More Than Life Itself Read online

  MORE THAN LIFE ITSELF

  Joseph Nassise

  Wednesday Evening

  Death's messenger was a short, balding fellow with too pale skin and a barbecue stain on his white lab coat.

  Sam Dalton stared at him for a long moment after he had finished speaking, then, "I'm sorry, but I'm not sure I understand what you just said."

  "Your daughter is dying," replied the doctor.

  "I know that!" Sam answered hotly, the weeks of frustration and lack of sleep finally getting the better of him. Realising that his younger, larger frame loomed over the doctor's, he made a conscious effort to calm down, lest he frighten off his only source of information. He stepped back and ran a hand through his dark hair before continuing in a more reasonable tone. "What I don't understand is why."

  The doctor's expression never changed. "She's infected with some kind of virus. Something new, something we've never seen before. We've had the best epidemiologists in the country looking at the samples we've collected over the last several weeks. None of them can make heads or tails of it. The disease, the virus, is attacking her internal organs at a cellular level, breaking them down from the inside out. Little by little the organs themselves are starting to decay. In a few weeks, her system will have hit a critical juncture and she will go downhill rapidly from there. Once she reaches that point, it will become a matter of days, maybe only hours. The destructive power of this thing is amazing."

  A touch of awe had crept into the man's voice and Sam suddenly felt like strangling him. With a real effort he kept himself in check.

  "Can't you do something for her?" he asked.

  The doctor nodded, but his grimace was plain to see. "Yes, yes, of course we'll do what we can to make her comfortable with the pain. And we'll continue our tests, try and find the cause of the illness. But these things take time and that just isn't a luxury your daughter has right now. I'm sorry."

  Sam sank into a nearby chair, his legs suddenly weak and unsteady. He'd been expecting the news, but hearing it spoken aloud was difficult, to say the least. He'd tried to stay positive, tried to believe that everything would turn out okay. Even when the days in the hospital had turned into weeks, he'd made sure to keep his game face on whenever he was around Jessica. But by now even she had to know that something had gone seriously wrong.

  The last two years hadn't been kind. When Denise had been taken from them, he'd thought the world had ended. His grief had been overwhelming; his downward spiral had ended only when the bank had threatened to foreclose on the house after he'd lost his job at the plant. It had been Jessica, or rather her desperate need for him, that had saved him. Saved them.

  Still, they hadn't escaped unscathed. Jessica had gone from a playful, inquisitive girl to a shy introvert who was afraid of anything new almost overnight. She'd cried herself to sleep for weeks after Denise's death, with Sam unable to do anything but hold her close and desperately wish he could do the same. He, too, had been affected. For months, he'd awoken in the middle of the night, suffocating from an overwhelming sense of impending doom. Something was coming for them. Something that couldn't be reasoned with, couldn't be bargained with, couldn't be avoided, turned aside or outrun. Sooner or later, it was going to get them, and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it. Every night, he'd burst out of sleep, alone, slick with sweat, his heart racing madly in his chest as he frantically searched for whatever it was that was threatening them.

  Then Jessica had gotten sick, and he'd finally understood.

  Understanding hadn't done a damn bit of good, however.

  The waiting area where he was seated was at the other end of the hallway from Jessica's room. Knowing she'd just had her nightly medication, Sam had no fears that his daughter could overhear what was being said, so he asked the tough question. "What happens next?"

  "We'll keep pumping her full of antibiotics, try to keep the risk of pneumonia and other secondary infections down while we fight the primary one. Her immune system is wiped out by the virus; right now, she's in serious danger from something as simple as the common cold. We've also got some new synthetics we're going to try, stuff they developed for the Ebola war down in the Congo. There's a chance they might interact with the virus, slow it down some. But other than that, there isn't much more we can do."

  "And then?" asked Sam wearily.

  Unwilling to speak the inevitable, the doctor side-stepped. "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it, Mr Dalton. For now, we make her comfortable. And we keep looking for answers. That's all we can do.' He clapped a hand to Sam's shoulder in an attempt to be compassionate. "If there's anything we can get for you, you let us know."

  A cure for my daughter would be nice, Sam thought, with more than a hint of derision as the other man stepped away, but he left the comment unspoken, the rational part of him knowing that the doctor was only doing his job and that there wasn't much anyone could do. Not any more.

  It was only a matter of time now. It was going to take a miracle to save his precious little girl.

  And he was long past believing in those.

  Feeling a hundred years older than when he'd entered the building earlier that morning, Sam got up and made his way down to the cafeteria for a cup of coffee. The place was practically deserted; visiting hours were long since over and only a handful of night staff and the occasional family member staying over with a loved one were present. The harsh fluorescent lighting made everything seem starker, edgier, and the effect just heightened Sam's sense of dislocation. It was another world here, a world reserved for a select, miserable few, and he knew that only those who had endured this hellish existence would ever understand.

  At no other time in his life had he felt the crushing weight of responsibility so strongly. And never had he felt more alone than he did now. He stared at the other people in the cafeteria, wondering if even they could understand his situation. His wife was dead. His only child was dying. He hadn't been able to go to work since he'd brought Jessica here and he was sure they wouldn't hold his job for him much longer, no matter how trivial the position. Not that it mattered much; who could work when their family was dying around them?

  He paid for his coffee and wandered over to sit at an empty table. The drink was horrible, the sludge factor practically off the scale, but he hadn't had anything for hours and he sipped at it, not caring.

  He didn't even know he was crying until a passing orderly laid a pack of Kleenex on the table in front of him in a simple gesture of kindness.

  Jessica was still asleep when he returned to her room, and for that he was grateful. The last few times they'd changed her meds she'd been up for all hours of the night, which, of course, meant he had been, too. This time, whatever they'd given her had worked, for she was out like a light, a slight smile on her narrow face.

  He stood next to her bed for several long moments, just drinking in the sight of her. He ignored the IV, the heart monitor, and the electronic data feeds taped all over her body, and just looked at his little girl.

  Her once cream-coloured skin, now slightly yellowed with the start of jaundice.

  Her thin, little arms, the insides of both bruised horribly from the weeks of moving the IV back and forth.

  Her thin lips and pert little nose, so like her mother's.

  Her dark hair, once long and full of ringlets, now hanging limp and all but lifeless as her body abandoned supporting it as it routed all the nutrients it could to her vital organs.

  God, she's beautiful, he thought, and just like that the tears started again. He couldn't help it. During the day he was her lifeline, her means of gauging just how bad things were getting, and he'd be damned if he gave her any reason to worry or be afraid. But here, in the depths o
f the night, with only the beeping of the monitors and the quiet shuffle of nurses in the hall for company, he couldn't keep up the charade. In the dark of the night, he purged himself of his despair and pain, if only to be ready to smile again in the morning for his little girl.

  In the lonely quiet of that hospital room, Sam's tears continued to fall.

  Thursday

  It was just after 6.00 am when he awoke to the sound of his daughter vomiting into a bedside pan. A nurse was already there, helping her, so he took that moment to stumble groggily into the tiny bathroom and splash some water on his face. He checked his expression in the mirror. His eyes were still puffy from the previous night's crying, but he didn't think Jessica would notice. His game face was holding; his daughter would find nothing to fear in his expression this morning, he vowed to himself for perhaps the hundredth time since the ordeal had begun.

  The nurse was gone by the time he emerged from the bathroom.

  "How you doin' this mornin', pumpkin?"

  Jessica tried to smile. It was a weak effort, but an effort just the same. "Not so good, Daddy," she said. "My belly hurts."

  "I'm sorry, sweetheart. That's just your new medicine. You'll get used to it in a few days."

  He walked over to the bed and moved her gently to one side, giving him room to climb up with her. His big frame seemed to dwarf her more than usual, though that was probably just a result of the news he'd received the previous night. He was careful not to put any undue stress on any of the connections wiring her to the half-dozen machines surrounding the bed. "It's still early and the nurse won't be back to run your vitals for at least another hour. Why don't you try to sleep some more? I'll stay right here with you, okay?"

  She snuggled against him. "Okay," she said, closing her eyes. "I'll try."

  "That's my girl."

  He held her close, waiting for her to drift into sleep, wondering the entire time if this was the beginning of the end or just the end of the beginning.

  Only time would tell.

  When the nurse came in an hour later, Sam gently disengaged himself from his daughter's sleeping form and tried to convince the woman to let the girl rest, but to no avail. Given Jessica's condition, the hospital were wary of a lawsuit if they didn't follow the rules on even the simplest things. The nurse had no intention of putting her head on the chopping block, and bluntly told him so. Leaving her to handle the morning duties, Sam decided to go for a walk and grab a cup of coffee, maybe something other than hospital cafeteria food to eat for breakfast. After giving his daughter a kiss, he headed for the door.

  ***

  Sam emerged from the quiet of his daughter's room to find the hallway full of people. He knew the boy in the room across the hall was dying of leukaemia, as he had run into his parents a few times since Jessica had been admitted. They hadn't spoken for long - families of the sick tended to keep to themselves, he noticed - but they'd always been courteous, friendly. Now it looked like their church had turned out for an all-day prayer vigil; people of all ages lined the hall, sitting or standing in small groups, heads bowed, lips moving in unison.

  He kept his head down to avoid eye contact and started off down the hall.

  He hadn't taken ten steps before a man disengaged himself from a nearby group and intercepted him. Sam noticed the man's white clerical collar and dark clothing with more than a hint of annoyance.

  "I'm sorry to hear about your daughter," the newcomer said.

  "Yeah, thanks," Sam replied, not interested in conversation, particularly with a priest. He nodded, stepped around the other man, and continued on his way.

  But behind him, the other man wasn't yet finished.

  "We'll pray for her. And for you."

  The comment froze Sam in his tracks. He slowly turned and looked back at the priest.

  "I'm sorry?" His pulse beat at his temples and he could feel the sudden anger, hot and heavy, stirring through his veins.

  The priest smiled, an expression that Sam was sure was meant to look compassionate but that came off as condescending more than anything else.

  "I said we'll pray for you. And for your daughter."

  Bitterness surged like a sudden tide, and the words were out before Sam could stop them. "Keep your prayers. And your God. I, we, don't need either."

  The priest grimaced, but still tried to be friendly in the face of Sam's hostility. "Things like this are upsetting. I understand that. But I …"

  He got no further. If he'd left it alone, Sam might have been able to walk away, but the man's need to impose his sense of righteousness was just too much after all Sam had been through in the previous forty-eight hours. Stepping closer, Sam thrust his face towards the other's, so that only inches separated them.

  "No, you don't." The years of frustration, of anger, of fear and pain, had finally caught up with Sam. He was furious, and the raw, seething anger in his tone was enough to cause the priest to close his mouth with an audible snap. "You don't understand anything. Where was your God two years ago when Denise needed him so badly? How about when I lost my job a few months later, a job I needed to keep food on our table? More to the point, where was your precious God when my little girl got sick? I'll tell you where! He was sitting upstairs, laughing his ass off at all the ridiculous fools down here that continue to think of him as benign. Grow the fuck up, Father. He doesn't care and he never will. Now leave me the hell alone."

  The people around them were still, Sam's anger shocking them all into silence, and his last comment echoed in the confined space of the hallway.

  Cool down, he thought, suddenly realising that his hands were clenched into fists and his body trembled with the overflow of adrenaline pouring into his system. He stepped back from the other man, trying to regain control, trying to prevent himself from striking out in his disgust and anger at what had happened to his family. Everyone was staring, and as Sam looked around he saw fear and anger in more than one face.

  It's time to get out of here before someone gets hurt.

  The hallway remained eerily silent as he stalked past the prayer group on his way to the elevator. He gave them one last glare and then they were cut off from his view as the elevator doors closed with a gentle snap.

  His anger was still with him as he strode through the hospital lobby and outside into the cold morning air. It propelled him down the street at a brisk pace, the early September chill perfectly matching his mood. He had no destination in mind. All he wanted to do was walk. He needed to get away from the hospital for five minutes of fresh air, find time to gather his thoughts and decide just what he was going to do, now that it looked like Jessica wasn't going to be coming home anytime soon.

  Suddenly, the reality of it all hit him like a ten-ton truck.

  The unthinkable had come true; he was going to outlive both his wife and his child.

  The thought proved too much for him to bear.

  With a cry of pain and despair, he ran from it as if chased by demons.

  ***

  When Sam became aware of his surroundings again, he discovered he was leaning against a wall halfway down an alley, the stench of garbage and human waste wrapping him in its embrace like a long-lost lover. He didn't know where he was or how far he had come from the hospital. A quick glance at his watch showed it was just before 8.00, so he'd been gone roughly an hour, give or take a few minutes.

  Couldn't have gone too far in that amount of time.

  Yet when he staggered to the mouth of the alley some twenty yards away, he didn't recognise the street on which he stood. A crumbling tenement and a vacant lot stared back at him from the other side of the road. Beside him, on the left and on the right, were three-storey factory buildings, long since abandoned.

  At the corner a few yards away, the street sign had been replaced by a makeshift one spray-painted with the words, "East Nowhere."

  How fucking appropriate.

  He turned left and started walking, figuring any random direction would eventually lead him
somewhere he recognised. The neighbourhood around him remained the same for several blocks, until it dead-ended at a small city park. A few trees, a wide square of concrete in the centre, small plots of grass here and there for people to gather on; a typical bureaucratic vision of utopia. On the other side, he could see an intersection with more activity than the streets he had just left behind. After having walked several blocks without seeing a soul, the busyness drew him like a magnet.

  He hadn't travelled more than ten yards into the park before he heard the voice.

  "Repent! Repent for the end is near!"

  The man stood atop an old wooden crate in the middle of the square, shouting out his message. His arms were outstretched, his palms extended up toward heaven, his head thrown back to catch the warming rays of the morning sun. His raspy voice echoed in the still air.

  "The Horsemen shall ride and blood shall flow in their wake. Confess your sins and receive salvation before it is too late!" His clothing was an assortment of obvious cast-offs, several sizes too large, and his long, matted hair was partially obscured by a grimy baseball cap. A shopping cart full of plastic garbage bags bursting with discarded junk stood a few feet away.

  Having dealt with enough religion for one day, Sam gave the street prophet a wide berth as he continued on his way to the busy intersection he could see on the other side of the park. He'd walked only a few feet …

  "She doesn't have to die."

  The phrase was spoken so matter-of-factly that at first Sam was uncertain if he had heard the man correctly. His steps faltered, then stopped as he tried to puzzle it out.

  The voice came again, and this time there was no mistaking what was said. "She doesn't have to die."

  Sam turned. Looked back.

  The man now stood upright, his arms at his sides. His face was angled away from Sam, still looking at the rising sun, and the falling waves of his hair kept his features obscured, but there was no question to whom he was speaking.