The Guilded Pen: Traversing Life: Twelfth Edition: SDWEG Annual Anthologies, #12

1

HERE’S WHERE THIS STORY ENDS

ANNA HALLETT

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Here’s where this story ends. Ted is in the green lounge chair on his back patio. On the ground next to him is a plastic tumbler of warm iced tea.

On his feet are his favorite loafers. He bought them because they look like the brown boat shoes that all the cool, rich kids wore in sixth grade. He couldn’t afford them then, so why shouldn’t he have a pair now? That’s what he’d thought as he clicked ‘buy’. Even as an old man, Ted is still trying to be one of the cool kids. But in a more self-aware, ironic way, of course.

He’s dressed in Bermuda shorts and the golf shirt he won in a golf tournament in Las Vegas a few years ago. He was pleasantly surprised to find that not all of his trophies were in the past. It was just a little office competition at the annual confer- ence, but still....

On his right ring finger is his class ring, a wide gold band with a green glass stone for St. Patrick College of Engineering. Good times. Dating pretty girls and making bad decisions with his buddies. Nothing catastrophic: too much beer the night before parents’ weekend; up all night to make out with Kim instead of studying for the physics test; skinny dipping with friends and losing his glasses in the mud at the bottom of the lake. Childish choices made by a boy who thought he was a man.

Whenever Ted noticed the ring, maybe when it tapped on the mouse as he typed at his computer or when it clinked against a glass of cold water, he wondered what happened to those college buddies. He never did stay in touch. Not even on social media when, years after graduation, it became a thing. There was so much of the world to conquer—first school, then jobs, travel, family. Letting go of old friends just happened.

On his left hand, his wedding ring. A plain gold band, scratched and nicked on the outside and smooth around his finger. It used to be a little loose. He’d had to be careful when he washed his hands that it didn’t slip off. When he felt anxious, he would spin it around his finger. Over time it became tight. Sometimes uncomfortably so. But it’s been there for fifty-two years and he feels naked without it.

When he was twenty-eight, Lois slipped the ring on his finger at the altar in front of family and friends. She’d looked so beautiful. When Ted sees the wedding photo hanging in the hall, he marvels at how young they both were. He knows this sounds cliché, but it’s true.

Noah, his friend at Berman Engineering, set him up. Noah’s girlfriend, Marie, brought her friend Lois for a double date. A blind date. It wasn’t love at first sight, but he and Lois had an easy rapport from the start. Two years later he couldn’t imagine life without her so he’d proposed. Nothing elaborate. He was too self-conscious to be showy. Besides, what if she said no? Dinner at his apartment and a simple, single stone diamond ring.

Covering his mostly bald head is the floppy hat Billy gave him for Father’s Day. Billy’s a good boy. Not always an easy kid, but good.

Ted and Lois thought they might have two or three children. They both had good jobs and big hearts. But life’s a kicker sometimes. With a total of five pregnancies, Billy was the only one to make it to birth. Ted doesn’t remember ever seeing his own father cry, but he remembered crying after all four miscarriages. He cried for Bridget, Maya, Philip, and Sarah. He also cried when Billy was born. Big, wet tears that dripped down his face and pooled in the corners of his smile.

As a child, Billy was smart, kind, and mostly well-behaved. Ted and Lois were blessed. But, as a teenager and young man, he became anxious and depressed. In college, his first girlfriend broke up with him. To be fair, she didn’t dump him. She just knew he wasn’t the one and moved on. She ended it just before winter break, but kindly after midterms. He came home and barely left his childhood room. He slept or watched TV.

Ted and Lois fretted but didn’t know how to help him. They worried about what would happen when he went back to school in January; when they wouldn’t be able to keep an eye on him. Lois found a psychologist near the school and set up a recurring appointment. Ted took the day off from work and drove the hour and half to Billy’s school so he could drive him to his first appointment. He hadn’t wanted the kid to have to go alone and that way he knew Billy was really going. Lois took him to the next appointment and Ted to the one after that. With time and medication, Billy learned to live with his depression.

This morning, Ted woke just before sunrise, as the sky was brightening from black to gray to red and finally blue. He fixed himself an egg, over easy, and a cup of tea with milk and stevia. He completed the online jumble puzzle while he ate. After breakfast, he checked his email. Billy sent him a photo of his daughter-in-law Sue and his grandchildren, Zach and Fiona, at the beach. He read the news online, but it was all bad, so he gave up.

Before the day got too hot, Ted filled a glass with iced tea from the fridge and relaxed on the green lounge chair on his back patio.

From here he gazed out at the Borrego Springs desert. In the distance was the dark silhouette of the Santa Rosa Mountain range. Across the road were the palm trees and cottonwoods of the golf course, and just beyond the patio, the catclaw shrubs and creosote bushes.

Next to him is the other empty green lounge chair where Lois used to sit. Living in the desert had been Lois’s dream. She hated being cold. Said the cold felt like pain.

When she received the diagnosis, they’d decided to buy this second home in the desert. On the good days, when she didn’t need to be in or near the hospital, they lived here in Borrego and enjoyed the warmth. In the beginning, they tried all the local restaurants, played golf, hiked Palm Canyon, and watched the local theater company performances. Lois joined a writing group at the library and Ted played cards at the Senior Center. Billy and his family would visit most holidays, sleeping in the spare room and the den. Ted played pickleball with the grandkids on cooler winter days.

They did their best to make each other happy.

A few years ago, Lois finally succumbed to death and Ted was alone.

The warm breeze blew across the landscape and the ebb and flow, reminiscent of the waves of the ancient sea that once covered the land here, lulled him to sleep. He felt Lois’s hand take his. He didn’t question it. He didn’t want to question it. He accepted it: welcomed her.

Ted did not do great things. He did not do anything terrible. No one will ever find his name in a history book. He lived a simple life and that’s a beautiful thing. He is a patch in the breathtaking multi-colored quilt of life that stretches back and forward in time.

He is still now, his breath silent, not even his heart beats. A family of quail pass in front of his chair, bobbing and pecking, and a butterfly pauses to rest on his shoulder.

2

THE UNPLUGGING

BOB RIFFENBURGH

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Where am I? It’s all so dark. I’m not hurting. I don’t feel a thing. How strange .... What time is it? I have no clue. I listen. All is silent. I try to move, but can’t seem

to. I drift off again.

I hear a voice ask, Dr. Hansen? It begins to bring me to consciousness. It’s Lola’s voice. My wife. My love. It wraps me in warmth. I hadn’t noticed how cold I am. I realize I’m hearing voices for the first time in a while.

MRS. RODRIGUEZ? Yes, I’m Dr. Hansen. I asked you to meet me. I’m afraid I have some rather serious issues to discuss with you.

You make it sound alarming, Doctor.

LOLA’S SPEAKING AGAIN. Is that fear in her voice? Her words seemed to waver over the doctor.

Lola’s voice wavering? It carries me back to the time I first really noticed her. She’d been in my introductory psychology class, but what’s one more classmate on the other side of the room? This day, she had come in late. The professor was something of a mean shit, badgering students at every opportunity. This day he made sarcastic comments about students who were so disrespectful as to be late. But he made general comments, not addressing her directly, so she couldn’t reply or explain. I felt outraged. After class, I caught up with Lola.

Hey, Lola, I want you to know that Professor Burns was totally unfair. What happened?

She turned and looked at me with those big brown eyes. Her full, soft lips were quivering. Her voice wavered. My ... my bus was in an accident. We had to wait for the transit company to bring another around.

Her loveliness and her vulnerability drew me in like a bee to pollen. I knew right then that she would be special to me.

I SUPPOSE you could say it is ominous, Mrs. Rodriguez. Maybe you should sit down.

The legs of the flimsy plastic chair screeched on the tile floor as she sat.

Dr. Hansen paused. Then he continued, speaking a bit too quickly.

He’s been in this coma for six months now. He’s a number three on the Glasgow Coma Scale.

What’s that mean, Doctor?

It means he’s never opened his eyes, never made a sound, and never made any movement.

Does that mean he’s ... brain dead?

Not quite. There’s still a trace of electrical activity in the brain. His pupils still contract with light. He’s not completely dead, but we have to look at the probability of his never becoming conscious.

Then he’s still alive, came a new voice, redolent with fear. We have to keep trying.

IT’S my daughter’s voice. Gabriela. Dear little Gabi, now a mother herself. I remember the first time I heard that anguish in her voice years ago. She was fourteen, dumped from her first crush on a boy. He didn’t bother to tell her. She found out when she saw him with his arm around Rosie Reynolds. When she confronted him, he said, Who do you think you are, Gabi? Keep your ass away from us.

Gabi cuddled up to me on the sofa. Daddy, I’m all broken. I’ll never get over this. I’ll never be right again. I wish I were dead.

I held her tightly. I told her, It’s the emotional equivalent of a broken bone. It will mend, but slowly. And then you’ll find another beau and forget all about this boy. Of course, she didn’t believe me. All I could do was hold her so she’d know there was a place where she was still loved and wanted. I needed to reassure her for a few months until she healed.

WELL, GABI, Dr. Hansen said, we’ve been trying for half a year already. We’ve run out of options. There’s nothing more we can do.

Except keep trying. Lola again. As Gabi said, we can keep trying.

Mrs. Rodriguez, you have to look at the reality. He’s taking up a hospital bed we need for other patients. Patients we know we can help. And then, there’s the cost. At six months, the extended health insurance is capped. It’s run out. From now on, you will have to cover the cost. You know how expensive a hospital stay is. It’s running, with physician’s care, $3,000 to $4,000 per day. In a week, you’ll go through your retirement savings and Chikki’s college fund. The next week, you’ll lose your house.

I don’t care, Gabi sobbed. I can’t lose him. And Chikki can’t lose her grandfather.

Gabi, Dr. Hansen said, I think you have already lost him. In my 25 years of practice, I’ve encountered quite a few comas. Not one has ever recovered from a GCS of 3 lasting over six months.

I HEAR Gabi making little noises—half sobbing, half choking sounds. She spoke again.

YOU WOULDN’T BE SAYING this if we weren’t Hispanic. You’d keep trying if he were a white guy.

Dr. Hansen’s voice was harsh. Absolutely not. No way. It has nothing to do with that, nothing at all. It’s just that it’s time to unplug. It’s time.

TIME TO UNPLUG. Where have I heard that before? Oh, yes. The vet. A couple of years ago, our beloved Goldie was hit. Lola, a pregnant Gabi, and I were sitting on the front porch on a sweltering summer Saturday, making small talk and trying to cool off with iced tea. A delivery truck ran slowly by on the street, its driver looking at street numbers. Goldie made a streak for it, barking fiercely to drive off the threatening monster. I saw her pass the front wheel and then move  in front of it. She got too close. The wheel caught her and rolled over her. She gave one great howl and then lay still on the edge of the street.

The vet said some of her internal organs had been injured. He couldn’t tell which or how badly. She was alive but unconscious. He put her on life support with tubes and monitors and stuff. We all took shifts sitting with her. We talked to her, sang to her, stroked her, held her. She didn’t respond.

After two days, the vet gave us the ultimate news: there was no hope. It was time to unplug. In tears, we let him unplug her. We cried for days.

NO, Lola moaned. No. We can’t unplug him.

Dr. Hansen sounded even more irritable, his harshness a defense to keep his feelings away from reality. Yes, he said. I’m afraid so. We’ll have to do it sooner or later. Later would just prolong your misery. It wouldn’t  change anything. Do I  have your permission?

Gabi’s sobbed softly. There was no other sound. Lola didn’t give permission.

MY FOG IS CLEARING A LITTLE. Did I hear unplug? That meant the end of life support. I would join Goldie. Was that such a bad thing? I still miss her. But then I would lose Lola and Gabi and Chikki. Three generations of women I loved.  They  represent  my  journey  through  life. They are my reasons for living. I  must  not  abandon  them. I must not.

A thought occurs to me. Why not just tell them you’ve awakened? Because you can’t talk, moron. Can you raise your hand? Can’t seem to do that, either. Finger? Oh, shit. Nothing. I haven’t moved in six months if I’m to believe Hansen.

So what am I going to do about this? Just lie here and let him pull the plug? I’ll put all my focus on moving my right index finger. Try. Try ... It won’t move.

DR. HANSEN SPOKE AGAIN. Do I have your permission?

Lola answered, choking over her words. I guess so. If there’s nothing else we can do.

I WATCH Dr. Hansen look over at the nurse standing by the wall. She nods, signifying that she had witnessed the permission.

Wait! I watch? I’m seeing? My eyes must be open. I’m waking up just as they decide to let me die? I struggle to speak, to move, to make some sign.

Dr. Hansen obscures my vision bending over me to reach the tubes. I feel one tube slip out through my throat and exit my nostril. I swallow. I SWALLOW! But that’s a reflex, not a conscious act. It must have been a feeding tube he pulled. I feel another slipping out, exiting the other nostril. I feel like I’m smothering. I have to breathe. I begin to see black spots. At last, my lungs suck in a breath of air. It feels so good.

OH! Gabi shouted. Doctor. His chest is moving. He’s breathing!

Dr. Hansen pulled back and straightened up. He stared down.

My God! It looks like he is! he said. He grabbed the stethoscope draped around his neck, inserted the earbuds, and placed the diaphragm on the chest. Sure enough! He’s truly breathing, he said after a moment. His eyes were big and staring as he shook his head. It’s possible that the removal of the tubes shocked his system into functioning.

You mean, Gabi said, that if you had pulled them six months ago, he’d have waked up?

No. I don’t mean that, Dr. Hansen rejoined sharply.

Gabi, Lola said, through tears, let’s not look our gift horse in the mouth.

Eduardo, Dr. Hansen said, can you hear me?

I  STRUGGLE   TO   SAY   YES,  but can’t make it. I try to nod. Finally, I manage. I hear him ask, Do you know where you are? I manage to nod again. He asks, Can you blink? I blink. He reaches down and pinches the skin on my forefinger. Ow! This time I manage to pull it away.

HALLELUJAH! Dr. Hansen said, almost shouting. Spontaneous eye control, knowing appropriate words, and withdrawal from a painful stimulus. That’s a 12 on the Glasgow Scale. We’ve got a conscious, cognitive man here!

SUDDENLY LOLA and Gabi are on me, hugging, crying, laughing. I feel like I’m smothering all over again. But, oh my, I will take that sort of smothering any day.

3

LIZZIE’S RUN

LAWRENCE CARLETON

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I took my place on the launch platform in Transporter B. I, Medic Lizzie Ryan, had been ordered to Substation Draco, where an ensign had caught his hand in a blender.

They needed a medical specialist in limb regeneration, so there I was, waiting to be teleported. Ensign Arthur Dent, the on- duty operator of the transporter, verified that the beam path was sufficiently clear, told me to be still, and energized the device.

I stood there, pretending not to be terrified. This would be my first teleportation experience. Transporters are cutting edge technology, and space station Waterloo and its substation satellites are the first to deploy them for regular use.

Ready, in five, four, three... counted Ensign Dent.

I braced myself. There was the initial whir and things momentarily went blank. I closed my eyes. When I opened them, I expected to find myself on Draco, but the room was the same room I supposedly left. Ensign Dent was behind the control panel muttering to himself.

Something is wrong with the system, Dent said. He rechecked all the controls and monitors. Well, I’ve heard that this happens sometimes. Maybe some impurity in the beam path has caused an auto-abort. I’ll check with Uncle Ben to see whether I should just try again.

Uncle Ben is Dr.  Benjamin  Forager,  the  supervisor  of transportation for our station. He was one of the chief engineers on the team which developed the technology.

After Ensign Dent left the transporter bay, I decided I should go in search of a bathroom—quaint that we still call them that. It took me longer than expected to locate one. I hurried back, worried that I was causing a delay. As I approached the transporter doorway, I saw Ensign Dent and Uncle Ben standing at the control panel discussing the inci- dent. It’s the oddest thing, Ensign Dent said. Nothing happened while I was here for several minutes, but now Substation Draco reports they did get our specialist.

Relieved, Uncle Ben assured him, These things happen, Arthur. It’s always wise to be careful. No harm done. I’ll have an engineer investigate the delay. I slid away from the doorway as Uncle Ben left to return to his office.

What to do? The transporter was supposed to disassemble your body into a code which is beamed to a distant spot sepa- rated from your current location mostly by space, then at the distant spot render the code back into the original you. People who have been transported report that they have full memory functionality and the same awareness of body parts, movement, and posture. They have every reason to believe that they are the same person who stood in the transporter a few seconds, or at most, minutes earlier.

My mind was racing. What has happened? Can there really be another me out there? Would she try to take over my life? What will the authorities do if they find out there are two Lizzies? I need a place to hide and think. I sensed that it would be unwise to go back to my quarters. In fact, it would be hard not to be seen going there, and I decided I didn’t want to be seen. Medics’ quarters are some distance from the transporter bays, but engineers’ quarters are scattered  throughout.  Aha! I thought, I know an engineer.

Engineer Nelson Prince’s place wasn’t far. Prince had invited me there on previous occasions, though not for discussions of technology. I decided it was time to pay him a visit. His door was ajar, and he was in night clothes at his desk. I spied the little bookshelf he once described so fondly to me, with its three books: 1) Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury. Prince liked to remark that we don’t burn books anymore. We don’t even publish them in paper. He’s the only person I know who still chooses paper over electronic when he can. 2) Things Fall Apart by Chinua Achebe, his distant relative. 3) No Easy Walk to Freedom by Nelson Mandela, a copy so beaten up that it would fall apart if anyone tried to read it. Prince had told me he just felt good knowing it was there.

His choice of books was totally unexpected, given the way we first met—at the Halloween costume party in the gravity simulator. He was there in his Wakanda outfit, which for him wasn’t much more than a loincloth, gloves, and a scary neck- lace. He was totally into the role, his enthusiasm growing into danger of getting out of hand. (I, by the way, went as Wonder Woman, and wasn’t wearing much more than he.) That was the occasion of my first declining his invitation to visit his quarters. Now, after more no-thank-yous, I will be visiting for the first time.

Prince didn’t seem to notice me as I approached. He muttered to himself, What am I missing? What? What am I missing? as he looked back and forth between two piles of documents which on my closer peek turned out to be about our space station’s transporters. He suddenly looked up as I leaned in to get a better view. He said softly, almost whispering, Am I dreaming, or have you at last taken up my offer?

I looked into his brown eyes and said, I need you awake so you can help me. His smile nearly melted me. I continued, I had an incident with one of our transporters.

I’ve been reviewing the logs. So, you’re the one. Trouble- maker, he chided, but I could see he was smiling. I don’t understand how you can be in two places at once. Somehow, they lost track of you and think it was just a delayed delivery. They don’t know you’re still here on our Battlestar Galactica, do they?

I told him in detail what had happened.

He confirmed, Well, you’re right not to want to be seen. They can’t afford this kind of thing to be known. Stay here. Please stay here.

I wasn’t sure whether this was simply for my protection or there were ulterior motives in play.

Prince continued. Do you remember Todd Friendly? It might have been before you got here. The same thing happened to him and he reported it to Uncle Ben, who made him keep it a secret. He didn’t mention to Uncle Ben that he’d already told his fellow engineers, including Vince, Kwame, and me. Within 24 hours Todd was gone. ‘Reassigned.’ When we asked him, Dr. Benjamin Forager replied that he will never say where and there’s no record of it. You’re here for now, kiddo, at least for the night. I’ve got spare jammies. He grabbed a pair from a drawer and tossed them at me.