The Apocalypse Of Hagren Roose, Page 2

  Alina’s voice took on a mysterious, haunted tone. “Something’s happened at home.”

  “She didn’t tell you what it was?”

  Alina shook her head. “No. But you know Mom. She hates to talk about serious stuff over the phone.” Catherine nodded in agreement,

  “So it looks like I’ll be gone for at least the weekend.” She looked imploringly at Catherine. “You’ll come with me, won’t you?” Catherine purposefully took the handset from Alina. “I’ll call the store and take care of coverage right now.” Alina’s demure smile returned some semblance of normalcy to the morning. She hugged Catherine, gave her a kiss on the forehead, and said “thank you.”

  Five minutes later Catherine hung up the phone, having secured not only the weekend off, but also the owner’s insistence of taking however long she needed. “Becky says hello, and sends her best,” she told Alina as she returned to her chair by the window.

  Alina smiled again as she walked into the kitchen to reheat her breakfast. “Torpor,” she shouted.

  “What’s that?”

  “The six letter word you need. T-O-R-P-O-R,” she spelled aloud.

  Catherine picked up the paper and located twenty-six across, then carefully wrote in the letters.

  It fit.

  THE DOOR-THAT-wasn't-there made no sound, as doors should. Three steps in Hagren turned, hoping to see the outline of the door on the backside, as if it might be different from the front. Disappointed, he thrust his beefy hands into his pockets and caught up with Lauren.

  The hallway was nondescript, yet not unpleasant. Nothing broke the space on the walls except the occasional square window: no exit signs, no arrows pointing to a cafeteria or lobby, no starving artist paintings. Even in its sterility it was as soft and white as a cotton ball. In lieu of anything else to look at, Hagren studied Lauren as she walked. The book rested in the crook of her left arm, like Lady Liberty, he noted, and she walked purposefully but not hurriedly. His gaze fixed upon the volume, the gold strand dangling, teasing. Hagren had the unnerving sensation that she knew things about him, things he'd probably forgotten. But she hadn't alluded to anything more than being on his team. An irrepressible shiver flew up his spine at the mere thought of what the “other team” would be like.

 

  They stopped in front of a rectangular window set vertically upon its end, reminiscent of the same look-throughs on grade-school classroom doors. A small grin broke upon Hagren's face, and almost as quick, faded to a pencil-thin line of sadness. As before, Lauren reached toward the window, at nothing.

 

  “Ready?” she asked. Hagren looked undecided, but nodded once anyhow. He didn't bother looking for a handle.

 

  The room's structure was apparent only by the organization of its contents. The large, oval area in the center was the now customary milky white, with a desk and two inviting chairs facing it. Handsome, towering walnut bookcases, shelves brimming with books of every size and color, gave one end of the room dignified contour. Other stacks on the floor resembled lounging animals. The departure from white was as stunning as the sheer number of tomes present.

 

  Hagren slowly scanned that side of the room as Lauren quietly set the book she'd been carrying on the desktop. “Reading feeds the soul,” she declared. “Lots of classics—”

 

  “Books which people praise, but don't read,” Hagren interrupted, grinning. For the first time, they were connected by a smile. Lauren beamed. “Mark Twain!” she exclaimed, her smile contributing a touch more white into the room.

  “I was a fan, even as a boy. I suppose I always felt a connection to his crankiness.”

  Lauren's smile broadened. “Indeed, Mr. Roose. Indeed.” Walking behind the desk, she again donned her glasses, finally taking her seat. “Please, Mr. Roose, sit down.” She opened the book to where it had been marked then directed her attention again to Hagren.

 

  “Tell me, Mr. Roose, what did you see when you looked in the window?” She gestured behind her at the rectangular portal. Hagren looked across the corner of her desk and stared at the window—not that he had to.

 

  “You saw your daughter, didn't you?” His eyes locked onto hers. “You saw her sitting at a round table in her kindergarten class, drawing, coloring, laughing with the children around her.” He peered directly into her eyes, lost in a fog, as if he could see it all again in her face.

  “It was her birthday. Jodi and I—” Hagren stopped, mid-breath, and hung his head. He shuffled his feet before looking up again. “We'd brought cupcakes for her class.”

 

  “Jodi?” Lauren asked, watching him lower his gaze again. She knew this reaction well—wounded regret. “My wife,” he replied, not bothering to look up.

 

  “She's a good woman, your wife.” Her voice wasn't directed at him, rather it sounded distant. Hagren raised his head enough to see Lauren once again occupied by the book, her finger seeming to underline specific passages. He watched for a few minutes, trying to be patient. She would read for a few moments then scribble a note on one of several pieces of parchment, each varying shades of tea-stained beige. Her brow would furrow, then she'd turn the page and her eyebrows would rise. Then she'd make another note. A moment later her head gently shook from side to side.

  “I miss her, very much,” Hagren muttered. Afraid he may have been heard, he swiftly followed with a direct query: “Is that book about me?” Lauren did not look up.

  “Yes. It is.”

  Hagren fidgeted in his chair. What could the book tell her that he couldn't? Why not simply ask him instead of reading about it?

  “Because it's completely objective,” she announced. “People are far too prone to embellishment,” she said, looking up, “or outright omission.” She set her quill down and again marked the page with the gold string, then sat back in her chair and folded her hands in front of her. “What was it you said about your wife?” Hagren was quiet. “A few moments ago, you mumbled something while I was writing.”

  “Oh,” he hesitated. “I said I miss her.” Lauren considered his response before leaning forward. “She simply wants romance, Mr. Roose.”

  Hagren waved off her observation. “Romance? Romance is just like money, Lauren. You can always get more if you've got it. What she really wants is more money,” he added emphatically, clearly agitated. Her utter silence didn’t seem to affect him as much as her look of reproach. The pair stared each other down, each waiting for the other to crack first. In this regard, Hagren was entirely out of his league.

  “What does that book of yours say about my wife?” he asked sheepishly. Lauren’s stare was cool. “Not much. Just incidentals. She's not part of my case load.”

  Hagren made no attempt to veil his flaring contempt. “Your ‘case load’?”

  “Yes. Is that a problem?” For the first time since their introduction, Lauren was curt. She'd laughed off, or at least quietly excused, his behavior to this point. Under only the most dire circumstances could cases be shifted, and in her estimation this was not one of them. The Plan had been fairly stringent since the beginning, out of necessity. In her sphere things happened at a mortal pace; zero wiggle room for incompetence or dereliction. Every counselor gave nothing short of their heart to ensure a positive outcome, be it a reprieve for their client or pastoral escalation.

  “But—”

  “My purpose, Mr. Roose, is to help you,” she interjected. “My first concern is you. How you deal with and make use of my guidance will ultimately determine not only your course but that of others as well.” Her words neither reverberated nor echoed in the stillness. “Mr. Roose, we can argue all you like, but the fact remains that we are wasting valuable, indeed precious, time. Soon you must provide an answer.”

 

  “To whom? For what?”

 

  “Yourself, to be precise,” she stated flatly. “S
oon we’ll be speaking with Mr. Petros. You cannot imagine the questions he may put to you, Mr. Roose. I cannot prepare you, my friend. Not for that.” The tenseness that built slowly burned off, replaced by a crisp sense of foreboding. Lauren rose and slowly walked to the front of the desk, hands clasped behind her back and eyes cast downward. She perched on the edge of the desk, hands grasping it on either side.

 

  “Mr. Petros is known to me as the Advocate General.” She looked at him, her expression ruler-straight. “You may be more familiar with the term 'gate keeper.'“

  AS SHE DROVE, Alina watched a carpet of city lights leisurely recede in her rear view mirror; Catherine napped, her bucket seat reclined as far back as it would go. Alina looped her mother’s voice over and over in her mind, its tone murky and unsettling. She was thrilled with the prospect of seeing her again, but the edge was dulled by the fact that she had to return upstate to do so.

  Nita was a four-hour drive, one way, and more than a decade behind in time. Modern comforts and conveniences were omnipresent in Nita: cable television, WiFi internet, coffee shops, and all the fast food juggernauts. Its agrarian roots, however, kept it firmly planted in a social climate more akin to ideological compost than millennial enlightenment. Most of the young hustled past the county line as soon as they could—some wouldn’t wait that long. The few remaining were working hard to hasten the demise of Nita’s renown as a ‘sundown town’. Toward that sole focus of community reform their job was made only slightly easier by any number of more contemporary prejudices which the local bible-slinging retirees could hang their hats and gossip upon.

  Her mother, Jodi, was not a town native, and on more than one occasion availed herself of the opportunity to speak of her great fortune as such. This had resulted in a much smaller circle of friends than she’d grown up with, but she found her current circle was, by and large, most agreeable.

  Alina had often heard ‘the bank’ story while growing up. Over the years it took on a life of its own, becoming something of a welcome tradition, like watching Miracle on 34th Street during the holidays or fireworks on the 4th of July. Her mother always seemed to take a certain amount of pride when telling it—the sole permutation would be the physical year she was recounting it in; the details never changed. Mrs. Roose dubbed it “The Rude Brood Incident,” and the name stuck.

  Not long after Alina’s birth her mother had been making idle chit chat with a new acquaintance while standing in line at the bank, when out of nowhere she was asked if she was one of “Nita’s daughters.” Hens being what they are, a number of them had, during the short course of the conversation, stopped to ogle tiny Alina in her carrier, cooing and gurgling at the infant, but never so loudly they couldn’t eavesdrop. Jodi hated to let slip an opening, a chance to put another sliver under the collective backward skin of Nita’s gossip queens.

  “I would say that I haven’t so much as an older sister native to this town,” she’d said, rocking slightly on her heels, “but if I did I sure as hell wouldn’t accept her hand-me-downs. No, burlap and canvas would be more comfortable.”

  The intended sliver was perceived as more of a recklessly swung two-by-four as her stinging reprisal was bandied about the coffee shops, hair salons, and anywhere else a hen’s cluck would carry. Her daughter would quickly take on the surname of “That Poor Child” in the wake of the scandal, and it would make Hagren’s positions as a town councilman and owner of the local burger eatery, On the Hoof, prickly. Jodi felt badly about that, but held not the least regret for having stood her moral ground.

  That storm had been of her mother’s making, all tattle bluster and thundering disapproval in social circles. But her father brought the lightning upon the family, and it wouldn’t strike just once.

  A slow drizzle began to dance in her headlights. As if planned, Alina turned on the windshield wipers the same moment her mother turned on the porch light in anticipation of their arrival.

  THE SIGNIFICANCE OF a hospital lies not in its walls, beds, medicines and technology—not in the hardware, but rather its more organic components. A small army of dedicated people are entrusted to the care and administration of disparate ends of the corporeal spectrum: sudden impact or hopeful preservation. At one end, triage in an emergency room; at the other, the high-pressure and mortal stress of the intensive care unit. The artificial distraction of a television in a waiting room brimming with life's non-threatening injuries, or a section quiet as a library, if not for the beeps and chirps of electronic sentinels. Often, soul and soft machine enter through the chaos of the former, then tenuously rest in the latter. Sometimes restorative rest degenerates into loss. But numerous mitigating factors can affect the outcome, not the least of which is will.

  * * *

  Apollo Clayton used his hip to push the large door opener plate, two coffees in one hand, a manual sweeper in the other. He had been on graveyard for over a year now and learned two important things about the ICU: it was most always quiet at night so doing his cleaning and stocking was easy, and the nurses loved to have company; a total win-win, as far as he was concerned.

  The automatic doors sighed closed behind him as he stepped through, cups cautiously balanced to avoid spilling on the carpet, not to mention his hand. Setting down the sweeper, he carefully set one of the cups on the counter at the nurse’s station, finally looking up. The only nurse in the room looked up from her monitor at the same time. He smiled and nodded then glanced around the unit.

  “Evenin',” he said, with another polite nod. “Where's Linda?”

  “She said she'd be right back. Wanted to get some coffee and a banana.” Apollo grimaced. “Ain't that just like her? She knew I'd be bringing her some.” He shook his head before sipping loudly from his own cup. “Want some coffee?” he offered, pointing at the untouched cup, steam still wafting above the lip.

  “Not just yet, but thank you. Let's see if Linda remembers hers first.”

  “Shit, that woman don't never forget her coffee,” he assured her, taking another noisy sip. “You new here?” She tucked a stray lock of blonde hair behind her right ear. “I'm a traveling nurse. I guess there's a couple ladies out, so I was sent to fill in.”

  Apollo furrowed his brow then looked at the wall. “Well, lemme think . . . Yeah, that's right. Ellie's on vacation, but—” he paused, looking directly at her—“I swear I saw Tammy earlier.” The nurse shrugged, giving him her best “beats me” look.

  “You seem to know a lot about the staff here,” she noted.

  “Damn right. I gotta take care of my ladies,” he stated proudly. “I get all the gossip and they get coffee. ICU can be a real bitch sometimes, so I likes to bring 'em a little Apollo sunshine a couple times a night.” He patted his chest twice for emphasis. “Seems pretty slow tonight, though.” She motioned with her thumb to their right. “Just one patient, in Room G.” She noticed his gaze had not moved from her, his fingers drumming on the side of his cup.

  “Do I know you?” he asked.

  The nurse stood and draped a stethoscope around her neck. “Pardon?”

  Apollo tilted his head slightly. “Damn, you look familiar.” She grinned as she stepped from behind the station. “I get that a lot. I have to check on our patient. Nice chatting with you.”

  “Pleasure was mine, pretty lady,” he said, raising his cup. “I'm gonna sweep while I wait for Linda, if you don't mind.”

  “Not at all,” she said, and walked toward Room G.

  * * *

  Hospitals are nothing if not symbolic of our frailty, making an ICU the garish standard bearer of biological weakness, a place where life itself balances precariously on a razors edge. Family members keep vigil at bedsides, their eyes suffused with exhaustion, circled with dark reminders of sleepless hours. Sometimes a door is left open and the vague chatter of a television spills into the hall, or conversations filled with soothing words and attempted whispers float outside the rooms.

  This night, at least, was devo
id of such things.

  The sliding Plexiglas door to Room G was open, but the room was silent, save for the occasional blip from the intravenous monitor. The patient, male, in his early fifties, lay slightly inclined in the bed, the cotton top sheet gently rising and falling with every breath. His head was wrapped with gauze, ten stitches peeking out from underneath, his chest wrapped with a thick elastic bandage. In a wall pocket next to the door was a binder full of charts, notes, and test results, all of which documented far more interior damage than the exterior showed. He had arrived unconscious but with strong vitals; over the past three days he had yet to awaken, and all indications pointed to his system getting weaker.

  She approached the bed, silhouetted by the hallway light that washed into the somber room. She would have kicked the chair next to the bed had she not seen the white sweater draped across the back of it. Visitors often left such belongings knowing that they would return sooner than later. In the hushed stillness she could hear the faint voices of a man and a woman near the nurses station. As she leaned over the bed her black-rimmed glasses dangled from the thin lanyard around her neck. She tenderly covered the man’s left hand, careful of the IV tubing, and tilted her head slightly to listen.