shall come forth whole. . . they that have done good unto the resurrection of life. . ." Eve closed her eyes and paused, the power of the Word coursing through her like life's-blood. In her mind she pictured all the murdering heathens, then quoted the rest from memory. "And they that have done evil, unto the resurrection of damnation."
Feeling fortified, Eve let the Bible fall closed. She leaned forward and placed a lingering kiss on her son's forehead, no longer perturbed by its frigid pallor.
"Let me see thy vengeance upon them," she whispered into one, dead ear.
And ran the drawer closed on its runners.
She turned, wheeled her way back to the door, and knocked. The attendant rolled her out to the lobby.
Chapter 3
For a while it seemed she'd been forgotten.
They had given her an injection the instant she'd arrived, something to relax her, the nurse had said. But it hadn't relaxed her; on the contrary. Now her mouth was dry, her insides felt crampy, and her head had begun to pound with the beat of her heart. She felt as she imagined a condemned prisoner must feel as the rope snugs slowly round his neck.
Everything had happened so fast—the telephone call, the tense drive down here from the country, the admission formalities, the half-stoned stretcher ride through the cold and foreign fun house of hospital corridors, the last minute queries of faceless nurses. . .
And then nothing.
Now she was parked somewhere in the operating area, lying flat on her back on a too-hard stretcher, nothing about her but noise. On hold. "We're waiting for Dr. Hanussen" was the last thing anyone had said to her.
Wouldn't that be great, she thought now. Everyone assembled, some poor man's eyes slowly deflating inside a jar. . . and the doctor doesn't show.
She wished her father could have come up here with her. Being alone, feeling so disoriented, that was the worst. It made her think of the anxiety attacks she'd suffered as a child growing up blind. The hideous, unexpected moments of total dislocation when she would lose her way and there was nothing in front or behind but darkness, when a single step in any direction might topple her off a crumbling phalanx into the yawning abyss of hell. During these moments she would stand rigid with fear and shriek her father's name, scream and scream until he came running out of the ink to hold her.
She wanted to scream for him now. She wanted to be that little girl again and cry his name through the air vents, hear his familiar footfalls rounding a corner, coming to her. She wanted him to hold her and rock her and make the darkness seem more bearable, if only for a minute.
But she could not do that.
God, the noise! The constant clattering din!
Getting ready, she thought, feeling the drug more deeply now, worming its way through the knots of tension and loosening them. Getting ready for me.
She had actually begun to drowse when someone spoke her name.
"Karen?"
It's him.
She knew it immediately; his accent was unmistakable.
"Yes," she slurred. "Dr. Hanussen."
She thought she could hear him smiling.
"The accent?" he said.
Karen nodded.
"How do you feel?" His voice sounded good, strong, capable.
"Afraid."
"It is good to be afraid," he said, his frank words surprising her. "It is nature's way of protecting us. But we will face this fear together, Karen. You and I."
She felt a cool, smooth hand on her feverish forehead.
Then the stretcher was moving again.
Too fast. Everything happening too fast.
"You'll feel a needle here in your hand."
Fire exploding in her skin.
"Take a deep breath now, Karen."
Oblivion creeping up her arm, its maw widening to consume her.
"You'll taste. . ."
Then a new breed of darkness, absolute, without texture or dimension.
She remained there for a long time.
In a separate unit in the same hospital, swift preparations were being made for the transplantation of the donor's heart. The recipient was a sixty-two-year-old skid-row alcoholic named Tommy
Feeling fortified, Eve let the Bible fall closed. She leaned forward and placed a lingering kiss on her son's forehead, no longer perturbed by its frigid pallor.
"Let me see thy vengeance upon them," she whispered into one, dead ear.
And ran the drawer closed on its runners.
She turned, wheeled her way back to the door, and knocked. The attendant rolled her out to the lobby.
Chapter 3
For a while it seemed she'd been forgotten.
They had given her an injection the instant she'd arrived, something to relax her, the nurse had said. But it hadn't relaxed her; on the contrary. Now her mouth was dry, her insides felt crampy, and her head had begun to pound with the beat of her heart. She felt as she imagined a condemned prisoner must feel as the rope snugs slowly round his neck.
Everything had happened so fast—the telephone call, the tense drive down here from the country, the admission formalities, the half-stoned stretcher ride through the cold and foreign fun house of hospital corridors, the last minute queries of faceless nurses. . .
And then nothing.
Now she was parked somewhere in the operating area, lying flat on her back on a too-hard stretcher, nothing about her but noise. On hold. "We're waiting for Dr. Hanussen" was the last thing anyone had said to her.
Wouldn't that be great, she thought now. Everyone assembled, some poor man's eyes slowly deflating inside a jar. . . and the doctor doesn't show.
She wished her father could have come up here with her. Being alone, feeling so disoriented, that was the worst. It made her think of the anxiety attacks she'd suffered as a child growing up blind. The hideous, unexpected moments of total dislocation when she would lose her way and there was nothing in front or behind but darkness, when a single step in any direction might topple her off a crumbling phalanx into the yawning abyss of hell. During these moments she would stand rigid with fear and shriek her father's name, scream and scream until he came running out of the ink to hold her.
She wanted to scream for him now. She wanted to be that little girl again and cry his name through the air vents, hear his familiar footfalls rounding a corner, coming to her. She wanted him to hold her and rock her and make the darkness seem more bearable, if only for a minute.
But she could not do that.
God, the noise! The constant clattering din!
Getting ready, she thought, feeling the drug more deeply now, worming its way through the knots of tension and loosening them. Getting ready for me.
She had actually begun to drowse when someone spoke her name.
"Karen?"
It's him.
She knew it immediately; his accent was unmistakable.
"Yes," she slurred. "Dr. Hanussen."
She thought she could hear him smiling.
"The accent?" he said.
Karen nodded.
"How do you feel?" His voice sounded good, strong, capable.
"Afraid."
"It is good to be afraid," he said, his frank words surprising her. "It is nature's way of protecting us. But we will face this fear together, Karen. You and I."
She felt a cool, smooth hand on her feverish forehead.
Then the stretcher was moving again.
Too fast. Everything happening too fast.
"You'll feel a needle here in your hand."
Fire exploding in her skin.
"Take a deep breath now, Karen."
Oblivion creeping up her arm, its maw widening to consume her.
"You'll taste. . ."
Then a new breed of darkness, absolute, without texture or dimension.
She remained there for a long time.
In a separate unit in the same hospital, swift preparations were being made for the transplantation of the donor's heart. The recipient was a sixty-two-year-old skid-row alcoholic named Tommy
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