Sayonara
Sayonara
PSST! … HEY, DAVY
-- are you awake? Shake a leg, man, we gotta move!”
“What?! …
"Bud?
"Is that you?
"What are you doing here?”
“Keep your voice down! I’m your ticket outta here -- your Get-Out-of-Jail-Free
card. Come on, swing your legs over the edge of the bed. Can you stand up?”
“I think so. Where’s you get the lab coat?”
“Doctor’s Lounge -- they got a bunch of ‘em. Here -- I put some clothes in a bag for you. Put it in your lap for now and put these blankets over your legs.”
“We’re never gonna make it past the nurses’ station, Bud. They know this is an inmate room.”
“No worries, mate. They think I’m consulting with Dr. Spear. I’m just takin’ you downstairs for an MRI. They don’t know the machine’s out back in the ambulance.”
“You stole an ambulance?!”
“I got this. Just move!”
A different guard from the one from last night is fast asleep in a chair with a blanket pulled over him.
The monitors don’t sound when I take the finger-clip monitor off and unhook the EKG leads snapped to the sticky buttons all over my upper body. As soon as I stand up, I feel a cool breeze up the back of my gown.
“You sure this is gonna work?”
“Trust me,” Bud says, with a boyish grin.
He wheels me out the door towards the elevators just past the nurses' station. Some hospital personnel make room for us to pass. Others seem not to even notice us, so we go around. One really cute nurse gives us a wave -- not a Good-morning!
wave -- more like a See-ya-around
or sayonara
sort. I think she may have winked at me!
We’re the only ones in the elevator which discharges us onto the main floor. The girl at the reception desk does the same kind of wave. I could swear
I’ve seen her someplace before … My head is kinda groggy from just waking up, although adrenaline is pumping full tilt.
We end up wheeling right through the ER. Bud slaps the big square switch beside the doors. They open smoothly. Sure enough, there sits a shiny ambulance, the engine running.
“Get in back and change. Then come up front with me.”
I’ve gone along with this so far. He rolls the wheelchair back inside the sliding doors.
As soon as I get up front, we pull out.
No lights.
No siren.
“Aren’t they gonna miss this?” I ask, looking around the rig.
“Trust me,” is all that he says.
I’m already beginning to run through the ramifications of what we’re doing:
From this point on I’ll be a fugitive. If caught, I’ll no doubt return to prison, but not a cushy camp like the one I’ve spent four years at, and probably not for only the remaining four years -- maybe with some bonus time tacked on … Not a pleasant thought.
“Where we goin’?” I ask.
“McMinnville Airport.”
“I didn’t know they even had an airport,” I say.
“It’s a private air strip. I’ve got a crew standing by.”
“Crew? What kind of plane are we talkin’ about?”
“A Gulf Stream 6.”
“You gotta be kiddin’ me! That must’ve cost a pretty penny!”
“It’s a timeshare. We can schedule it pretty much whenever we want. Sharing the cost is a major savings.”
“Stop the car.”
“What?!”
“I said stop the car.”
Bud pulls the ambulance over to the side of the road, but leaves the engine running.
“You’re Bud, right?”
“Let me check … ” he says as he pulls his belt forward so he can peer down his pants.
“Yep! That’s me.”
“My dead big brother, Bud?”
“What makes you say that?”
“I was at your funeral! Ron and I conducted your service in Victorville -- more than ten years ago!”
“I was never at any funeral,” he says with his patented, conspiratorial smile.
“I was there!” I protest.
“Where?”
“Your funeral!”
“Where was I?”
“You were -- actually it was a memorial service. You were cremated.”
“I was?”
“Mom paid for it. Your ashes were shipped up to Young Dave in northern California before being shipped to Florida where you’re buried.”
“And you saw me cremated, did you?”
“No. But Mom paid for it.”
“Interesting,” he says, as he sniffs his sleeve.
“Do I smell smokey to you?” He offers me his arm.
“Don’t tell me you pulled an Ed Byrd!” I gasp, as his smile widens.
Ed Byrd was our birth dad. He supposedly died in a plane crash. The bodies were so badly burned no positive ID was possible other than a half-burned wallet with a drivers license. His brothers thought the body was someone else’s. They tried to pry open his closed casket to see for themselves, but the undertaker shooed them away.
Bud just sits there smiling. “Can we go now? I wouldn’t want to keep the crew waiting.”
“I hope this Gulf Stream has something to eat,” I say.
“We’ll be well taken care of,” he says, keeping his eyes on the road.
* * *
He drives right up on the tarmac beside the sleekest aircraft I’ve ever seen.
“You can leave your hospital stuff in back,” he says, as we both get out of the ambulance.
A beautiful, petite flight attendant stands at the bottom of the foldout stairs leading up into the plane. It isn’t exactly deja vu, but I have this feeling I’ve seen her someplace before …
“Welcome aboard. You must be Buddy’s younger brother.”
At first the name Buddy
throws me.
While I’ve always known him as Bud, almost nobody calls him Buddy -- except maybe for Mom when he was very young. Quickly I recover.
“That would be me.”
“Let me show you to your seat. We’ll be taking off momentarily. Would you like something to drink? We probably have anything you might want,” she says.
“Dr Pepper?” I ask.
“I’ll be right back.”
Bud takes the seat across from me, his back facing the cockpit. There’s a small table between us.
“She’s nice, isn’t she?” he says.
“Where’d you find her?”
“She requested this flight. Normally she’s a nurse out of Georgia.”
“Seems like a bit of a commute,” I say.
“They can make you anything you want for eats. They do a mean grilled cheese, broccoli-cheese quiche -- their banana splits? To die for!”
“Where we goin’?”
“Kellogg Municipal Airport in Battle Creek. I thought we’d stop by the folks’ place out on the lake.”
“Mom sold that. You knew that, right?”
“Yeah, I know. It’s vacant right now. I thought it’d be a good place to hang out until you get situated.”
“Won’t the new owners be upset?”
“Actually, I got it for the next couple of weeks. It’s cool.”
Our flight attendant returned with a Dr Pepper for me and a martini for Bud. Apparently she knows what his preference would be without asking.
Once in the air, she brings out engraved menus. I’ve seen worse in fancy restaurants. Bud orders the eggplant Parmesan. I go for the cheese-broccoli quiche.
After we’ve satiated ourselves with fresh cherry cheesecake, the table is cleared. Bud waits expectantly for me to say something.
“What am I supposed to do?” I ask.
“About what?”
“I had the chance to go on the lamb before my trial. I chose not to. Didn’t think it’d be something I would enjoy.”
“Not gonna be a problem.”
“You say that, but how could you possibly know?”
“Trust me,” he says -- that same silly grin on his face.
“There’s a lot you don’t know. I’m gonna try to ease you into it, but you gotta trust me.”
“What don’t I know? Tell me.”
“All in good time. Why don’t you sit back and enjoy the flight. No one’s gonna be lookin’ for you in Battle Creek.”
“They gotta know that’s where I grew up. If I was them, that’d be one of the first places I’d look.”
“You said so yourself -- Mom sold the place. It’s not hers anymore. If they were gonna track you down, they’d put out a BOLO in Florida -- not Michigan.”
“You’ve put a lot of thought into this, haven’t you.”
“I gotcha covered. It’s gonna be a few hours before we land. Why don’t you fold your chair out into a bed and catch some zzzs.”
* * *
The flight attendant gently nudges my shoulder. “We’re here Davy. Better sit up and fasten your seat belt.”
Something about the sound of her voice when she says, Davy
…
I’ve heard that voice before -- maybe a long time ago I’ve heard it. But where? …
A white stretch limo pulls up beside the plane as the stairs unfold.
The driver is in full getup.
Crew cut.
A little stocky.
Baby-faced.
“Hi, I’m Chris,” he says, extending his hand. “I’ll be your driver.”
He turns to Bud, “Stillascov?”
Stillascov
is the name my folks gave to their 18-acre hideaway my adopted dad built. These guys certainly do their homework!
“Did they ever get the water fixed?” I ask.
“We sank a deeper well. It’s like fresh spring water now. We also finished the basement.”
“Wait -- you’re the guys who bought the place?!”
“Don’t tell anyone. That’ll be our little secret. Ron doesn’t even know.”
Battle Creek sure has changed from the last time I saw it ten years ago. The center of town is gutted, transformed into a no-cars mall. Most of the ghettos have been cleared out, courtesy of Kellogg’s cutting a deal with the city not to move its headquarters in exchange for a hefty tax break.
On the other side of town we swing onto Capital Avenue. Drive right by the place I used to take piano lessons from Mrs. Greichen. I do a double take as we drive by. For all the world it looks like her -- sitting in a rocking chair on her front porch! Though I’m behind heavily-smoked glass, I could swear she waves to me!
As we approach a relatively new Taco Bell, I ask if we can stop for a seven-layer burrito.
“You don’t wanna eat there,” Bud says. “That stuff’ll kill you. The staff would be disappointed if you spoiled your appetite on that junk.”
“Staff?”
“I took the liberty of having supper catered this evening. You like spinach-and-cheese lasagna, don’t you? We can eat out by the swing on the bluff.”
“There’s no way that swing’s survived!” I say. “It was falling apart twenty years ago!”
“You’re right. -- When you’re right, you’re right. I had a new one built to spec. Solid as a rock.”
“How long have you been planning this?” I ask.
“I’ve had my eye on you ever since you left Victorville from when you were helping me with the Oversoul Foundation.”
“You never said nothin’,” I say.
“Didn’t have to. When Mom had Ron sell the place, I had already moved in next door. You know how I like to preserve historical landmarks.”
“I suppose next you’re gonna try to tell me you bought 3830 W. Michigan Avenue.”
“How’d you know?” He looked genuinely surprised.
“You did?”
“I figured you might not like the mosquitoes by the lake.”
“Mighty thoughtful of you …”
“Davy, we need to talk.”
“Ya think?!” I say.
“You know that flight attendant who calls you Davy?”
“The one with the heavy southern accent?”
“The one I told you was a nurse in Georgia.”
“What about her?”
“That’s Marjeanne.”
“Cousin Marjeanne?”
“One in the same.”
“You puttin’ me on? She’s dead!”
“And our driver, Chris?”
“What about him?”
“Do you remember a classmate of yours who broke his neck diving into a shallow pond? I believe you visited him in the hospital while he was a quadriplegic in a Stryker bed.”
“That Chris?!”
“That’s him.”
“He died, too?”
“Three years after you saw him.”
“That’s him? -- driving us right now?”
Chris must have sensed we were talking about him. He looks in the rear view mirror and winks at me!
“So you didn’t
pull an Ed Byrd?”
“Neither did he. That was him inside that casket.”
“So that means …”
“Don’t go jumpin’ to conclusions now. You’re on the right track, but it’s not what you think.”
“Wait just a doggone minute -- you’re either dead
or you’re not! It’s not like there’s some in between,” I say.
Bud pauses like he’s wondering whether this is the right time or place.
“Do you know what an OBE is? -- Think Art Bell, Coast-to-Coast.”
“Out-of-body experience? You’re saying I’m -- right now, this very moment -- having an OBE?”
“I can say it or not. That’s what your present status is at the moment. As we speak, your physical body is being shocked with a defibrillator from a crash cart with a half dozen people watching.”
“What’s this
then?” I say, holding up my arm, “chopped liver?”
“It’s what we call your valence.”
“Is that with an a or an e?”
“E -- as in ‘the capacity or degree of attractiveness an individual possesses as a behavioral goal’ -- the meaning here is slightly different.”
“I’m a ghost?”
“Not in the sense that you’re thinking, although people who are alive right now can’t see or hear you.”
“Wait a second! -- I saw several people wave to us and wink at me!”
“They aren’t alive.”
“Time out: You said I’m gettin' zapped right now.
"We were on that plane for several hours.
"We’ve been driving for nearly a half hour.
"Surely I’d be dead or revived by now.”
“Surely you would -- if that body experienced the same time as your valence body.”
“Oh come on!
"OK, tell me: how long has my physical body been in existence since the first shock?”
Out of sheer habit Bud looks at his watch.
“I’d say, one, maybe two … seconds. But you were in valence for a minute or two before they put the paddles to you.”
“What are you telling me? -- I’m not
dead?”
“Not yet. You’re well on your way. So far -- knock on valence wood -- you’re grey matter is still intact.”
“So -- can I go back?”
“That’s between you and your doctors. You’ll all have to work together if you think that’s what you want.”
“So then -- what was all that Keep-your-voice-down!
business about? I thought you didn’t want me to wake up the guard.”
“He’s one of us. That room is like the one you checked into before they wheeled you down for your angiogram. That’s why you didn’t see your corpus laying in the bed when you got up.”
“You’re telling me that wasn’t a real hospital room?”
“Oh, it’s real. But part of what you saw was valence trimmings.”
“Valence trimmings …”
“Your blankets, the monitor equipment, the guard -- they were all valence. Otherwise, you’d have seen unmoving real blankets when you pulled back your valence ones getting out of bed. The real blankets would have stayed right where they were. That would have blown the whole illusion.”
“How much time ahead of time did you know I was going to have a heart attack?”
“We didn’t.”
“Sounds to me like it’d take quite a bit of setup to get everything right.”
“It did. But then again, we can spend several valence hours setting something up that only takes a fraction of a second in real time.”
“So some of what I’m seeing is real and the other stuff is valence?”
“It’s somewhat like those 3-D goggles that add image to an existing environment.”
“What if I kicked a real table?”
“You couldn’t.”
“Says who?”
“Oh, you could try. But your valence leg would go right through.
"We’re in a different dimension. We can see what you might think of as real, as well as what’s in our own dimension. People in the real one can only see what’s in theirs.”
“But some people moved out of our way when we were leaving the hospital--”
“Valence people. You may recall I had to steer around the real people -- not because we’d run into them -- we’d have passed right through -- but because if we’d gone right through them, it would have shattered the illusion. You would have freaked out. I wanted to ease you into it.”
“The wheelchair was what then -- valence trimmings?”
“Now you’re gettin' it!”
“The Gulf Stream?”
“Valence--”
“This stretch limo?”
Bud nods.
“Mrs. Greichen?”
“What do you think?”
“You mean we don’t actually have to drive all this valence stuff to the house -- we could just teleport?”
“You that hungry?”
Chris must still be listening. He nods in the mirror. Like a scene wipe, the next moment we’re pulling up to the house …
Chris does his chauffeur-door-opening thing quite well for a quadriplegic. Bud and I get out of the car, which then conveniently disappears into thin air!
“After you,” Bud says, as he opens the front door to the house.
The place looks immaculate. I expected dirty old dusty furniture, faded rugs. It hasn’t been lived in for more than fifteen years. It’s just as I remembered it when things were all shiny and new. My reveries are broken when two dozen people jump out from behind couches and through open doorways, yelling, “Surprise!”
The first to approach me is Uncle Elvin. Still in his doctor scrubs, he sticks out a pudgy hand, “Glad you could make it, Davy.”
There are only five people on the face of the earth who call me “Davy” -- and all of them seem to be in this room -- including Marjeanne (from the plane, but now she’s dressed as a nurse). She died mysteriously at the age of 42. Just laid down on the couch and never got up.
Elvin died years ago from the effects of diabetes. According to Brother Ron, he lost 100 pounds or more -- too little, too late.
“What’s this -- some kind of costume party?” I say. “You all look like you just got off work!”
Bud explains, “They did exactly that. But some of them are still working.”
“Come again?" I ask.
“We each have one Valcore, but one can split our valence presence multiple times.”
“You wanna run that by me in English?”
Uncle Elvin -- ever the one to simplify matters -- says, “Omnipresence.”
“Don’t go gettin’ all theological on me now -- I’ve had a rough day!” I say.
“OK. You know how God is everywhere -- yet He’s still only one God?”
“I know the theory,” I say.
I didn’t notice Grandpa Gibson come up behind Elvin. Grandpa is the Bible scholar in the family, notwithstanding Ed Byrd, the wayward minister.
“Davy” -- he’s one of the five -- “we’re created in the image of God, right?”
“Go on,” I say.
“God can be in more than one place at a time, right?” He gestures with his hand like, “There it is -- plain as day!”
“It doesn’t seem to work that way with corpses,” I say, scratching my head. “So how does that work? You’re here with me right now--”
Elvin chimes in, “while, at the same time, I’m two hours into reconstructive surgery in Louisville, Kentucky. We’re just wrapping up.”
“Don’t you find that confusing?” I question.
“Not at all. I see you helped yourself to the hors d’oeuvres, yet we’re carrying on a perfectly normal conversation between bites. You don’t seem to have a problem doing two things at once.”
Even though it’s Elvin rendering this explanation, Grandpa does his “Voila!
-- See? Not so difficult!” hand gesture thing.
Out of the corner of my eye I see what appears to be Ed Byrd -- my birth dad. I vaguely remember him, but not enough to have recognized a picture of him I found in our pump room when I was five years old. Brother Ron had culled pictures from my mom’s albums and made copies for me. Elvin and Grandpa don’t seem to notice him.
“Hi, Davy” (I guess now there’s six!) “Do you remember me?”
Just then my uncles -- Charlie, Ronnie and Richard -- Ed Byrd’s brothers, hors d’oeuvres in hand -- form a semicircle around me.
Before I can answer Ed, Elvin says, “Hi Charles, Ronnie, Richard -- glad you could make it.”
I look at Ed Byrd. He kinda shrugs. “I’m the black sheep of the family. My brothers can see me, but your uncle and grandpa can’t.”
By this time Gram and Aunt Margie have come up to stand by Grandpa.
“Hi Davy,” Aunt Margie says.
“You’re the lady at the nurse’s station!” I gasp.
“Guilty as charged,” she smiles.
“Do you see Ed Byrd?” I ask.
“He’s right there,” she says, giving him a little wave.
“He says Elvin and Grandpa can’t see him.”
At this, Elvin says, “I can’t believe he’d have the guts to show up!”
“You can’t see him? How’s that work?”
“Telepathy,” Grandpa volunteers. “If you don’t like being in the company of someone, you just tune them out. Their valence disappears.”
“You mean like valence trimmings?”
“I always said you were bright,” Elvin quips.
“I won’t mess up your party,” Ed says. “Tell them I just stopped by to say hi.”
Ed Byrd had left me and my two brothers and Mom when I was three. Word was he took up with an under-age girl. Might be fun to hear his side of it sometime …
“He’s gone,” I say. “Said he just wanted to say hi.”
There’s still an uncomfortable silence that lingers.
“For a while there, I thought this must be heaven,” I say, hoping to change the subject.
“Do you remember Santa Claus?” This from Uncle Elvin.
“What are you saying?”
“Does the term ‘creative license’ mean anything to you?” Marge this time.
“You mean heaven? Hell?”
“Creative license,” from three different voices in unison.
“But some of the stuff about heaven applies here,” Grandpa interjects.
“There’s no death--”
“Duh--,” I respond. “Everyone’s already dead!”
“Not everyone,” Marge says, as she takes my arm, steering me to some chairs. Either she’s tired of standing, even in valence mode, or she’s getting bored with this discussion.
“There’s no hunger -- plenty of food,” Chris chimes in, as he’s walking by with his mouth full of what looks like veggie hush puppies.
“Unfortunately, people still manage to stumble into things or crack up their cars,” Elvin explains.
“How do you crack up valence trimmings?” I ask.
“They’re just as real in our dimension as trees are in yours. We have hospitals and schools and run businesses.”
“Don’t tell me -- you have valence banks for keeping track of all your valence money.”
“No, there’s really no need for money.” This from Gram. She was always the financial wizard of the family. “People work if they want to and don’t if they don’t. You might say everything here is free. You can take whatever you want.”
“What if you get a rough customer?” I ask.
“You just tune him out.”
I can see Elvin’s enjoying this. “You know how someone will want to build a skyscraper, but some little shop or church is in the way?”
“Yeah?” I say.
“Well, here, the little guy just tunes the big guy out. The big guy prob’ly does the same and builds his skyscraper right over the little church or business. The little guy just keeps doing his thing. Neither of them sees each other or their buildings. There’s almost no interference.”
“You say almost.”
“Well,” Uncle Elvin explains, there’s those odd situations like the three-way you just experienced with Ed Byrd. You could see him. We couldn’t. It was only when we saw you start talking to thin air, then heard you mention his name to Marge, that we realized he was even here. That can be awkward. But it doesn’t happen all that often. They’re working on a patch for that.”
At that moment a nurse I hadn’t seen before comes up to me. “You’re gonna stay, aren’t you?”
I have that feeling again. I know I know this person! I just can’t put a name to her face. Then Al Loughman saunters up. How could I not recognize his daughter -- my first love -- Alice!
“Alice? Is that you?!”
“It’s the uniform that throws you -- and my cropped hair. I knew I shouldn’t have cut it …
“I don’t want to be a party pooper, but could we go for a walk? It’s gonna be awhile before dinner’s ready.”
All eyes are on me.
“How do you do that thing where you can be in two places at the same time?” I ask.
“Is that what you want?” Marge -- ever the helpful one.
“I believe it is,” I say.
At that instant I’m alone with Alice. Yet, almost as if someone left a radio on in the other room, the background noise in the back of my mind is me, carrying on conversations with the people I just left …
“Can I hug you?” I ask. We’re already holding hands.
“You don’t have to ask, you know,” she says.
“I know. You can always tune me out--”
We laugh.
The inside joke is from the last time I had seen Alice. She was at Kettering taking a two-year nursing course. She had invited me down for their annual banquet. Kettering is owned by the city, but run by a denomination. That may explain why they’re able to do things denominationally-owned schools can’t.
They’d rented an entire theater to show the evening’s entertainment, On a Clear Day,
starring a young Barbara Streisand. This followed their renting an entire restaurant which served a delightfully scrumptious meal.
I drove us back to the dorm in my rental car. We sat outside in the parking lot holding hands and gazing into each other’s eyes.
When we’d been dating in high school, I once made the mistake of asking her if I could kiss her. She had gone inside for what seemed like forever. Twenty minutes later, she came back and sat at the picnic table with her hands folded in her lap. After a bit, she kinda turned one cheek towards me. I took that to mean yes and hesitantly planted a short peck on her cheek.
We didn’t speak to each other for several weeks. I’m not sure why.
So now we’re sitting outside her dorm in Kettering. On instinct, I pull her towards me and plant a long lip-lock on her.
At first, she seems startled -- then she relaxes into it and kisses me back … When we come up for air, I just sit there with a big stupid grin on my face! …
It’s these two instances she’s referring to when she says I don’t need to ask …
We miss supper -- that is, the part of my Valcore split that’s with the part of hers (this could get complicated!). My other half is enjoying spinach-cheese lasagna with the rest of the gang (or whatever iteration of their Valcores is at this gala affair).
Before the separate versions of us go back to the house, she asks again, “Are you staying?”
I think before I answer …
If I stay, that would mean I died.
If I died, that would mean Mariko, my Japanese wife, wouldn’t have me to retire with.
I think of my three now-grown sons.
My brother Ron.
My 96-year-old mother.
Sure, they’d all have to wait four more years for my out date. I’d still be stuck at Camp Sheridan. I (or they) might even die while we waited …
“Will you be here when I come back?” I ask.
Alice now knows how I’ll choose.
A small tear makes its way down her cheek.
I reach up and gently wipe it away with the back of my hand.
“I’ve waited this long …” she says --
as 500 volts surges through my heart.