefcase and turned to leave.
Then with an odd inflection to her voice, she asked, “Umm, before you go, could you lift that case on to my bed? I’m somewhat tethered here.”
I hefted it onto the bed for her. “Thank you,” she said. “One last thing,” her look burning into me now, “If you agree to do this I will never lie to you, ever.” I almost felt sucked into her green eyes as she went on. “There may be questions I cannot answer because I believe the answers will harm others, and if so I’ll tell you. But trust is the most precious coin I have in this arrangement. I’ll not squander it between us.” She sat back again and closed her eyes. “I’m done hiding things,” she whispered.
Uncertain of what to do I said, “I hope you’re feeling better.” Lost in thought, I walked out. I suddenly realized that in the last ten minutes she had answered almost every one of my questions without my having spoken much at all. I also realized that I was going to accept her job, for now, if the money was any good. I also realized that she probably knew all this. I found that a bit unsettling.
I pocketed the digital recorder and called Mitch. Both he and the limo were waiting for me when I got downstairs.
Mitch looked at me and grinned. “She can be intense, can’t she?”
I nodded. “Did she go to school in
His grin just got bigger and he shrugged, then held out a thick manila envelope and said, “Did you want this, or…?”
I took it and said, “I guess I’d like to go to the hotel. Need to call my wife.” Then I started a bit and asked, “Oh, by the way, what the hell was in that case?”
“Just some food,” he said. “She’s been complaining about the food here for three days.”
Chapter 2
She had been as thorough with the hotel arrangements as everything else, and impressive with how she used her money. When I checked in I found out I was in a luxury suite. This told me something about her status. Anyone who thinks of a luxury suite at a Hyatt Regency as “adequate” has a lot more money, and is used to spending a lot more money, than a vast majority of the population.
Before dropping me off Mitch told me to check in with the concierge desk, that they would have a rental car waiting for my use. He was as good as his word. They just asked for my license, had me sign a few things and handed me the keys to a black Cadillac El Dorado that was already in the hotel parking lot.
I had encountered serious money a few times before in my life, but this was impressive. She was obviously a person with serious resources. I found myself wondering how someone that young could possibly have so much cash. An heiress seemed the obvious possibility, although she didn’t seem to have much of the rich brat attitude that some children of the wealthy are famous for.
After settling into the suite, I examined the packet from Mitch. Clipped to the front was a short list of phone numbers: Mitch and his cell phone (again), the office and pager numbers of a Dr. Omar Momadou, Dr. Janelle French, and Inge Sorenson, L.C.S.W. Opening the packet I found a police report, a thick packet of medical records and a written job offer.
The job contract was something else. She wanted to write her autobiography. She was offering me a substantial fee up front plus a nice weekly amount until we were finished. We could take as long as necessary, with a minimum estimate of three months. I could work mostly from home if I wanted, but I would fly out (at her expense) to see her at least once a week. I thought it seemed like one hell of an expensive vanity project, since it probably wouldn’t sell. “Miraculous recovery” stories are a dime a dozen. But maybe she knew a publisher. Hell, maybe she owned a publisher.
The police report was typical; functional, businesslike, mostly form stuff. Surprisingly, she’d made no effort to obscure anything before giving it to me. Her name (“Mary Genevieve Baker”), address, date of birth (January 10, 1977), driver’s license, social security number, and other basic information were right there. I was surprised to learn that she’d been driving a mid-sized 2004 Mazda she’d rented from Hertz. Why would someone with that kind of money be driving such a plain, smallish car?
Setting that mystery aside, I read the rest of the report. It looked to be a fairly typical accident report, with no unusual surprises. On the night of
The mid-sized Mazda and its driver, however, were not so lucky. Apparently the Mazda spun and rolled over a couple of times, and the left side was practically obliterated. When the fire department got there, they had to use the “jaws of life” (or what rescue workers often refer to as “the can opener”) to get her out. The accident photos were about as gruesome as you’d expect. Genevieve’s whole left side was mangled and she had severe scratches and cuts everywhere, including her face. But accident photos frequently look worse than they are because blood gets everywhere, and it mixes with sweat which just spreads it around and makes it look worse. Apparently some of those scratches were pretty minor because they’d cleared up by the time I saw her that day.
The left side of her body was nowhere near so lucky, though; a small puncture wound in the side of her skull from a shard of glass, arm crushed, ribs smashed, gut sliced open with metal sticking into it, left leg crushed with more metal sticking into it. And that was just the initial police report.
After reading this, I had to stop and snatch a beer out of the hotel mini bar and compose myself a bit. It’s not that I’d never read police reports before. If you’ve read enough of them, you know that this accident was only above average for its violence. I’d read reports of far worse. People smashed so bad they’re basically nothing but goo, or whole families burnt to death.
What fascinated me was her behavior after the fact. I looked at the calendar on my watch. This accident happened nine days ago, and she was in a coma for five days after that. How does someone go through something so traumatic—the loss of two limbs, for God’s sake—wake up in a hospital room, and immediately decide to write a journal entry about it, and hire a writer to help her tell her story? That’s when it finally struck me. There were many odd things about my first interview with this woman, but the oddest thing was how eerily calm she was about her fate, almost as if the emotional parts of her brain had been shut down.
I ordered lunch and began to flip through the much thicker medical documentation. I was again astonished at the fact that it all seemed to be there, every last thing you could imagine, with no effort to hide any information. Height, weight, age, date of last period (unknown) whether or not she was pregnant (no) and so on. There were several sets of X-rays, some MRI scans, and countless reports from the emergency room, the operating room, the surgeons’ and the ICU nurses’ reports. I even found three different psychiatric evaluations. I spent the rest of the afternoon reading through all of it, and a fairly complete picture emerged, with a few items of confusion.
The doctors had to take the whole forearm, right up to the elbow. The leg was even worse. They couldn’t even save the knee. She had fractured some ribs, one of which punctured her lung. A chunk of metal lodged in her gut, and she had to have a bowel resection, losing her spleen, parts of her large and small intestine, and even one of her ovaries in the process. Her pelvis had several hairline fractures. They had to open her up a second time when a subsequent MRI showed that they’d missed a piece of glass in her belly.
Just as she had suggested, the surgeons’ reports showed that she had a tendency to come awake under anesthesia. The first time it had happened she had given her anesthesiologist a black eye and dislocated a nurse’s shoulder. Except for those incidents she did not fully regain consciousness until five days after being admitted.
There were several hairline cracks in her skull, and a thin slice of glass was lodged some four centimeters into her brain. The extraction was without incident, and she fortunately did not wake up during that procedure. Subsequent scans showed no evidence that anything was left behind. That last part, however, marked the first of several strange things about the case of Mary Genevieve Baker.
The first odd thing was her blood. They were completely unable to type it on the first day and were forced to take the step of simply giving her Type O-negative whole blood. This is considered a “universal donor” blood that you can put into anybody, but doctors prefer to use type-matched blood, particularly in surgery. Her type was Kp(b-), which is quite rare. It’s generally found only among white people from certain parts of
Routine checks for drugs in her system presented some odd and contradictory results. Subsequent, more detailed tests were ordered, which showed unusually high traces of carbon in her bloodstream, as well as some inorganics. She looked sort of like someone with a mild case of metal poisoning. Doctors decided to let it go for now since the levels were probably too low to justify immediate chelation therapy.
Her cholesterol was through the roof, even for a patient under severe stress— HDL of over 600 and LDL of over 800, which were both ridiculously high and out of normal proportions. Once again, they had more pressing concerns than a 27 year old with high cholesterol, so they wrote it off to stress and suggested looking at it after she healed some more.
Then there were the MRIs of her brain. Most of the rest of her body was completely normal but her brain was odd in a few ways. First, the sliver of glass had apparently been quite thin and not as dangerous as first thought. Subsequent scans showed no discernible damage to that part of the brain, so whatever problems it might cause her were likely to be minor. However, she had an unusually high number of fissures and convolutions for a woman her age. Not freakishly so, but well above average. More importantly it looked like she had a large cancer on her corpus callosum. Doctors were fairly sure it was cancer based on the way it resonated in the MRI scans, although it was odd because it was so smooth and regular, teardrop shaped with small, thin extensions. The specialists were pretty sure it would be a difficult operation, and that they’d have to sever the corpus callosum to do it. Once again, doctors set this aside because they had more pressing things to worry about, but an oncologist and brain specialist had been consulted and would probably be consulted again.
Another peculiarity: on the evening of
The psychiatric reports were almost boring. They noted, as I had, her rather unsettling matter-of-factness, her flat emotional response to her injuries. They noted that she was usually calm and polite, but occasionally angry and even moderately violent, to the point of throwing things or shoving people—not enough to warrant locking her up, but it bore scrutiny. All other tests showed her to appear normal. The psychiatrist was, as they so often are, dry and clinical, suggesting her emotional response was “due to trauma,” and advised adjusting her pain medication. The social workers’ reports were a little more touchy-feely and opinionated. They said she was probably in “the denial phase of the grieving process” for her lost limbs, and would probably need extensive further counseling.
The ICU nurses’ reports were alternately upsetting and amusing. The words “NOT COOPERATIVE” appeared an awful lot along with the acronym “JPN”, often underlined in angry slashes and decorated with numerous exclamation points. She had removed her own IV a couple of times, and threatened to remove a catheter. She complained frequently about her diet, and once actually threw a tray at an orderly. She hadn’t hurt anybody, but it was clear that she was pretty much hell on wheels in the Intensive Care Unit.
After digesting all of this, I called Dr. Omar Momadou’s office and learned that he usually just went by “Dr. Omar.” I inquired politely, and he confirmed that he was from
In concluding the conversation he said, “I don’t know what to do with Miss Baker. She is healing very well; really remarkably well in many ways, and some of her injuries, like her pelvis and her head injuries, they seem not to have been as bad as they initially appeared. But she is I think much too confident and careless and will not understand that her condition is fragile, and I worry daily that she may do something to cause herself to bleed internally. She does not appreciate how delicate her situation is. And we still don’t even know what to make of this apparent brain tumor. She knows about it but seems as unconcerned about it as anything else. We don’t know if maybe this is the cause of some of her behavior, and the psychiatric doctors don’t seem to be sure right now. She is, however, perhaps the most unusual patient I have ever dealt with.”
Gathering it all together, I called my wife. After discussing it with her, we agreed that I should take the job. I could arrange for a vacation from my day job on Monday, and could probably get a leave of absence—but even if I couldn’t, the up-front money alone was too good to pass up. So I called Mitch and told him I’d like to take the gig, but I’d like my own attorney to review the contract just to make sure everything was in order. He sounded relieved and promised to let Miss Baker know.
On my way out to dinner, he called me back.
“Miss Baker wanted me to tell you that she considers her word her bond and she promises we’ll work out any concerns your attorney might have. She’d like to consider you on board right now, and wants me to send a few more things for you to read in the morning, and to see you around noon. Would that be acceptable?”
I thought about it and said, “That seems like it should be okay.” My return flight home wasn’t leaving until tomorrow evening anyway, so there would be plenty of time.
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]—
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 gushingly, 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, on me, on my wife, and our 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 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, 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]—
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, okay 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. He’s twenty-five, and fresh out of
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, wasn’t 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 that 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 doesn’t 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. My name is 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 can put that name together with this face.”
He sits back noncommittally, and his fingers drum the arm of his chair very lightly. He is trying hard not to give away anything and 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.”
“Thirty-five hundred years?” 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
“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 asks 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 have been since waking up after 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, 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]—
Chapter 5
I re-read her accounting of our meeting the previous night, shaking my head. “It’s a little disconcerting reading your descriptions. I’m supposed to be the writer, you’re supposed to be the subject.” I was sitting comfortably in her hospital room that next morning, waiting for them to move her downstairs.
“You watch me, I watch you,” she replied, a bit distractedly. She sat up, turned a bit to her right and began scooting to the edge of her bed.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Getting out of bed.”
I restrained myself from offering to help. If she wanted it, she’d ask. There was obviously no point in trying to talk her out of anything.
“These journals,” I asked. “How long have you been keeping them?”
“About 170 years,” she said offhandedly as she turned further to her right, and hooked her leg over the edge. I laughed. I loved the deadpan way she said things like that. She was clearly a flake, but the most entertaining flake I’d ever met. She flicked a look at me, smiled, and then concentrated again on her leg. I didn’t know where this relationship was going, but there was no doubt that it would be interesting.
“Well, I can already see how parts of the project might be done,” I said. “I think I can use some of your journal entries directly. Not all of them, since you ramble a bit, but I can definitely see how with a little work and careful editing we can lift parts of your journals straight into the book, maybe weave it in with some of our interview transcripts. Could be tricky, but might work. Do you write these every day?”
She scooted some more, grabbed the rail, and put her foot to the ground. She scratched absently at the stump of her left leg.
“You’d know better than I, but that sounds workable,” she said. “And no, not every day, but frequently, whenever something I deem significant happens or when something’s troubling me.” She was flexing her toes, testing the floor, wincing slightly at its cold temperature.
“They’re remarkably detailed. Do you have an eidetic memory?”
She shook her head. “No, but I’ve got a good one. Writing helps me remember things, keep my thoughts ordered.” She was rocking back and forth sideways, testing her balance.
“So where are the rest of them?” I asked.
Before answering, she startled me by standing straight up on her one leg facing away from me. I noticed then just how very thin and tiny she seemed. She couldn’t have been much more than 5’3”, which astonished me because she had such a large presence about her. She didn’t seem to care at all that I could see her backside through the open back of the hospital gown. She looked like she had almost no fat at all on her, which looked very unhealthy. With her back to me like that, I could almost believe her missing forearm was simply bent forward out of my vision, but the left leg was still obviously, tragically, almost completely gone.
She then startled me again by leaning backwards like a ballerina and slowly bending her back into a “U” shape. I could hear it crinkle and pop a little, and then she was staring at me upside-down.
She said, “I have some that I wrote some time ago in a steamer trunk. The rest I mostly destroyed. Except for the web site, which I’m still thinking about doing away with.”
“Okay, that’s three questions I have to ask all at once.”
“Go,” she said, straightening up, the back of her head to me again. Her hand was still on to the bedrail.
“Well, why do you write them if you plan to destroy most of them?”
“Because I write them for me, not for anybody else, and I already told you why I write them, to help me organize my thoughts and memories. Once I’ve done it I don’t need them anymore, most of the time. Besides, most of them are trash, just rambles. Some would be dangerous if someone found them.” She bent at the knee very deeply, almost touching it to the floor, then lost control and spun around, almost losing her grip. She sat there on the floor in an awkward, strained position facing me, her right arm and shoulder twisted severely.
I jumped up. She shot an angry look my way and I stopped. She was shaking a little, trying to pull herself up. Then her eyes relented.
“All right, this is very uncomfortable. I suppose I could use a hand.” She was sweating and panting hard.
Marveling at her courage, I helped straighten her up and get her back into bed. It was like picking up a bird. She looked a little defeated, but still determined. I sat back down.
“I need a cigarette,” she complained. “When the hell are they coming to move me out of this damned ICU?”
I ignored her complaints. They were a frequent eruption, not unlike
“Those were the first journals I ever kept, diaries of my… of my life then. They contain some very precious memories for me.”
“May I see them?” I asked.
She looked at me gravely. “I’ll have to think about that. I know I told you that very little was off limits but… it’s a tender subject. Can I think about that for a little while? They are very old matters to you but still very close to my heart.”
“Okay. Web site?”
“I kept a weblog for about a year. I quit around last Christmas.”
“A what?”
“A weblog. You know, a web-based log? An online journal.”
“Thanks, smarty-pants. I know what a weblog is. I keep one myself. I’m just surprised that you’d keep one.”
“Me too. I’d been thinking for some time that the modern world was going to find me sooner or later and I wanted to test the waters. I made strenuous efforts to hide my identity, but I decided to give it a try as a way to test people’s reactions to me. The result wasn’t entirely what I expected, or entirely to my liking. But it forced me to start confronting some things in myself and helped me to make some decisions. Maybe you should read it. I’ll give you the address,” she said.
“Maybe I should at that. You surprise me sometimes, my dear.”
“Yes, I do too. But now, how should we begin my story?”
“Usually the best place is the beginning,” I said.
Then the nurses arrived to take her to her new private room, away from the intrusions of the Intensive Care Unit.
Chapter 6
—[Begin Journal entry]—
The new room has somewhat less of the prison cell about it; television, telephone, private bathroom and a door that can be closed. The nurses have yet to become hostile—I must endeavor to avoid antagonizing them.
He arrives a few moments after the nurse and the orderly depart and I motion for him to close the door. He drags a chair over from the corner and settles in, looking relieved. He disliked the lack of privacy in the ICU nearly as much as I. His desire to begin is written clearly in his face and posture.
“So, I’ve got to ask, how many famous people have you met?”
I stifle my urge to laugh. He is serious regarding the question, but not its purpose. I smile at him.
“Fame is poison to me. I learned long ago to avoid the notorious and the powerful, particularly the powerful.”
“Really? I would think that you might have some encounters to relate after so many years.”
I sigh, allowing myself to smile a bit condescendingly, then ask, “Can you name for me ten famous goatherds from any period in history? Five? Perhaps one?” He remains silent, but I can see my point is understood. “Have I met people you might find fascinating? Certainly. I met Samuel Clemens at a reception after the conclusion of his second world tour. He was charming. We exchanged a dozen words, no more. I could say the same of perhaps five others you might possibly recognize.”
“Okay, let me try something more specific. Why don’t you tell me what your earliest memory is?”
I pause and think. It feels almost physically difficult to think so far back, and I close my eyes to concentrate. “Rape,” I finally say. “And a headache.” As I open my eyes, I see he has gone stiff. He suspects me of being deliberately provocative. But there is nothing to do for it but continue.
“I remember the smell of a wood fire, the feel of rough cloth and fur. My head throbbed with pain and somebody was touching me, an old woman. I was lying with my head in her lap and she was bathing me… She was speaking, but it was gibberish to me… no, it was less than gibberish. I did not really understand that what I was hearing was speech. I didn’t understand anything, not that I was in pain, or that there was smoke, or that the one touching me was old or a woman.
“I was Tabula Rasa. It is hard to remember those early days. I understood nothing. What I remember is a jumble of impressions of events. I remember the chief of the clan, a man whose name was Gtochk.” I pause. This is not exactly a pleasant memory, but not for the reasons he expects. “The second thing I have any clear memory of is him taking me.”
He looks disturbed, and I smile a little. People these days are so easily upset by the underlying realities of life. “They were hunters and they had a small farm going as well. They were actually rather wealthy by the standards of the time. They tolerated me, even though I was little more than an idiot in their eyes. I was healthy, and strong, and that had value. Gtochk in particular enjoyed my company, even after it became clear I was barren.”
“You… can’t have children?” he asks.
“No.”
He looks at me sharply, and his mind begins to churn. I grow annoyed, but I try to keep my smile. “It’s not a source of pain for me,” I say, “and not something that makes me delusional.”
He grins. “Sorry.”
I nod. “As you say, I can’t have children of my own,” I continue, “but I have helped to raise many of them, and they have enriched my life in many ways.” I pause, remembering. “One of them in particular was crucial to helping me realize that I was something more than…. Well, more than chattel.” I pause again, feeling a little sad. “It’s always so hard to leave them, though I’ve found ways to minimize the pain of separation my leaving inevitably causes them, assuming I could keep them alive long enough, anyway.”
His face grows deeply concerned and he interrupts me again. “Keep them… alive?” he says.
I stifle an urge to anger because I can see what he is thinking. He is wondering if I am some sort of monster, and I find it difficult to be patient with this. “Please do not look at me like I am a deluded psychopath. My God, I would never hurt a child!”
I stop. He looks a bit hurt. I realize that I was starting to rant, and that is not appropriate. “I apologize,” I say. “Please give me a moment to think. This is… a bit more difficult to endure than I thought.” I think some more and mutter to myself, “Damn it, I need a cigarette.” He smiles at me and stays silent, but I am still a bit annoyed. “This is not some romantic fantasy I am sharing with you. I just have to remind myself how happily unaware you Americans can be these days. It’s…” I pause again. I must get this right, or I will sound like I am merely berating him. Finally, I think of how I may explain myself better to him.
“Allow me to attempt to put this into perspective for you. I would like you to imagine it is late spring. Morning comes before the sun is above the horizon. Usually the adults arise first; however, in short order the children are up as well. Breakfast, if it exists at all, is simple—bread, fruit or nuts, dried meat if there is any about and perhaps the milk of goats or cows, if you have any. Regardless, it is a quick meal for there is work to do. Always.
“The men head out to their chores, be it in the fields with a plow or other tools, or into the wilds to hunt, or to the shore to fish. Occasionally a few women may go out to help them, but usually not. The men’s work is always some iteration of a backbreaking struggle to wrest the essentials of life from the world around them, and back home, the women and children are just as busy. Any child who can walk and carry is put into service, perhaps to gather fuel such as fallen branches or animal dung, or to help gather fruits or nuts to eat. They might tend to livestock or to whatever garden plot that may exist, if you’re fortunate enough to have either one of those. There is wood to be moved, water to be hauled, feed to be poured, and bread to be baked. There are always things requiring mending; clothes, tools, dwellings, or weapons. Perhaps some of the older men remain behind to handle the heavier work while the women do finer tasks, but all are hard at work long before most modern peoples would have stirred from their beds.
“It is springtime, the easiest, most pleasant part of your year. Most of your existence is given over to preparing for the coming winter. Food must be stored, and the work of getting that done is absolutely essential for your people’s survival. Women are often ingenious, and bend all sorts of knowledge to the task of taking what is in hand today and storing against need for tomorrow, but it is all labor intensive. Drying, smoking, salting—assuming you happen to have salt—mashing, cooking, preserving; depending on what you have on hand, you may have a few options that make your task more effective, but none of them are particularly easy.
“
“Afternoon progresses and it is time to finish what tasks must be completed before nightfall. There is a constant bustle to get things organized for the evening, see to it that the animals are secured and that none of the children have wandered off, sort through whatever has been gathered, and see that it is properly stored. If the men are hunting or fishing there will be the day’s catch to be properly dealt with, and whatever was gathered fresh for the day must be prepared.
“Evening is the only regular moment of respite and it is brief by comparison to the day. A meal may be taken, perhaps it is large if times are good, but more likely simply adequate. Sometimes, in bad times, it will be desperately sparse. As darkness closes in there may be rituals to whatever spirits your people believe in, perhaps storytelling or singing. The hope is always essentially the same though: “Dear Lord, please keep the monsters at bay.” When it is time for sleep it settles quickly, the reward for a hard day’s work. There may be lovemaking, probably your greatest pleasure if your man is any good at it.
“If you are 15 years old or more, you are most likely pregnant if you haven’t got a child already.” I pause. He grins a little, and I can see he is amused, but catches my meaning, so I go on.
“If you’re lucky, you got pregnant late last summer or during the fall so the child will be born soon. Winter is when most babies die, or are stillborn. The older and stronger the child is when winter comes, the better his chances. Either way, you hope that you will live through the birth. Most of the time you will—only about one in five dies in childbirth, so your odds aren’t too bad. If you’re lucky, your mother or one of her sisters is still around to help you through it. Otherwise you’ll have to depend on friends, which is always dodgy because they’ve got problems of their own, and the men are virtually useless at least until the child can walk. The best men are kind and supportive, but they still can’t do much besides offer you emotional support; you’re needed to feed the child and can’t be running around helping them hunt or pull a plow.
“If your man breaks an arm or a leg and survives, he is likely to be crippled for life and dependent on other men to help provide for you. If he dies from a fall, or an infection he gets from a wound or is attacked by an animal, you now must look to his brothers to help provide for you, if he has any. Or you must again look to friends and hope you have good ones. You might have to be traded off to another clan if no one has the means to take you in.
“If you are strong, and lucky, you will probably birth six to nine children before you die, with only one or two stillborn, and only one or two that die before they’re old enough to mate. Again, if you are lucky, you will live long enough to see grandchildren and spend your last days helping your daughters cope. You will hope none of them dies in childbirth, although if you have two or three daughters you know there’s a good chance that will happen to at least one of them.”
I pause again. He looks at me soberly. Good.
“You must understand something. Death in these days is a constant companion. Throughout the years babies are born and babies are buried. Children can die of many things—hunger, cold, infection, the occasional animal attack or clash with others, or sometimes from mysterious ailments no one understands, for there is no modern medicine. Many do not reach puberty. Those who do fare only slightly better. Once past puberty life is often just a span of thirty years or so. Hard living breaks bodies, and a man or woman of thirty would seem far older to modern eyes. In a relative sense they are older, really, as most are facing the end of their days by 45 or so if something does not cut them down sooner. Some live far longer, of course, but this is quite rare, and those few who do reach astonishing spans such as 50, 60 or 70 are generally revered for they are so rare and so wise. Burying the dead is a regular part of life and death is not so much a specter as an accepted fate, surcease to the struggle of carrying on from day to day.
“Of course, random events can break up the rhythms of life, forcing people out of their accustomed routines. Such random events might be a war, an earthquake, a fire or an occasional celebration.
“Life was not all toil and drudgery, but the vast balance was. That made the bright spots that much the better, while placing the darkness in some kind of proper perspective.”
To my surprise, I find myself feeling a bit sentimental. I squash the urge, for it is a pointless self-indulgence. He is looking at me now, quite seriously. He finds his voice and says, “Okay. I get it. But, um, didn’t you just say that you couldn’t…?”
“No, I couldn’t. So in my case a poor harvest in the fall would mean I was probably not there come spring. When times became particularly hard it usually meant I was on my way out, either driven away or sold for whatever value I might bring.” I smile a little sourly, remembering things I have not thought about in a very long time. “In fact, when I’d find myself in a new clan, I’d usually have trouble with the women since they saw me as a stranger and a rival. Once they knew I couldn’t have children, they often didn’t trust me around their own. In their eyes I was often just competition for their men’s affections and a draw on their resources. Sometimes I’d try to help the men with their tasks, sometimes the women, but it usually took a while to be accepted and sometimes I simply wasn’t.”
I stop then, and suddenly feel a wave of exhaustion. This surprises me slightly, but I have been surprising myself quite a bit these last few days. “I do believe I h