Absence of Faith Read online

  "Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!"

  "She's come back!" Carson screamed.

  "Please! Please! Save me! Oh, the pain, the pain..." Mrs. Whitehead wailed.

  She flailed her arms and kicked her feet like a wild animal.

  "She's hallucinating! Nurse! Nurse!" Stokes yelled.

  Two nurses ran in and took their stations next to Stokes.

  Ten milligrams of Valium IV now!" Carson said.

  The nurse administered the drug into the intravenous tube connected to the old woman's wrist. Mrs. Whitehead's wild ranting slowly faded.

  "Put her in intensive care," Carson said.

  "This is very peculiar, but not unheard of," Stokes said.

  "You mean her coming back to life?" Carson asked.

  "Yes. The Lord didn't see fit to take her just yet. It wasn't her time.”

  "Yes, that could be true, but I think we should run some tests on her anyway," Carson said.

  "Of course," Stokes said.

  "I just think there is a reason other than the Lord's intervention that caused her to come back. Maybe, she never died. Maybe, her metabolism slowed to a point where the EKG couldn't detect a heartbeat and we thought we had lost her," Carson replied.

  "You could be right. I'm just feeling a little pious today. It's been awhile since someone died in the ER and her dying was a bit unsettling," Stokes said.

  Carson left the ER and went to check in on his patients. He checked on Mrs. Whitehead periodically during the day and when he entered her room found the entire room smelled foul. He leaned over and looked at the old woman - all of her skin had turned red and some of it had blistered as if the woman had spent the day at the beach. He pushed the emergency button and a nurse with short red hair appeared.

  "Nurse, have you noticed these symptoms on Mrs. Whitehead? Her skin looks like it was burned," Carson asked.

  "No, she didn't have it when we brought her in. Look at that! It's like she was in the sun all day," the nurse said picking up the old woman's arm to examine it.

  "What's that smell? It smells like burned flesh," she said.

  "I noticed it, too when I came in. Have her blood tests come back yet?"

  "No."

  "Call Stokes. I want him to see this. Ask him to meet me here in about twenty minutes. I'm going to the lab. I want to know what's taking so long for her blood tests," Carson explained.

  "Yes, doctor."

  Carson left the hospital and walked across the street to a small brick building with a glass door. Painted on the glass in gold letters was "Medical Laboratory." He pulled on the door and was instantly pulled back into it when it didn't open. He peered in, but the overhead sun reflecting off the glass prevented him from seeing anything. He frowned, walked back to the hospital and checked into the main nursing station.

  "Nurse, why is the medical laboratory closed?" he asked. "I was just there and the door was locked."

  "Closed? What are you talking about?" she said, a large frown forming above her tiny oval glasses. "I just spoke with them. Let me call down there to see what's going on," she replied. She picked up the phone and dialed.

  "Hello, Jeffrey. Did you leave for a while and lock the door? Doctor Hyll said he was just there and the door was locked. He thought you were closed," she said.

  "Closed? We got so much work here I'll be putting in overtime. Send him down. I'll keep an eye out for him," Jeffrey explained.

  "They're there, doctor," the nurse said.

  "But I was just there and the door was locked," he said.

  The nurse looked at him incredulously.

  "You went across the street, didn't you?" she said smiling. "That's the old lab. They closed it last month because it was too small. They use an entire wing now in the basement. Didn't they tell you?"

  "No," Carson said.

  "Don't worry. You're not alone...many of our doctors make the same mistake. Have a nice day," she said.

  "Thanks," he said.

  He took the nearby elevator to the basement and walked down a long hallway enveloped in white light from the overhead florescent lights. He pushed on a double set of wooden doors with black stick-on letters that identified the lab.

  "Are you Doctor Hyll?" Jeffrey asked pushing his ashen face into Carson's.

  "Yeah," Carson said pulling away to avoid his stale breath and crooked front teeth.

  "Well, glad to meet you. I hope you are feeling better these days. I heard about your accident," Jeffrey explained rubbing the hair net covering what little hair remained on his head. "What can I do for you?"

  "Do you have Mrs. Whitehead's results yet?" Carson asked. "She's developed additional symptoms."

  "Doing it now. I'm going as fast as I can," Jeffrey said. "These tests aren't simple and they take time. If you want to wait a few minutes..."

  "Do I look like I have a few minutes?" Carson shot back.

  "Cool your jets. You're not the only doctor that needs results," Jeffrey replied. "I'm doing the best I can."

  Carson backed away and stood near the double doors. Jeffrey moved to the other side of the room and pressed his eyes into a microscope that sat on a large black slate table.

  "So how do you like Ocean Village?" Jeffrey asked after several minutes. "I like it okay, especially since they gave me more room down here. The only thing is I feel like a mole working in the basement. I wish this place had windows. I miss the windows in the old lab, but I guess you can't have everything.”

  "What do you have so far?" Carson asked.

  "So far she's clean as a whistle. Everything is negative. She's a little anemic and I'm doing the last one now for HTLV. Give me a few minutes - I'm almost finished," Jeffrey explained.

  Jeffrey took a few drops of blood from a test tube with her name on it and placed them on a slide. Then he added a few drops of green dye.

  "This dye stains the antibodies so we can see them," Jeffrey said. "Looks like she's negative on this one, too. Would you like to take a look?"

  Carson moved towards the microscope and placed his eyes on the eyepiece. He didn't say anything.

  "I'll have the report done in about an hour," Jeffrey said sheepishly.

  "Fine," Carson said and left. "And…ah…thanks."

  "No problem."

  He went back to Mrs. Whitehead's room. Stokes, Nurse Janice Doherty and another doctor were there.

  "Well, what do we have?" Stokes asked.

  "Negative. She's clean. No viruses, HTLV negative, nothing to explain the symptoms," Carson said looking down at the sleeping Mrs. Whitehead.

  "Could be an allergy or a reaction to the car accident," Stokes said.

  "I don't think so. The same thing happened to me with the same results," Carson said. "Something would have to show up in the blood for that kind of reaction."

  "Surely, we would see something that could cause such a severe symptom," Stokes said. "By the way, Doctor Hyll, this is Doctor Henry Graber."

  "Hello," Carson said extending his hand. "Nice to meet you."

  "Nice to meet you. Dr. Stokes and I go back a long time. If you need any help with anything just call," Graber said taking Carson's hand firmly.

  "Thank you. I will."

  "She's coming around," Nurse Doherty said.

  The old woman opened her eyes and looked at Carson. Her eyes were cloudy, red-streaked ovals filled with tears.

  "Oh, it was so terrible. I don't want to go there again. Where am I? What did I do wrong? I'm so sorry..." she managed to get out. "Oh, I'm so thirsty...so thirsty."

  "Mrs. Whitehead, Mrs. Whitehead? You're in the hospital. I'm Doctor Hyll and this is Doctor Stokes and Doctor Graber. You were in a car accident and you're going to be okay."

  "Yes, you are going to be fine, Mrs. Whitehead. Nothing to worry about," Stokes added.

  "Oh, oh...but the pain. There must be something wrong. The Lord must be mad at me. I was falling into a dark tunnel...it was so terrible! Can I have some water now?"

  "It was just a v
ery bad nightmare, Mrs. Whitehead," Stokes said. "Nurse?"

  Nurse Doherty poured water out of the plastic pitcher into a tiny cup and held it up to woman's lips. She took meager sips.

  "Was there a faint flickering light at the end of the tunnel?" Carson asked.

  "Oh, yes. And then the pain..." the old woman said. “I've always been afraid of the pain.”

  Carson walked away from the bed and stared out the window at the parked cars below. Stokes approached him.

  "What's the matter? You look like you've seen a ghost?" Stokes asked.

  "She had the same nightmare I had. It just doesn't make sense," Carson said.

  "Guilt. That's all it is. Guilt. You must being feeling guilty about something you did," Graber said from the bedside. "The mind works in strange ways and so does the Lord. Maybe she’s being punished on account of you."

  "I don't think so," Carson shot back. "I don't feel guilty about anything I did in my life past or present. And how do you explain the blistered, burned skin? They thought it might be something in the water, but Mrs. Whitehead...she didn't crash into any river. How do you explain her symptoms?" Carson walked back to Mrs. Whitehead's bed.

  "I think you’re a little out of line," Stokes added.

  "Well, Doctor Graber here thinks her symptoms are divine intervention!" Carson said staring down Stokes. "How can you say that, Doctor Graber! If most people thought like you did, we'd still be in the dark ages!"

  Carson stormed out. Stokes started after him, but stopped and looked at Graber. Nurse Doherty shrugged.

  "I apologize for that outburst," Stokes said. "Doctor Hyll is a bit short tempered these days, and he's still recovering from that awful car accident. This is his first day back."

  "It's okay. I understand, Matt. He's not a native and he doesn't understand our ways, but I'm sure he'll come around," Graber said. His thin lips parted into a tiny smile.

  "Yes, our ways..." Stokes replied staring right through Graber. "Yes, our ways..."

  Nurse Doherty shook her head and left; Graber followed her.

  The Subbasement - Chapter 5

  Carson's stomach was upset when he finished his shift probably from that stupid nurse who worked only one day a week. She often forgot the processes she was supposed to follow, but insisted she had done it correctly. He could never figure out people who thought absolutely in black and white and who saw the world with no gray areas. In addition, he didn't like working Sundays, but people just don't get mysteriously well on Sundays and then sick again during the week. When he pulled into the river stone driveway of his 1894 Victorian home, his wife was just starting to unload grocery bags from the trunk of her Nisson. Luckily, for both of them they could drive their cars on Sundays. The use of all vehicles was prohibited on Sundays in honor of the Sabbath until 1985. The town gates were chained shut from midnight Saturday until midnight Sunday and no wheeled vehicles of any sort were used on the town's roads. The courts ruled that the practice was a conflict between church and state and the gates had to remain open.

  "I need some help," she shouted to him on her way into the house with several bags in her arms.

  "Be right there!" Carson yelled back. He was exhausted and didn't feel up to carrying grocery bags into the house.

  He looked down his street as the last streams of the sun cast a burnt orange glow on some of the houses. A cool breeze blew off the ocean carrying a briny smell into the neighborhood. There was a breeze almost all the time because most of 19th century homes in this tiny coastal town were built on streets running perpendicular to the coast and high on a hill. The layout created a funnel that channeled the ocean breezes westward past the homes and their front porches. Their house was closest to the edge of the hill and setback from the road several feet. The next house was set several feet closer to the road. It looked like the builders made a mistake, but everyone had a view of the ocean from their porches.

  He hurriedly grabbed three bags of groceries, walked up the steps to the wraparound porch, and opened one of the antique French doors. He entered the kitchen and placed the bags on the oval cherry wood table in the breakfast nook.

  "Hi," Linda said kissing him on the lips and placing her bags next to his.

  "Hi," he mumbled.

  "What's the matter? You have that puppy dog face."

  "I had an argument with Stokes today," Carson said dropping his eyes.

  "Stokes? Want to tell me about it?" she asked.

  "Yeah...well, I can't believe that I had an argument not only with Stokes, but with one of the senior doctors there. How could I be so stupid? I don't understand how Graber ever got through medical school with his preoccupation with religion. He tried to explain away Mrs. Whitehead's symptoms as an act of God and Stokes seemed to agree with him. Could Stokes be a religious fanatic? This is not what I expected of the man who is a pillar in the community, the man whom I admired and looked up to all this time.”

  "Maybe, he was having a bad day, too," Linda suggested. “I take it Mrs. Whitehead was one of your patients?”

  "I'd hate to see one of his good days. You know I chose Ocean Village because of Stokes. Stokes had publicly denounced the government in the 1970s when those four students were gunned down at Kent State for protesting the Vietnam War. He had kept the younger people of those years from straying from their roots, from their beliefs, and their religion. He was a powerful man, a persuasive man, a man who said things that were important, but now he appears to be a ridiculous religious fanatic. I wanted to live here because I wanted morals and values in our lives, and I wanted to pass them down to our children."

  "We don't need to live here to pass them to our children," Linda explained. "We just have to have them and teach them to our children when the time comes. It doesn’t matter where we live."

  "I guess so."

  "Don't worry about it," Linda said kissing him gently on the cheek. "Stokes will probably forget about it in the morning. He's got more important things to think about."

  "Yeah, I guess you're right. What's for dinner?"

  "Chicken, fish, or spaghetti?"

  "Chicken."

  "Chicken it is. I just got a new recipe for your favorite from Flora. She lives two houses down. That's why I went to the supermarket."

  “Chicken Cordon Bleu?”

  “That's it!”

  "Thanks honey."

  Linda unpacked one of the bags and noticed a few items on the floor near the garbage can.

  "You know, Carson, I really wish you would put these paint cans in the basement now that the kitchen is done. They're just in the way," Linda said.

  "Sure. I'll do it now."

  Carson picked up the two used cans of latex paint, and entered the narrow stairwell into the basement. The aching wooden stairs went straight down, and then made a sharp left turn, and stopped at a dirt floor. The air had a musty, damp dirt smell. Carson's hair touched the ceiling as he carried the paint cans toward the back of the cellar. He had to stoop slightly to avoid hitting his head on the large oak beams that crossed the ceiling. The dirt cellar had walls of earth with six by six inch wooden beams placed strategically throughout the space to hold up the house. The wall facing the ocean had been cemented to prevent its collapse during hurricanes if the water rose high enough to reach the house. However, there were no records that the water ever rose that high.

  Carson pulled a small metal chain hanging from the ceiling and a single suspended bulb came to life revealing a tangle of furniture, boxes, and old lamps - objects of many lifetimes. Carson stared at the potpourri of items wondering what type of people used them, what were they like, and how they lived. There were several generations of belongings haphazardly strewn about. He wrapped his fingers around the brass neck of a standing parlor lamp trying to imagine the time and the world this lamp once inhabited.

  He took his hand away and worked his way towards a crude, handmade workbench made of chewed and paint-stained planks of wood. Small clouds of dust curled around his shoes a
s he walked. He placed the paint cans on a shelf above the bench and turned to leave, but stopped when he spotted an old steamer trunk tucked away in a far corner. It had leather side handles now dried and cracked. He had seen many of them at the Red Bank antique center and he didn't think they were worth much. He lifted the center hasp, and unlatched the metal side clasps, and opened the large lid. A fold of white lace curtains that had since turned yellow lay next to several issues of National Geographic magazine. The dates on the magazines were from several months in 1960. The forty plus-year-old dust from the trunk smelled ancient and dry, and made him sneeze. Someone else's junk, he thought. He moved the curtains and saw a large object under them. He lifted it out and brought it into the light. It was a hand-cranked coffee bean grinder with a small wooden drawer in the base for the ground coffee. He knew what it was because his grandmother had had one. He stood up and held it closer to the light to get a better look. Suddenly the grinder spun in his hand and he watched it fall to the floor and split in half.