Pipeline (2 page)

* * * *

She rose from the table, realizing that hours
had ticked away while she replayed that night in her mind like a
movie she had seen all too often. It was noon, and her shift at the
hospital began at two o’clock. She was clearing the table when the
phone rang.

Tracy stared at the caller id, noting a
number she hadn’t seen before: 000-000-0000. Underneath the number
it read: NO DATA SENT.

Strange, never saw that before.

She answered the phone.

“Hello?”

Static...

“Hello?”

Nothing but static, and then...silence.

Chapter Two

She stood at the
third floor nurse’s station and shuffled through the small mountain
of paperwork in front of her. Marcia Ross could see that Tracy
wasn’t as focused as usual, but she hadn’t been for some time, at
least, not since the accident.

“Why don’t you leave this paperwork for later
and go make your rounds,” Marcia said. “It will clear your head.”
It wasn’t so much a question as it was a strong suggestion.

“I’m fine,” she said, slapping down a manila
folder with a puff of edgy exasperation that blew her bangs up and
away from her forehead.

“You don’t look fine,” Marcia said, as Tracy
stepped away from the station hub.

Since the accident, her colleagues had been
watching her like a specimen in a Petri dish. They would cajole her
into talking, but she wondered what was left to talk about. There
was nothing left for her to do except throw herself into her work,
and right now, she had to check on a patient: Mr. Richardson in
305.

Mr. Richardson was eighty-eight years
fragile, and frequent cardiac episodes had left him precious little
time, like tiny grains of sand slipping to the bottom half of an
hourglass. Serious bouts of dementia had spotlighted him as a
patient, extracting extra attention from nurses, but doctors had
predicted an imminent curtain call. Tracy checked his dwindling
vital signs.

He turned his head toward her, trying to
speak. His blue eyes motioned behind a moistened glaze, and his
mouth stretched open wide as he struggled to speak and breathe.

“Relax, Mr. Richardson.” She shushed him. His
attempts became groans.

The old man was sedated, but he struggled and
fought the euphoria. She saw the beads of sweat break on his face
and his lips quiver to form words.

“Pr—Pri—”

“Calm down, calm down, Mr. Richardson,” she
said, lulling him.

“Prince-cess” The esses dropped off into that
familiar, final gasp, and blue eyes rolled backward into eternity.
The loud, fast bleeping of the monitor blared out in code.

“CODE BLUE!” She yelled from the room and in
an instant, the double doors were invaded by a small, green clad
cavalry: a resident doctor, an intern, and two more nurses, one of
which was Marcia.

The intern grabbed the paddles and
waited.

“Now!” Marcia yelled.

The old man jumped at the jolt of
electricity. Nothing.

“Again.” Nothing.

“Clear,” Marcia said, watching the monitor,
hoping for the last ditch effort.

The body bolted one last time, but the blip
became flat and the bleep unending.

“I’m going to call it,” the intern said.
“4:35.”

The team stood silent and respectful at the
spectacle of death. Tracy stood with her back against the wall,
wide eyed and reeling and clutching the wall behind her. The shock
raised her hair and goosed her frozen skin. She became statuesque,
doing nothing, paused behind an unblinking stare. Her colleagues
witnessed everything, and glares of confusion and disapproval met
her. But they hadn’t heard what he called her—Princess...

* * * *

Dr. Kemp, a man of modest, early sixties, was
the chief-of-staff at University Hospital, and Tracy felt no
surprise when she learned that he expected her in his office at the
end of her shift. She supposed she was now the talk of the
hospital, having flipped out when an elderly patient died, but had
she told them why, it might confirm their suspicions. Her mind
flooded with improbable explanations.

His office was a comfortable setting with a
maroon colored couch against the left wall and a large,
presidential desk in the middle, neat and uncluttered. A framed
family portrait slanted sideways stared back at her, as she sat in
a plush chair set opposite the desk for moments like these.

“Tracy, I wanted to talk to you about what
happened today,” he said, dropping the formalities. The soft toned
Kemp was a pleasant man, a revered doctor, and a perfect pick as
chief-of-staff. He was also an understanding friend, and she
squirmed at the thought of lying to him.

“I know,” she said.

“They said that you froze in there, in
Richardson’s room.” He paused. “That’s not like you, Tracy. Do you
want to tell me what happened?”

He spoke to her now as her friend, not as her
superior.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she said,
diverting her eyes to the family portrait.

“Tracy, you haven’t been yourself lately and
everyone has noticed it, especially Marcia. Tell me, what’s been
going on?”

A brief silence passed between them. He was
right. Everyone knew she hadn’t been herself since the accident,
but no one would believe the events of the last twenty- four hours,
these odd occurrences that were placing her perilously close to the
edge. She wasn’t prepared to relate to him what happened late last
night or earlier today.

“Is it about the accident? You haven’t said
much of anything since it happened. Tracy, you need to talk to
someone...anyone.”

“It’s just that every time I try to put it
behind me, something, some memory, brings it all back.” She found
this to be a more discreet answer. Kemp was an understanding man,
but his old fashioned cynicism would suspect that she’d gone mad as
a hatter.

“When was the last time you talked to Dr.
Logan?”

And there it was, without even a mention of
last night or today.

“So, you think I’m crazy? That’s what this is
all about?”

“No, no, Tracy. I don’t,” he said, reassuring
her. “It’s just that Dr. Logan was helping you after the accident,
and I was thinking, well, when was the last time you saw her?”

Dr. Susan Logan was the psychiatrist on staff
who was there to “help” her through her grief almost immediately
after the accident and force her to except the fact that David was
dead, as if any of that would be possible. Tracy reluctantly agreed
to grief sessions, where she was diagnosed as having “survivor’s
guilt,” and then stopped going. There was nothing a shrink could do
to convince her to move on, as though she were blameless. There was
no time table to stop grieving, and Susan Logan couldn’t tell her
it wasn’t her fault.

“What is it that you think Susan can do for
me? Do you, or anyone else, think that she is going to wave a magic
wand and make everything as though it never happened?”

Her voice climbed in anger, and the
impatience stamped on her face prompted Kemp to lift both hands to
soothe her.

“Tracy, it’s been six months since David was
killed. That is not a long time. No one expects you to stop
grieving.”

A tear she tried to stop rolled down her
face. He continued.

“It’s just that if something is bothering you
now, you have to speak to someone, and that’s why Susan is here.
Tracy, you’re an outstanding nurse. You can put this behind you and
focus on your life and career again.”

If you only knew!

“Give her a call?” He tried to convince her
with a wink. She dabbed her eyes with a Kleenex and cracked a half
smile.

“I will,” she said, although she had no
intention of doing so.

He patted her on the shoulder and after a few
words on a different subject, she left his office. She sighed as
she drove from the hospital parking lot. Just what would she have
told the head shrinker about the recent episodes: the sound of
David’s voice through the television, then Mr. Richardson’s dying
words? She had no proof of any of it, and they would send her off
to the state hospital in no time.

She pressed the button on the car radio; the
advertisements were boasting.
Save fifty percent now with no
interest for six months...

A rush of static interrupted, then the radio
began flipping from one station to another on its own, stringing
together brief sounds of blips, bleeps, and blats. Fast musical
notes and words spoken in mid-conclusion bounced back and forth in
a chaotic collage.

Tracy looked down at the radio in shock; both
of her hands were on the steering wheel, not touching the
radio.

There was another quick rush of static then
music. It was CCR singing that song, the last song she recalled at
the party before the crash.

I see a Bad Moon Rising...I see trouble on
the way...

Chapter Three

She was home within
minutes after clicking off the radio and flooring the gas pedal.
Her heart pounded fast, as the sweat poured down her face. Déjà vu
swept her once again at her kitchen table; the scene was the same
as earlier that morning, yet so much had transpired since
then.

The shock was surreal, and her eyes stared at
nothing as everything replayed in her mind. When Richardson had
uttered his one final word, it sent her reeling into a world where
she began to not only question her sanity, but reality itself. Then
the radio had taken control of itself in the jeep, playing of all
songs, that one.

She had to tell someone, anyone, before they
all sent her off to an asylum for “not being herself.” Marcia’s
role of guardian angel had become a constant after David’s death,
and her parents had moved away from this quaint, college town in
western Pennsylvania. They retired to the palms and sands of the
Florida Keys; Tracy stayed behind to do what she did best, being a
nurse.

She and David were going to be married, and
live in this house, and have breakfast every day at this same
table, but all of that was gone. She was alone now...or was
she?

The silence of the house grew empty, dead,
except for the maddening tick, tick, tick, of the clock that made
her jump up in a frenzied fury from the chair. Much like the fly
trapped by the spider’s web, she felt confused, confined. Her eyes
searched the room for a way to break free from frenzy. She cringed
at turning on the television or the radio. She stared at the phone
and waited for it to ring. Nothing.

She retrieved the bottle of Jack Daniel’s
from the cupboard along with a medium sized glass, which she filled
with ice, and poured herself a double header. She swigged and
swallowed hard, grimaced, and shook. Her blood turned hot and began
to circulate the smooth, soothing, calm that bourbon did best. She
breathed hard, closed her eyes, and thought.

What if I am losing my mind?

But she couldn’t be. She’d heard Richardson
call her “Princess” just as sure as she’d heard the radio in the
jeep go berserk and the strange voice from the static.

She swigged the glass again, then picked up
the phone and dialed Marcia’s number. She answered on the third
ring.

“Hello?”

“Marcia, it’s me,” Tracy said, her voice
creaking and raspy. “Do you think you could come over?” It was the
cry for help that Marcia Ross had long been expecting; Tracy was
ready to talk.

“I’ll be right over.”

Marcia’s answer was quick and final and the
phone went dead. She was needed; no questions were asked. It was
typical of her. She knew Marcia would listen. She needed Marcia to
listen, to tell her she wasn’t losing it...but could she?

Soon, there was a knock at the door.

She let Marcia inside, and her quick embrace
brought the tears back to her eyes.

“You’ve been drinking,” she said, clasping
both sides of Tracy’s face in her hands.

Tracy led her back to the kitchen and offered
her a drink. Marcia declined, taking a seat at the table and
pointing to the bottle.

“First off—that is not going to help you,”
she said. “So tell me, what is going on?”

Tracy wiped the corner of her wet eye with
her knuckle. She was cautious, reluctant, but there was no turning
back now.

“I’ve been seeing things, hearing
things...”

Marcia stared back at her. This particular
revelation was unexpected, and Tracy saw the look of concern on
Marcia’s face, especially in light of the bottle on the table.

“It didn’t start until last night, and I
haven’t slept since,” she said.

“Have anything to do with what happened
today?”

“Yes,” she said, and started at the
beginning.

She told her about the television the night
before.

“I know I wasn’t dreaming,” she said. “I was
at that point of drifting off but could still hear. I could hear
the static on the television, but I just couldn’t wake myself to
turn it off. Marcia, I know it was David’s voice. I heard it as
plain as I can hear yours.

She mentioned the strange phone call and the
caller id message: NO DATA SENT, and how it flashed multiple zeroes
as a calling number.

“I answered the phone,” she said before
Marcia could suggest an explanation. “There was no one, just an
odd, far off sound and more static.”

“Tracy, what happened at work today?” Marcia
reached over and clasped her trembling hand.

“I went in to check on Mr. Richardson, right
before he--”

“Go on,” she said, prompting.

“He became excited, and I tried to calm him,
and he...he...”

Her head drooped, and more tears fell from
her eyes.

“He called me ‘Princess!’” It was an
emotional dam that broke, gushing forth a flood of tears along with
a painful sigh that escaped her burdened breath.