Chapter Seven
“Paul IS going to be okay. Isn’t he, Mrs. Pontiac?” Vivid creases appeared
within Tim’s forehead as an empty pit hollowed out his stomach. “We’ve been
best friends, for as long as I can remember. I can’t imagine life without him.”
Mrs. Pontiac briefly smiled at the freckled-faced teenager as the stainless-steel elevator door in front of them abruptly jerked itself open.
It’s no wonder Paul likes you so much, Tim. You’re certainly the type of person someone could call a true friend.
*****
Like most hospitals, the environment within Alamance Regional was ultra clean, ultra sterile. And a distinctive hint of antiseptic seemed to cling in the air as if someone was constantly roaming the halls, spraying it, even in the most remote corners. Yet, unlike the other medical facilities Tim visited in the past, the decor at this one was different. It was warm and friendly, almost expressing an “I care about you” attitude.
“I really don’t know,” Mrs. Pontiac said, answering Tim’s question as they passed a medium-green, Formica-topped nurse’s desk. “Paul’s doctor, Dr. Morgan, recently told me his injures were a lot serious than he had initially anticipated. There still could be a bone fragment in or near his heart, he might have accidentally missed. Not to mention, Paul could easily develop a blood clot since he’s physically too weak to be given an anticoagulant.”
“So Paul could still die even though he survived the operation?” Tim’s widened eyes revealed that he was ready to panic.
“There is a possibility, Tim. But, hopefully, it’s a slight one. Right now, the only thing we can do which might possibly have an impact would be to say a prayer and place Paul’s life into God’s hands. After all, Our Heavenly Father is well-known for being the Supreme Healer.”
Tim thought about this for a moment and began to tremble. “But what if it isn’t God’s Will for Paul to live? I have seen a few times where, for unknown reasons, God has taken good people home early. Like Harold, for example. Do you remember him? He used to live down the road from me and every now and then the three of us would do things together - like drop water balloons off the roof of Hollywood Mall.”
“Oh, yes. I recall being told about that, and I also remember Harold,” Ellen said, visualizing the chubby blond-haired kid and how she didn’t find out about the incident until several months later - when Paul got into trouble with a mall security guard, who had recently been transferred to Burlington Square from Hollywood.
“Good. Then you know who I’m talking about,” Tim continued. “Anyway, just a couple of months before Christmas, while my family and I were living in Hollywood, for no apparent reason Harold died in his sleep. His parents said it was due to something the doctor’s called a brain aneurysm. … What if this is just like what happened to Harold? What if God decides to take Paul home? What would we do then?”
Mrs. Pontiac’s lips unconsciously quivered as Tim’s dark-blue eyes began to welt.
“We’re going to have to deal with it should it happen, Tim,” Ellen replied, mentally trying to compose herself. “After all, God never promised anyone that life would be a rose garden. In fact, most of the time, it isn’t. Therefore, whatever happens, whether it be good or bad, we’re going to have to accept it as being God’s Will and live accordingly.”
Tim nodded in reply and soon afterwards, Ellen took a floral handkerchief out of her purse and gently dabbed his reddened cheeks.
“But for now, Tim,” Ellen resumed as room 413 came into view. “Let’s work hard at thinking positive and put a smile on our face. After all, we certainly don’t want Paul to think the doctor has pronounced his death sentence, do we?”
Tim let out a chuckle and shook his head.
“No ma’am. I guess you’re right. Perhaps I’m overreacting a bit.” Tim tightened his grip on the bag of candy he recently purchased for his friend at Wally World and began to approach the doorway. “Instead of thinking about death and dying. I’d make a bet that even though Paul is being forced to lie still, he’s probably busying himself, mentally working on some of the obstacles our computer club ran across during the development of Plutonium’s Revenge.”
“It certainly wouldn’t surprise me, Tim. And since you brought it up,” Ellen said, pushing her son’s door open. “How’s the game progressing? Will you and the computer club be capable to make Titan Industries’ guidelines if Paul isn’t able to help?”
Tim frowned. “I don’t know. I’m not sure. Paul’s always has been our 3-D programming expert. And even though I helped him with a lot of it while we were making Clash Of The BattleStars, it would really be hard to create some of the complex dazzling effects we were wanting to use without him.”
“I see.” Ellen smiled an intellectual smile, which implied she understood. However, it was a definitely a foregone conclusion that most likely, she didn’t - at least, not completely. Programming had never been one of her known fortes.
*****
A few seconds later when Tim entered Paul’s room, the first thing he noticed was his best friend was lying on his back – with his eyes so securely closed, one might have thought perhaps the doctor had super-glued them shut.
Hmm. I wonder if Paul is sleeping. Or, could he still be unconscious because of the anesthesia they gave him?
He then looked to the right at a metallic pole holding a bag of glucose. From the bottom of the bag, a singular tube, not unlike a clear plastic snake, traveled underneath the covers and presumably into his friend’s arm.
About once a second from a foot or two above Paul’s head, a rectangular-shaped heart monitor kept regularly beeping. And with each beep, a strategically placed needle would jump up and down with each of his friend’s heartbeats. Tim wondered about how he could integrate its sound into the game they were currently developing – in Paul’s honor, of course.
“Son. Are you awake?” Mrs. Pontiac asked, gently grasped her son’s free hand. “Tim and I have come to pay you a visit.”
With his eyes still closed, Paul released a low moan, then rolled over to his side.
Tim watched, before gulping at the sight before him. His friend’s ghostly appearance vividly reminded him of a scene from a movie he had watched on the Internet the night before, Night of the Living Dead.
“Maybe we should come back at another time Mrs. Pontiac. Paul … ah … appears to be still under the influence of the anesthesia. It might be best if we just let him rest.”
Ellen gazed at her son and pursed her lips.
“That is possible Tim. He still could be under. However, I was pretty sure he would have been conscious by now. … It’s been at least a couple of hours since he’s left the Recovery Room.”
She then moved toward the door as if in search of a nurse. After not finding one, she continued into the middle of the doorway.
“I guess I’m going to have to stop by the nurse’s station to see what’s going on with Paul,” she muttered more to herself than to Tim. “As busy as nurses are, you can never find one when you want to.”
“Are you sure, Mrs. Pontiac?” Tim asked as he stared at the metallic chain located near the side of Paul’s bed. “If you really would like to talk to one, all we need to do is …”
“I don’t trust those things, Tim,” Mrs. Pontiac interrupted. “The last time I was in a hospital and try to use one, so I could get a nurse to help me get to my feet; it took over twenty minutes before one arrived. Therefore Tim, I’d like you to stay here and keep a close eye on Paul, while I search for someone who can give me an update on Paul’s condition. Okay?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Tim said, politely nodding. “And don’t worry. Should anything unusual happen, I’ll pull the emergency cord.”
Mrs. Pontiac agreed with his plan, and Tim took a seat directly facing his friend.
*****
“Tim. Is that you?” Paul groggily asked after several moments had passed. “What are you doing here, and where’s Mom?”
Tim jumped onto his feet and hurried to his friend’s side.
“Yes, Paul. It’s me, Tim. Your mom will be back in a minute. She wanted to talk to someone about your condition. … So how are you doing? Are you going to be okay now?”
Paul gazed at Tim as if he was trying to see him through a dense London fog.
“Yeah. I think so,” he slowly replied. “What happened to me? Where am I and how did I get here? The last thing I remember was Butch beating the crap out of me, and I was trying to get away. Man, that son-of-a-bitch can put a hurting on somebody.”
“I tried to tell you to leave his kind alone Paul. But you adamantly refused to listen to me. Now you’re in the hospital with a crushed sternum, and heaven knows what else,” Tim added as Ellen quietly reentered her son’s room.
“My sternum’s crushed?” Tim could see a pair of lightning bolts rapidly form within his friend’s narrowed eyes. “What did the Hell did that assh…?”
Unexpectedly, Paul stopped mid-sentence.
“Ah. Oops. … Let me sort of rephrase what I was about to ask. Mom’s here. What did Butch do to me?”
Mrs. Pontiac gazed at her son and gave him an infamous, “I-caught-you, didn’t-I?” smile.
“The behemoth took his boot and stomped you, Paul,” Tim said while recreating the motion. “Directly over your heart. … I swear; I think Butch was actually trying to kill you, just like he promised he would.”
Paul aggressively shook his head. “No Tim. I’m sure you’re mistaken. I refuse to accept that even though Butch is the leader of Gibsonville School’s gang, and he tends to be a bast…, ah … mean. But I have never heard of him going so far as actually trying to kill someone. He usually prefers to make your life absolutely miserable, instead.”
Tim threw up his hands in exasperation.
“Paul. Either you’re looking at life through some kind of weird rose-colored glasses, or you must be still under the influence of the anesthesia they gave you. You’re definitely not thinking straight man. I’ve told you before, and I’ll tell you again. I’ve seen people like Butch before, back in Hollywood. And I’m telling you - they’re killers.”
Paul raised a single eyebrow and appeared as if he was about to speak. However, before a word escaped his lips, his eyes unexpectedly rolled upward and then shut. Milliseconds later, his body went completely limp and the alarm in Paul’s heart monitor began to resonate a nonstop piercing tone.
Tim instinctively jumped backwards upon seeing that the monitors bright green needle, which seconds later had been jumping up and down as it measured his friend’s beating heartbeat, was no longer wavering.
“Attention all staff! Attention all staff!” A voice began to roar up and down the hallway. “Room 413. We have a Code Blue. I repeat, we have a Code Blue. Room 413.”
*****
Now standing outside the doorway, Tim watched as multiple doctors and nurses dashed into his best friend’s room.
“I’m sorry, Paul,” he silently mumbled as a stream of tears flowed down both his cheeks like a white water rapid during a major thunderstorm. “I didn’t think talking about Butch was going to kill you.”