Eli (16 page)

“That’s still fourteen out of a hundred,” Julia argued.

The young man came to a stop. “Yes, but are you aware of what persistent vegetative state, what ‘pvs’ really is?”

Julia didn’t answer, figuring she’d find out soon enough.

“It means they’re alive, but not alive. Their organs may function; they may breathe, even open their eyes. But their minds are gone. They lack any ability to think, to feel, any ability to ever interact with another.”

“But it’s still life,” she countered.

“Is it? A recent poll of Americans showed that ninety percent would rather die than live such a life.”

“And the cost,” Ernesto interjected from across the room.

“Explain to her the cost.”

Julia turned to him, marveling at how transparent the man had become in so few hours.

“Here, see for yourself.” The lawyer crossed to his brief satchel, pulled out a paper, and handed it to her. She was too exhausted to focus on the numbers but pretended to look as he continued. “Acute care hospitals such as this can run between $1,000 and $2,000 a day. It’s not unusual for those suffering severe injures, such as your father, to remain several months. After that, should he miraculously survive, there comes post-acute care which, as you can see, runs between $350 and $1,000 a day. And finally there will come the nurs-ing facilities, unless of course you plan to take care of him yourself. For the brain-damaged, they will run between $7,500 and $18,000 per month. I’ll save you the math, Ms.

Preston. Bottom line is it will cost 4.6 million dollars to keep hththt 5/14/01 11:35 AM Page 114

114 alive a man who will never be able to think, feel, or communicate. Over four million dollars simply to keep the organs of a dead man’s body functioning!”

“Norman,” the older gentleman admonished.

The young lawyer turned on him, his voice impassioned.

“That’s what we’re talking about here. With so much brain missing, her father will always be in pvs. Even if he survives, he’ll be a vegetable—no more alive than some radish or cucumber or—”

“Norman, please.”

Even though she’d seen it coming, the blow left Julia weakened.

The older gentleman stepped in, right on cue. “Listen, Julia. May I call you Julia?” He didn’t wait for her answer.

“All these numbers, these statistics . . . we know they are not your father. Your father was a vital, living human being. A great man. To reduce him to percentages, to dollars and cents, is an insult. That’s not how his life should be measured.”

Julia turned to him, grateful in spite of herself.

“His life was about living . . . about living without com-promise.”

The words were soothing, comforting, and for the most part true.

“He was a man of honesty and integrity who insisted upon exposing falseness in our society . . . at least that’s who I saw on TV. Am I right about this?”

He had her. There was nothing she could do but nod.

“Honesty was his life’s creed. And now we have to ask ourselves, is this how he would want to continue? A life that isn’t life . . . living that really isn’t living . . . something that is in essence masquerading itself as a lie? Wouldn’t we be forcing him to live the very falseness that he’d spent a lifetime fighting?”

He was good. Better than she’d anticipated. Already she could feel her eyes burning with moisture.

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“And finally”—he let out a sigh—“there’s the matter of his advance directive.” She looked on numbly as the young lawyer reached into his satchel and pulled out the papers.

“Could he have made himself any clearer? It’s right there in black and white, Julia.”

The young man cleared his throat, preparing to read his copy, but the older gentleman raised a hand and cut him off.

“Ms. Preston knows what it says.”

Julia blinked as a tear spilled onto her cheek. Her hand shot up, hoping to wipe it away before it was seen.

The gentleman continued. “Please, Julia, tell me if I’m missing something. Here we have a man who will never be able to think, who will never be able to feel, who is virtually—”

“But he spoke,” Julia blurted out before she could stop herself. “I distinctly heard words.”

The two men exchanged glances, then looked over at Ernesto who watched soberly.

“So I’ve been told,” the older gentleman softly answered.

“But what type of words? What exactly did you hear?”

“He said . . . well, I mean I thought I heard him say . . .”

She swallowed. “I thought I heard him say ‘Jesus Christ.’”

Another pause.

“You thought he said Jesus Christ?” the gentleman repeated.

Julia nodded, brushing away another tear. “Or something like that.”

The younger lawyer stepped in, incredulous. “With the respirator hose shoved down his throat, with it taped to his mouth . . . you heard words?”

Julia tried to hold her ground. “It may not have been those exact words, but I heard something.”

Another moment of silence hung over them. The older gentleman resumed. “Ms. Preston, Julia, are you a religious person?”

“No, not at all.”

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“Is your father?”

“Are you kidding?”

“Well, then, why would he—”

“I don’t know—maybe he was swearing. How should I know? But he said something.”

Ernesto spoke from across the room. “The doctor thinks it was just a grunt or spasm.”

The young lawyer nodded. “Some sort of reflex.”

“Exactly.”

“Julia . . .” It was the older gentleman again. “Can you look at me a moment? Julia?”

Reluctantly, she raised her eyes to meet his.

“You’re under a lot of stress here. That’s apparent to everybody. And rightfully so. May I ask, when was the last time you slept?”

“It’s been—” She cleared her voice. “It’s been a while.”

He nodded in quiet understanding. She glanced away. If she had more strength she would have risen to the defense.

But any strength she’d had was already gone.

“Julia . . .” His voice was gentle, sincere. “I don’t know what you heard, but I must tell you it could not have been words. That is physically impossible.”

She scowled, but he was not affected.

“My suggestion is this. Find a hotel. Get some sleep. And then in the morning, when you’re fresh and rested, we’ll talk again.”

“I know what I heard.”

He nodded. “I know you think you heard it. But I also know what is physically possible and impossible, and I know what the doctors have stated. Even more importantly, I know what your father ordered in his advance directive.” The gentleman paused one last time. “And if for whatever reason you are incapable of carrying out his order, Julia, then it is your responsibility to relinquish your power of attorney.”

“And if I don’t?”

She knew the answer before it came.

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“Then you will be legally removed and replaced by someone who can.”

v

“Where did all these people come from?” Kristi Burke, the high-strung, somewhat anorexic producer of
Cathedral Time
cried. She and Conrad had just entered through one of the side doors of the Cathedral of God, a massive auditorium of honey oak, gleaming chrome, sunlight, and people—lots and lots of people.

“I told you to expect a crowd,” Conrad chuckled.

“Yes, but not this, not . . .
these.”

He looked out over the audience, not entirely sure what she meant. The doors to the Cathedral had been open less than twenty-five minutes, and the 5800-seat auditorium was rapidly filling. He turned back to her and asked, “What do you mean?”

“What do I mean? What do I mean?” She waved her hand toward the front rows. “Look at them!”

Conrad turned his attention to the front. These were usually the rows that filled up the fastest whenever Eli spoke. It was here that the neediest often sat, the ones who’d lined up for hours waiting for his appearance—hoping for a word, a prophecy, a healing. Conrad shook his head. “I’m sorry, I still don’t—”

“Look at them. Right there. And there. And there!”

Now he saw it. Scattered among the clean and smartly dressed congregation were pockets of others who were—

well—not so clean and smartly dressed. Some sported frayed collars or matted sweaters. Others wore torn and dirty trousers. A handful appeared unshaven. For many, it was obvious that soap and shampoo were not always an attain-able luxury. Conrad was not surprised. The caravan had been on the road fifteen days now. And lately, the poor and homeless were showing up more and more often—partially because they needed Eli’s message of hope more than others, hththt 5/14/01 11:35 AM Page 118

118 and partially because Eli often sent Suzanne, Maggie, and members of the group ahead as an advance team specifically to invite them, often using the group’s own cars and vans to bus them in.

“No.” The producer shook her head while motioning to the head usher near the back doors. “This will not do, this will not do at all.”

“You’ve got a problem with the poor being here?” Conrad asked.

“Of course not.” She snapped her fingers discreetly, insisting the usher hurry. “Everyone’s welcome here. But not in the front rows. I’ve got an estimated fifty million potential households who are watching nationwide. It would be unfortunate to give the impression that these people are the primary attendees of our service.”

Although Conrad didn’t think it was possible, his dislike for the woman increased. Part of that was due to his natural sense of justice, but he also suspected part of it had to do with Eli. Of course, he still had problems with Eli’s operating procedures, and it looked like he always would. Yet there was something so true and uncompromising about him. And it didn’t stop there. Because the more Conrad remained in his presence, the more he found
himself
changing. It wasn’t intentional, but gradually, day after day,
he
was starting to see things differently. He was starting to
act
differently.

“Well . . .” Conrad glanced at his watch. “The service starts in less than ten minutes. There’s not much you can do now.”

“We’ll see about that,” she responded.

The head usher finally arrived. He was a bald, intimidating man who could just as easily have passed for a bouncer, were it not for the perma-grin attached to his face.

“Listen,” she ordered, “I need you to move these people in the front here, you see them? I need them to trade places with our regulars. Put them in the back, out of the lights.”

He nodded.

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“And do it fast. We’re on the air in eight minutes.”

The usher signaled for two of his colleagues to join him.

Immediately all three headed for the front.

Without a word, Kristi Burke spun on her heels, dashed up the steps, and was out of the sanctuary doors. Conrad followed, catching up to her in the hallway. “Listen,” he said, “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”

“Relax, our ushers are professional.” They arrived at the elevators and she pressed the
up
button. “They’ll have everyone reseated in plenty of time.”

The doors opened and they stepped in. “Actually,” Conrad answered, “I meant moving the people toward the back like that.” She pressed the third floor button and the doors slid shut. “Eli’s kind of partial to the poor. In fact, I think if he had a preference, he’d—”

“Well, then, he’ll just have to be a good guest and play by our rules, won’t he?”

The elevator had started to rise.

“My point is—”

“I know what your point is, Mr. Davis. And when your friend has his own ministry to support, especially one this large, then he’ll understand the importance of maintaining a sizable
and influential
donor base.”

“Meaning . . .”

“Success breeds success. People won’t support us if they tune in and think they’re giving people like your friends in the front row a free ride.”

The elevator doors opened, and she headed down the hall toward the director’s booth, her heels clicking on the expensive, tumbled marble tile. Conrad followed and said nothing more. They arrived at the door to the back of the booth and entered. It was an adequate room, located dead center on the third balcony. In some ways it reminded Conrad of the press club seats at Dodger Stadium. He stayed against the side wall, moving past the director and switching board until he arrived at the tinted glass that looked down upon the auditorium.

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“Okay, we’re at two minutes,” the director spoke into his headset. Conrad turned to survey the equipment. It was a smaller operation than the Charlene Marshal Show, but definitely state of the art. They had everything they needed . . .

and then some. The director, a seasoned pro in his fifties, continued, “Let’s place Reverend Snyder and his guest, please.”

Conrad looked back out the glass as, down on the stage, two opposite doors opened. Reverend Snyder, a trim, distinguished man with coal-black hair, was ushered in and seated on the left by one stagehand while Eli was ushered in and seated on the right by another. They were separated by a good thirty feet of plush burgundy carpet, and a large oak altar with two man-sized candelabras on either side—each supporting a dozen white, lit candles.

Down below, the team of ushers was just finishing their replacement of people—escorting the poorer ones to the back, bringing the more affluent ones to the front.

“How’s the reverend’s wireless?” the director asked.

“Up and running,” the pudgy sound man to his right answered.

“And the guest’s?”

“Checked.”

“Okay, gentlemen, we’re at one minute. Stand by pre-roll intro.”

“Standing by.”

Conrad was impressed at how clean and professional the operation was run. There seemed little difference between it and any secular broadcast.

“Hold it.” The director pointed to one of the monitors before him. “What’s he doing?” He spoke into his headset.

“Larry, tell our guest he has to be seated, we’re about to go on the air.”