New Earth

New Earth

by

Steven Villafranca

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2017 Steven Villafranca

Smashwords Edition, License Notes:

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book an did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Part I

Los Angeles, California

2018 A.D.

Chapter 1

I’m sorry Mr. Burton, but your MRI scans reveal that you have an inoperable brain tumor, the neurosurgeon said in a matter-of-fact fashion that plainly stated, ‘I’ve dished out this news more times than I care to count. Just accept it’.

James Burton, attorney and single dad, was nowhere near accepting the heinous medical diagnosis laid before him.

But I’m only thirty years old. Are you sure there isn’t some mistake? said James, his tone denoting the perplexity he felt.

I’m afraid there is no mistake, Mr. Burton. I conferred with two other neurosurgeons regarding your case and we were all in unanimous agreement. The tumor is inoperable. The doctor rose and flipped a switch. A small block of light came to life on the wall. Here is the MRI scan of your brain, he said, pointing his index finger at the upper left portion of the illuminated transparent image. He pointed at a grouping of tiny red pixels, surrounded by dots in hues of green and blue. The tumor is buried underneath the right hemisphere of your cerebral cortex and it cannot be removed.

His mind reeled, unable to grasp all the information being thrown at him. Great. Not only do I have a tumor, but I can’t even get rid of it! Talk about your catch-22. Taking a moment of silence to collect himself, James said I’m a lawyer, not a biologist. I really don’t understand why the tumor can’t be surgically removed.

The right hemisphere of the cerebral cortex is responsible for carrying out a large majority of the logic processes that occur in the brain. Arithmetic and deductive reasoning being two examples of such processes. It’s not just a cerebral cortex, it’s my cerebral cortex! thought James. These are critical skills, used thousands of times daily. If such a surgery were performed, large layers of healthy cerebral cortex would need to be removed to reach the tumor, and you would be reduced to the intelligence level of an idiot savant. The left hemisphere being unaffected; creativity would remain intact. This is the best possible outcome we could hope to achieve. But, as I said, the surgery will not be performed. Simply put Mr. Burton, most people would not survive the surgery in the first place.

Never before had James experienced failure within the healthcare system. Minor ailments had always been easily solved in the past. He would obtain a prescription for the appropriate pill or ointment, use it for a week or so, and he was back in business again. How can I have a brain tumor? If I was seventy, then I could just chalk it up to old age, but I’m a healthy, vibrant thirty something. This should be the time of my life. Hell, I was just lifting weights in the gym yesterday, James thought dejectedly. The heavy weight of the diagnosis was beginning to press down on him.

The tumor is malignant, the doctor continued. In laymen’s terms, this means that the tumor will continue to grow. Assuming a steady growth rate, it will be roughly the size of a orange within a month. Of course, the growth rate may vary, however, the tumor is beginning to encroach on vitally important brain structures. Structures that are necessary to sustain life.

Alarmed at this new information, James asked, Are you telling me that I only have a month to live?

As an attorney, you must know that I cannot provide that sort of information. I can only inform you of what may happen over a given time course.

Absolutely flabbergasted at the nerve of the doctor, he said, At the moment, doctor, I have bigger things on my mind than medical malpractice law. James intentionally added a contemptuous tone to doctor. The doctor’s jaw dropped open, and remained fixed in that position until James expected drool would seep out at any moment. He rarely lashed out in anger, however the doctors’ brazen attitude toward his own demise had touched his last nerve. What right does this bastard have to tell me I’m dying and then go on with his day as if nothing was wrong!? James took a deep breath. Now I have to go visit my dying child in his hospital bed and then go home and contemplate my own death. A not altogether unpleasant numbing sensation radiated throughout his ribcage as he stoically accepted the dreary facts. Now he could fully identify with a pejorative term he had recently run across. McPatient. James felt every bit a McPatient today.

Mr. Burton, you’re dying. Next.

Chapter 2

Tubes and wires ran in all directions from the small withered boy. The heart monitor emitted a weak, but steady beep every few seconds. Hearing footsteps entering his room, the frail form turned over in his bed, pleased to see his father walk in. James mustered up what little strength he had left and poured it into a warm smile for his young son.

Hey there Jimmy. How’re you feeling today? The corners of Jimmy’s mouth gave the most imperceptible of flickers. This is what passed for a smile over the past few months. His sandy haired son gazed up at him with his big, blue eyes and weakly said Daddy. Sometimes it was difficult to hear the excitement in his voice because he had so little energy to spare. Jimmy was too busy fighting off the cancerous growths that riddled his small body. A battle he’d been engaged in for the past year – the last six months of which had been in the hospital room where James stood now. A devoted father, James spent every evening and weekend with his ailing son. Today James heard the excitement in Jimmy’s voice and his sorely depressed spirit was temporarily lifted. Unfortunately, Jimmy was rapidly losing the battle for his life, sending his father’s spirit plummeting to even darker depths.

James took the bedside chair beside his son. Jimmy turned towards his father and said Make the hurt go away Daddy. The innocence of the two blue orbs implored him, tugging at his heartstrings. Every parental fiber in James’ being wanted to kiss away his sons pain, as if it were nothing more than a skinned knee or elbow, but the rational side of him knew it wasn’t that simple. He barely recognized the boy in front of him as his son. His tiny face was pale, thin and bony, making his eyes appear larger than normal – his body was gaunt from the many unsuccessful doses of chemotherapy and months of intravenous feeding. The emaciated frame under the stiff white hospital sheet belied only the barest of outlines. The outline of a skeleton. How can this be my son?

Unable to speak, James bowed his head and silently held his sons’ hand. Abruptly, the heart monitor changed, no longer displaying vertical peaks and valleys, but rather a solid horizontal line…the steady beep transformed into a steady, continuous tone. The door to the hospital room suddenly burst open, commotion erupting as white blurs whizzed by him. Confused by the sudden tumult, James simply froze. Someone yelled, Get him out of here!, and he was unceremoniously shuffled out the door.

So that’s it then. He stood staring blankly at his feet. First my wife and now my son. And I’m next. I have nothing left. It doesn’t matter…I won’t even have my own life soon – then there won’t be any more pain. The numbness returned, bringing with it the bitter comfort of cynicism and the irrefutable insight that the universe is inherently unjust. Jimmy’s six years of vibrant life had been reduced to a flat green line and a cold cadaver.

Chapter 3

He couldn’t bring himself to head home after the days’ traumatic series of events. He didn’t want to think about his medical condition or his son’s passing. Not one to drown his sorrows, James thought he could make an exception in this case. He headed for the bar. If he ever needed a drink, it was now. He wasn’t planning on having a few beers either. Selecting a bar a few blocks from his house, James had every intention of stumbling, as opposed to driving, home. Signaling the bartender, a man of advancing years, he ordered a whiskey on the rocks.

You can leave the bottle, James handed the bartender his credit card and added, Open a tab. The bartender had sense enough not to comment, set the bottle in front of James and went back to washing and drying the endless stream of pint glasses that accumulate in bars. He took several furtive glances over at his only customer, but the look in his eyes was soft, not intrusive. Remaining silent, the bartender returned to vigorously drying and polishing a beer glass.

Knocking back his third drink, James spies the bartender eyeballing him. Liquid courage coursing through his veins, he pointedly asked Why do you keep looking at me? If alcohol was subtracted from the situation, he would never even have asked the question. Ordinarily he avoided direct confrontation, but today was far from an ordinary day.

The bartender smiled warmly and said, Rough one?

You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. I just had the worst day of my life. He added in a softer tone, What little there is left of it. On to drink number four.

I have tended bar for damn near 40 years and I have heard some pretty awful worst day stories. Tell you what. Why don’t you slow down a bit on that whiskey and get the events of the day off your chest. The elderly bartenders’ soft eyes invited James to unburden himself.

Damn him! Anger flared, but quickly diminished as James suddenly realized that he did want to talk about it. Besides, finding empathy and compassion in Los Angeles was such a rare occurrence that he couldn’t pass up the opportunity to unload his troubles on this kindly man. James spent upwards of sixty hours a week immersed in the banalities of the law, which did not afford him much opportunity to make friends. Here was someone willing to simply listen, and James was in dire need of a friend about now. Something about the bartender’s kindly demeanor set James at ease, so he set his glass down and attempted to make some sense out of the dark cloud that enveloped him.

Spending a few moments gathering his thoughts, James began. Okay, but remember you asked me. The bartender inclined his head, motioning for James to continue.

I just came from my six year old son’s hospital room where he… Emotion choked his voice, forcing himself to continue in a low, emotionally devoid tone, he said …passed away. His outwardly calm demeanor could not be maintained for even one more second. Dismal tumult cracks the fragile shell of James’ mien and his social facade shatters. Unable to continue, or contain himself any longer, James buried his face in his cupped hands.

It’s so hard when loved ones pass. The bartender gave him an understanding pat on the back and offered him a napkin. Reining in his emotions, James wiped his red-rimmed eyes and blew his nose.

Thank you, James said. Where are my manners? I have been telling you my troubles and I don’t even know your name.

Name’s Wren, he said, proffering his outstretched hand.

Firmly clasping Wren’s hand in his own, James told him his name.

It’s always unbelievably sad to hear of children who are with us for such a short time. Fixing James with an almost parental look of love, Wren smiled and said If it helps, you made my ‘worst days’ top ten.

A brief smile flitted through James’ mask of despair. I’m not finished yet. Something else happened just before I went to visit Jimmy, remarked James.

I take it that Jimmy is your son’s name? asked the bartender.

That’s right. He was named after me, but we usually call him by his nickname. James felt the surge of emotion, as he struggled to complete his catharsis. Although his wife had died in childbirth complications,