The Resurrectionist

4

Sweeney had the hotel send over his luggage. He’d traveled light, a canvas duffel and a garment bag. He had arranged with the real estate agent back in Cleveland to sell whatever furnishings she could to the buyer and dispose of the rest in an estate sale. Corrigan at the pharmacy said this was a sure way to get screwed but Sweeney liked the idea of getting rid of everything and starting fresh.

He hung his whites in a closet full of cobwebs and breathed in the smell of oil from out in the cellar proper. He unrolled his ties and hung them on the pegs of the coat post, put his few casual clothes in the bureau drawers. From the bottom of the duffel, he took out two bath towels and laid them on the bed. He unfolded one to reveal a framed photo. It was a snapshot of Kerry and Danny that he’d had blown up. A vacation shot from two years ago up at Put-in-Bay, posed on the deck of the cottage they’d rented. It was dusk and Kerry had lifted the boy up to show him something out on the lake. Sweeney had grabbed the camera off the picnic table and snapped them without warning. The sun was just about spent for the day and the horizon was a slash of bright red below the clouds.

He propped the photo on the bureau and picked up the puzzle book. The apartment’s last occupant had been the Clinic’s longtime custodian. Nora said he’d been a drinker, but not so bad that anyone had to act on it. Sweeney had no problem imagining the man after a few pops, admiring the charms of Miss January and wishing he were a decade younger. But as he lay down on the bed and sank into its middle and opened The Big Book of Logic Problems, he couldn’t quite imagine the custodian wrestling with two trains hurtling toward Chicago at different rates of speed.

He dozed off while trying to puzzle out the cost of the largest pumpkin at the farmers’ market. And was woken some time later by Romeo, the janitor from the third floor. Sweeney answered the door a little sleep drunk, having napped just long enough to feel disoriented.

“They told me to come get you,” Romeo said. “Your son’s on the way.”

“Danny’s here?”

The janitor shook his head. “I said he’s on his way. They called from the airport.”

“Thanks,” Sweeney said. “Let me throw some water on my face and I’ll be right up.”

Romeo didn’t answer and he didn’t step away from the door. After a second, Sweeney moved to the bathroom. He stood before the toilet and took a long and pain-relieving leak. Then he moved to the pedestal sink, rolled up his sleeves, and splashed himself into the present.

He patted his face dry and looked in the mirror. He ran a hand through his hair and reminded himself to buy some mouthwash. Then he left the apartment and followed Romeo upstairs. When they reached the front porch, he knew something was wrong.

Too many people were milling around — two orderlies with a gurney and three women huddled together, all of them looking as if they were on their way to a wake. Two of the women were crones, gnarled and as wide as they were tall. They were dressed in old-style nurses’ uniforms, complete with hats, and each one carried a large red plastic toolbox from which protruded tangles of tubing and swabs and packages of sterile wraps. They were listening intently to the third woman, who was a fraction of their age and wore a lab jacket and had a stethoscope slung around her neck.

One of the crones indicated Sweeney as he came down the stairs, and the young woman turned to greet him.

She said, “Are you the boy’s father?”

“Is everything all right?” he asked.

She put her hand out and said, “I’m Alice Peck, the chief of rehabilitation.”

“Is Danny all right?” he asked.

“We’re not sure,” blunt and emotionless. “They called as soon as they landed. The nurse practitioner that’s traveling with your son said there was a problem with his shunt. I’ve notified Dr. Siegel at City.”

“Jesus Christ, are you going to operate?”

The woman shook her head. “Probably not. We’re closer than City General. I’ve instructed the EMTs to bring the boy here. I’ll take a look at him. If it’s something we’re not prepared to handle, I’ll send them on to Dr. Siegel.”

“How did this happen?” Sweeney asked, trying and failing to keep his volume normal. “What’s wrong with the shunt?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t seen the patient yet.”

“His name’s Daniel,” though he never called him that.

“I haven’t seen Daniel yet. The NP said there could be a backup. His vitals had dropped a little but were holding steady—”

Sweeney tried to think. “Did this happen on the plane? I knew I should’ve traveled with him.”

“Mr. Sweeney,” the woman said, “right now I don’t know much more than you. Now when the ambulance gets here, I’m going to ask you to stand back and let me have a look at Daniel. And you’re not going to want to do that. But you’re going to have to.”

He had already quit listening. And then they all heard the sirens and, moments later, saw the red and white van turn onto the circular drive and start up the hill to the Clinic.

It came to a stop in front of the porch. The driver and his partner jumped out of the van simultaneously and Alice Peck yelled for the driver to get back behind the wheel. He did as he was told. The partner was already opening the back doors. They swung past their hinges and locked in place.

At first, Sweeney couldn’t see Danny. A third paramedic jumped out of the ambulance and began to talk to Alice. Sweeney couldn’t hear a word. The nurse practitioner he’d hired from the St. Joseph was on her knees next to the stretcher. Alice climbed inside the van and knelt on the opposite side. Her two crones moved to the lip and stood at the ready with supplies.

Sweeney came up behind them and leaned over their shoulders. Now he caught a glimpse of his son, the body in its familiar hunch, covered with a sheet to the waist. One of the nurses felt his presence, turned, and said, “You’ll have to stand back, sir.”

He said, “That’s my boy,” but he did as he was told.

Dr. Peck had her hands on Danny’s head and she was speaking in a low voice to the nurse practitioner, whose name was Mrs. Heller. Mrs. Heller had a blood pressure cuff on Danny and she was staring at her watch while nodding her head to everything Dr. Peck said.

On Danny’s second day in the St. Joseph, there had been a problem with the shunt. It had blocked off or backed up. Something went wrong. Two doctors and two nurses had gone to work on the boy and Sweeney had overreacted, yelling obscenities at the LPN who had tried to lead him into the solarium. The doctors had fixed the problem and Sweeney had spent weeks apologizing to the young woman.

That panic came back to him now and he tried to work on his breathing. It didn’t help and he shouted out, “Get him to the hospital.”

One of the EMTs gave him a look. Everyone else ignored him. Dr. Peck came up off her knees into a squat, pivoted, and started grabbing some things from the nurse’s toolbox. Sweeney saw latex gloves on her hands — when had she put those on? Mrs. Heller said something about blood pressure that Sweeney couldn’t make out. He moved to touch the shoulder of the paramedic to ask what had been said. He stopped himself, tried to breathe again.

Now the doctor had a handful of gauze panels, thick and soaked. She handed them to one nurse and took a fresh supply from the other. In her free hand, Sweeney saw what looked like a pair of pliers.

That was when he turned around, sat down on the porch steps, and supported his head with his hands.

That second night at St. Joe’s — when the shunt had blocked off or backed up, when the doctors had walked quickly into Danny’s room and asked Sweeney to wait outside. When he’d called that patient young nurse a fucking bitch — that night had ended with Kerry saying to him It would’ve been better if he’d died. And with him slapping her across the cheek.

He had never hit a woman in his life. He had rarely raised his voice to his wife. He did not hit her hard. There was no bruise. She had run away from him. And he had made his way to the men’s room and sat down in an empty stall and wept and gagged and punched the partitioning wall until he couldn’t feel his fist.

Now he felt a hand on his arm and looked up to see Alice Peck in front of him. He stood and almost bumped into her and she steadied him.

“He’s okay,” she said.

“Thank you,” he said, too loud. And then, “You’re sure?”

“You can go to him,” she said.

Mrs. Heller was climbing out of the van, looking more angry than relieved, with the Limbo backpack slung awkwardly over her shoulder. Sweeney started to climb in where she’d been and a paramedic said, “Why don’t you let us get him out? You can see him better.”

Sweeney nodded and stepped back. The driver and his partner were in the rear of the ambulance now, throwing latches and sliding free the gurney. They held it above the driveway and one of them kicked loose and lowered the retractable wheels.

Danny was in his standard position, on his side, arms bent up to his chest, hands balled and tucked just below the chin. He was dressed in a johnny, and Sweeney made a note to ask what had happened to his pajamas. He had specifically laid out the Limbo pajamas. He leaned down over the boy, his chest shrouding most of Danny’s body. He kissed the boy’s cheek, brought his lips to the boy’s ear. He said, “Dad’s here,” and felt himself start to slip.

Coming upright, a little too quickly, he said to no one in particular, “Can we get him into his room now?”

There was a moment of group hesitation before Alice said, “We’ll be right along.” Then they wheeled the boy around the stairs and up the handicapped ramp and the crones followed behind with Mrs. Heller bringing up the rear, lugging a small travel bag.

As the group negotiated the front doors, Dr. Peck said, “Are you all right?”

He nodded and swallowed and said, “You’re sure he doesn’t have to go to the hospital?”

“I’m sure,” she said. “It wasn’t as serious as it looked. But if you’d like us to arrange for a consult with Dr. Siegel, we can do that.”

“If you say he’s okay,” he said, “I believe you.”

“And how about you?” she asked as she stripped off the latex gloves. “Are you going to be okay?”

“I’m just a little off balance. A lot of changes.”

She put her hands in the pockets of her lab coat. “Must be a big move.”

“We’ve been in Cleveland for almost ten years,” he said.

“I know,” she said. “The St. Joseph is a good facility. I know Dr. Roth pretty well.”

“I’ve heard the name, but I never met her.” After a second or two of silence Sweeney said, “So you’re Dr. Peck’s daughter?”

She smiled and her eyes widened a bit and she said, “My father’s the head of the Clinic, yes.”

He saw no resemblance.

“So it’s a family business?” he said and flinched at how lame it sounded.

“Not quite,” she said. “The Clinic’s a privately held corporation but we both sit on the board.”

Sweeney laughed before he could stop himself. “I was just making a little joke there.”

Alice leaned her head forward a bit and said, “I know.”

Sweeney couldn’t think of anything to say but “Oh.”

Alice Peck motioned to the front door with her head and said, “Listen, I’m going to collect all your son’s paperwork and get his new files going. We’ll give him a day to rest up from his trip before we start his assessments.” She put out her hand and said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Sweeney.”

He took the hand and said, “Thanks for taking care of Danny, Dr. Peck.”

She started to walk away, turned back, and said, “I look forward to working with you.”

HE SAT DOWN on the steps so that he wouldn’t be following on Dr. Peck’s heels. He tried the breathing again. He put his hand on his knee and realized he was still shaking. He inhaled, held the breath, exhaled. He rolled his head around his neck. He took in and let out another breath. He smelled apples and Alice Peck’s perfume.

Over the last year, he’d read a couple of books on stress reduction. Both texts agreed that breathing correctly was key. Breathing was the answer. You learn the techniques. You practice them and make them reflexive. You become conscious of your breathing and you learn to alter it. You do all these things and you’ll manage to relax both your body and your mind.

So far it was bullshit.

The attacks were happening more frequently, not less. They manifested in two ways. Either he panicked, as he had this morning in the cafeteria, or he became enraged. As he had last month, when he got into an argument with a retiree over the cost of a prescription. He ended up screaming at the old man, opening the customer’s vial, and throwing the pills at his back as he ran down the stationery aisle.

He’d tried grief counseling. His doctor had recommended a woman who practiced out of her home in Shaker Heights. She’d been pleasant enough. Sympathetic and well meaning. She’d asked him to find a mantra, something short that could catch his mind and focus it. He’d picked a prayer from childhood—Mercy and justice belong to the Lord. He could tell the therapist disapproved, but once he’d chosen the phrase it wouldn’t go away. There are still nights when it repeats in his head through a run of unsleeping hours.

He stared at his hand until he brought it under enough control to be inconspicuous, then moved up the stairs and into the Clinic. The EMTs passed him without a word on their way out. He walked to room 103 where he found Danny already installed in his bed. Mrs. Heller was at his side, adjusting the sheet.

Sweeney stood in the doorway. They’d cut the boy’s hair before he left St. Joe’s. It was a razor job, military close. It made him look older and made the bald patch around the shunt seem less severe. In the beginning, there had been a few arguments about the hair. The clinic’s policy, when there was any skull care involved, was to shave the entire head every other day. It made Danny look cold and vulnerable and sick and Sweeney put up a stink. He’d been a real pain in the ass to Dr. Lawton until they relented and allowed a small cover of fuzz to grow. The first crop that came in was downy, silky, and Sweeney had spent countless nights compulsively stroking his son’s head and shivering. He couldn’t believe more parents didn’t question the hair ruling. He’d have to ask Alice Peck about her policy.

Mrs. Heller sensed him, turned, and frowned.

There was nothing subtle about Mrs. Heller.

“It’s a gloomy place, Mr. Sweeney,” she said.

“They’re all gloomy places, Mrs. Heller,” he said.

“But it’s so old.”

He came into the room, sat on the edge of the bed, and picked up his son’s hand. “Dr. Lawton says they do amazing work with long-term patients.”

“They’ve had two arousals. And one of them reverted,” she said, taking some lip balm from a pocket, rubbing it on her fingers, and then running the fingers over Danny’s lips.

“Did you wash your hands, Mrs. Heller?”

It was the kind of thing that angered her the most and he knew it. He’d found a dozen ways in as many months to question the woman’s professionalism. She ignored him, recapped the balm, and snatched some Kleenex from the bedside table. Then she surprised him by saying, “I’ll miss Danny.”

“I know you will, Mrs. Heller,” he said. “But this is the best place for him right now. It was time for us to get out of Cleveland.”

She nodded and jumped back into the clinical.

“You can let the front desk know when you’re ready for the admitting team to run the checklist. They wanted to give you some time with him before they started. I’ve checked and they’ve got his list of meds. But apparently some of his records haven’t arrived yet.”

“I’m going to phone Dr. Lawton today.”

“I’ll check with him when I get back.”

He wasn’t sure he was going to ask until the words came out. “Mrs. Heller,” he said, “I was wondering what happened to Danny’s pajamas.”

She immediately looked down at the boy and then back to the father.

“I thought you packed them,” she said.

Sweeney shook his head. “He’s got two pair of those cartoon pajamas. I packed one and I wanted him to travel in the other.”

“I thought you took all of his things.”

“If you could check his room at St. Joe’s —”

“I checked the closet before we left,” Mrs. Heller said. “It was empty. I was certain you’d taken everything.”

“There’s no need to get defensive,” he began.

“I’m not getting defensive.” Her voice rose a bit. “I’m simply telling you that the closet was empty.”

“It’s no big deal,” he said. “I just thought I’d ask.”

She pulled back a little, put on her rare puzzled look. “I’ll check again, but I’m certain that closet was empty. I’ll call you if I find anything.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “I’m sure I can buy another pair in town.”

He wanted her out of the room and gone. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of bills, then hesitated. Did you tip someone for this kind of thing? Mrs. Heller looked at the money in his hand, then looked away. Apparently you did not. He put the cash back in his pocket.

“I want to thank you for the care you’ve shown Danny,” he said.

She put her hand on the boy’s forehead as if checking for a fever. She let it linger for a second and then pulled it back across the soft bristles of hair. Without looking up, she said, “He’s a wonderful little boy. And I’m sorry for all your troubles, Mr. Sweeney.”

He nodded but she didn’t look up, and then it was too late to say anything. Mrs. Heller picked up her travel bag in one hand and her nurse’s kit in the other and said, “I’ll let you know if I find the pajamas.” Then she left him alone with his son.

He stood staring at the boy for a while, as if fixing the child again into his memory. He moved to the closet, removed the Limbo backpack that Mrs. Heller had stowed there. He placed the pack on the bed and studied the grotesque illustrations screened on its flap. The chicken boy. The skeleton. The Siamese twins. All in vibrant primary colors.

Sweeney unzipped the pack, reached inside, and withdrew a fat stack of comic books, which he placed inside the drawer of the nightstand. He selected the top issue, closed the drawer, climbed onto the bed next to his son, brought his mouth to the boy’s ear, and, softly, began to read.