Amnesia (12 page)

She looked back at the clock, whose face solemnly declared she had four more minutes before the lack of good oxygen to the man’s brain would make it impossible to truly revive him. It would leave him a vegetable even if the heart again beat on its own. She had given all she had to help this man, the helpless victim of an insidious crime. Yet even she could only work certain miracles, the bane of every physician. Sometimes death would win despite their best efforts.

The room held its collective breath as the second hand marched forward on its uncaring path. Doctor Brandon was almost ready to proceed with the barrage of medicines despite the confirmation from the lab. She was calculating the risks of all those chemicals on the heart if she was wrong vs. continuing to let the man deteriorate beyond salvation. Her aching arms were at their limit, her entire body beginning to falter. She knew she needed to rest and looked up to find a replacement. Just as she opened her mouth to call over a by-standing medic the phone rang. The nurse manning the AED answered it on the first ring.

“Serum potassium level is 6.2,” he nearly shouted, the urgency lending strength to his tenorous voice. Lissa sighed, glad to have the answer, but upset to know that she had nearly witnessed the cold-blooded murder of this mysterious man found above Cascade.

The room flew into a flurry of motion as the announcement was made, the levels well above the maximum 4.5 mEq/L that would allow life. All the previous orders she had prepared, the calcium, sodium bicarbonate, and insulin were quickly administered. She called one last time for the defibrillator. Charged one last time to 360 joules, she had the nurse push the activator and stared, eyes riveted at the electrocardiogram monitor, praying for a normal sinus rhythm.

The LED jumped off the scale as the current raced through the body, and then nothing, as the heart reacted to the pulse. All eyes were glued to the screen knowing that this was the final option, the concluding step to sustain life, the last chance to preserve the life of the person completely dependant on them. The silence was complete for that moment, no one daring to utter a sound; even the machinery was quiet for an instant.

Then came the first blip of systole, the normal heart beat. After the briefest of pauses another followed it. More quickly came a third, then fourth, and then the entire screen was filled with the images of a normally beating heart. The row of spikes wrote off the screen to the right, only to restart on the far left, traveling its course over, proclaiming that death had been cheated by diligent healthcare professionals yet again. The room erupted in joyful tones, congratulatory and thankful, as breathing and activity returned to normal. Her job completed Doctor Brandon stepped back away from the bed, reciting follow-up orders to the floor supervisor, handing the responsibility back to the nurses surrounding her.

Just as she stepped out of the room, the male nurse who had answered the phone called out to her and handed her back the villain’s smock she had been carrying, forgotten in battle’s fury. As she took it the bile of fear rose in her throat, certain now that the man that had lain atop her for those few moments was a hardened killer, the criminal that had destroyed her car, and who knew what else.

The physical, emotional and mental exhaustion of the struggle she had waged moments ago, joined with the fear and revulsion of her recent insights, left her a near emotional collapse. She hurried down the hall not wanting the nurses to witness her breakdown, futilely resisting the cries that were breaking through clenched teeth and clamped hands. As she rounded the nurses’ desk she nearly broke into a run as the sobs began in force, and she collided head on with a strong, though somehow soft chest. Comforting arms came around her, leading her to an empty conference room, where all the fear, anger, distrust, and confusion broke free, her churning emotions escaping her usual stoic mien. She cried hard and long, releasing the pent-up passion, all the while encompassed by strong caring arms.

Finally she was spent, the tears slowing to a mere trickle, sobs substituted by whimpers, her body drained of all energy. The two clumsily stumbled over to the waiting couch and sat down before her weakened legs gave way. She started to look around for something to mop up her tear-streaked face. Her silent benefactor knowingly supplied her with a clean handkerchief. She cleaned her face off the best she could, then noticed the embroidered monogram on the cloth. She looked up quizzically to verify the identity and confirmed her suspicion. She stared into the face that owned the tissue that sported the initials “DS”—Darrion Stanton.

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Beverley Windham had never been so exhausted. She couldn’t remember ever feeling so miserable and instinctively knew she wouldn’t last much longer. For six days she and her companion had been trapped in the dilapidated house, the oppressive heat stealing energy and life from her. There had been little water to replenish what she was losing, and food was all but forgotten by her abductor. She could tell that she was dehydrated, no longer even sweating, and realized that she had to do something soon, or neither of them would survive. She wasn’t sure Peter would survive anyhow.

The thought brought with it a fresh ache as her fears fought for fresh grip on her tattered emotions. Outwardly the senator’s daughter had shown the defiance and strength befitting the heir of great power. Her mother would be proud. Yet inwardly she was a timorous little girl, paralyzed by fear. Even after the fight between Peter and the madman, when she had gained possession of the knife, she had been too afraid to use it, scared that he may burst through the door at any moment. The next time she was certain neither she nor Peter would survive.

Of course she tried to justify her hesitance on Peter’s condition. She had heard the ribs crack, perhaps break, saw the blood oozing from his damaged face, and knew he needed the rest. He appeared to verify that as he lost consciousness again soon after she had revealed the forgotten knife. She had heard him moaning a few times since then, almost an entire day later, but he never seemed to quite wake up. Yet her fear for Peter alerted her to the fact that if she did nothing they would die anyway, and she wasn’t about to let that happen.

She looked back over at his awkward position, his knees drawn up, his torso twisted so he was lying halfway between his side and back. She realized that he hadn’t moved since the attack and desperation flooded her, wondering if it was already too late. It suddenly occurred to her that her hesitancy might have already cost him his life, and her sorrow overwhelmed her.

She knew that few people could understand why a powerful and beautiful woman like her could ever love a short, pudgy, and seemingly backward, man like Peter, but she didn’t care what they thought. Heaven knows her mother wouldn’t even try to understand. She would simply tell her to distance herself from him as far as she could, after all he would never be the type of man that would make her dreams come true. She needed a man like Darrion Stanton; rich, powerful, handsome and well connected. A man that would build the family dynasty.

Even she hadn’t noticed Peter Frindle in her Biology lab, he a graduating senior fulfilling his last requirements, her working her way through core classes. It wasn’t until her math class had relegated her to tutoring that he had made his entrance into her life. And he had made quite an entrance at that.

They had arranged to meet in the lobby between the Science and English buildings, just outside the Subway sandwich shop located there for the convenience of starving students. She had arrived early, thinking to get some studying in before their meeting, the typical thoughts of a second year business student. She sat on the re-upholstered chair, crossed her legs under her to form a makeshift table, and pulled her Art History textbook out of her book bag. She hated this course, and wondered for the hundredth time why she hadn’t followed her mother’s wishes and gone to Stanford, at least they had better instructors there. Frustrated, she blew a lock of hair out of her face, which fell back exactly where it had been. She reached down into her bag, searching for a highlighter, and dropped her notebook, spilling papers across the tiled floor.

Angrily she slammed her book shut, tossing it toward her bag which then bounced carelessly off the fabric and landed face up on the floor, the page turned to a picture of Van Gough’s famous self-portrait. She got down on her knees to gather the pages, muttering under her breath about the joys of college, as the papers skittered away caught by the wind from the constantly opening and closing outside double-doors.

A moment later she was joined in her task by a helpful by-stander and finally all the loose paper had been gathered. She stood and turned to her helper, intent on retrieving her work, and nearly collided with the man. He wasn’t much taller than she was and as she looked over at him their eyes locked at nearly the same level. His glasses had slipped down his face revealing eyes wide with wonder and unabashed admiration as he stood staring at her. He had obviously just come from eating in the sandwich shop as a little marinara sauce from a meatball sandwich was smeared on his cheek. She smiled sweetly at him, thanked him for helping her, and stuck out her hand in a grateful gesture.

Instead of accepting her hand he started to back away from her, still staring into her brown eyes as if spellbound—right into a group of girls coming out of Subway. He twisted his body away, barely escaping toppling them all, instead knocking over the easel announcing the daily specials, which fell to the floor with a crash. Inertia kept him moving however, his arms pin wheeling to keep his balance, as he tripped over the downed sign, heading straight for the door separating the two buildings. He caught himself just before he hit the door, let out a long sigh, and turned to face her. Then he got hit in the back of the head by the door he had narrowly missed as a student burst through.

By this time the entire room was frozen in place, watching the acrobatics, some wondering if it was real or staged. She knew the truth, however, which was verified by the mortified look on his slightly pudgy face. She immediately felt sorry for the man and her part in his embarrassment, and went over to try to smooth things over.

“I’m sorry,” she had apologized, “I’m just not cut out for school, I guess.” She sighed in resignation at the thought; frustrated that she wasn’t the successful scholar, and slightly worried that her mother might have been right about her studying in a “field reserved for men.”

“No, no!” he assured her, “you’re great…I mean…you’ll be fine. It’s just…well…some professors…you know….”

This time she caught herself before she giggled at his obvious discomfort. She had been around many smooth men the last couple of years, and was used to the effect she could have on them if she tried. But his stammering caused by simply talking to her made her feel warm and comfortable, assuring her that he was unlike the others, who hadn’t seen her as a woman, merely as a conquest. She decided she wanted to get to know this shy man, thinking that she might like what she found.

However the man she grew to know was anything but the clumsy buffoon others, especially her mother, had supposed. True, he wasn’t an underwear model, or a smooth flatterer, and was not especially well connected. But he had powerful insight and tender emotions, a romantic at heart that was rigidly honest and filled with integrity. He was also quite intelligent, understanding complex issues, especially in mathematics and his field of study, computer engineering, and able to simplify them so that any novice could easily capture the vision.

Yet it was his deep convictions to his religion that had truly taken her breath away. The normally shy man could stand tall and declare his testimony of God and His plans for man, His children. She could sit for hours listening to his explanations of mysteries, answering her questions so logically she wondered why she had never understood them before.

She marveled at his insistence that she could know for herself the truth about religion, and invited her to find out for herself. It hadn’t taken much convincing to persuade her, however; she yearned to know what gave him such inner strength and confidence in his message, as well as his conviction that she could feel peace in the ever more frightening world in which they lived.

He had given her a book, which she had eagerly accepted, hoping that she would find the answers there. At first it was difficult to understand, but she plowed through it, unwilling to let anything stand in her way of finding what Peter had promised.

Then came the dreadful night when she had returned home and found her mother had destroyed the beloved book, and all the other materials Peter had provided. The argument had been heated and hurtful, ending when she had stormed from the house, tears in her eyes, not knowing what hurt worse, the fact that her mother had dismissed what was important to her, or that she had lost the precious gift given to her by her friend. She didn’t know where to go, so had just jumped in the car and started driving.

Somehow she had ended up at Peter’s apartment, sobbing like a child, and ran into his arms the moment he appeared. They had stood there a moment, oblivious to his staring roommates, their action movie forgotten, watching the most beautiful, not to mention powerful and wealthy, girl on campus hugging the ordinary, if somewhat plain Peter Frindle.

Now as she looked over at the broken man, she remembered all that he had to offer, his intelligence, his spirit, his unreserved acceptance, and as recently proven, his willingness to suffer, even die, for her. She knew he loved her, anyone could see that, but what she was only now beginning to understand was how much she truly loved him. But then again, how could she not? He was everything any girl could ever hope for, more than she felt she deserved. Sure she had looks and money, but what was that in comparison to inner conviction and strength. The thought spurred her into action, determined that whatever happened to her this man needed to be saved. The fate of the world depended on him and
others
like him.