(Eight Years Earlier)
Jeremy Marshall sat in the office down the hall from his congressional boss, head in his hands, trying to weep but could not. The phone call had come out of the blue; his father was in the Emory University Hospital in Atlanta after suffering a massive heart attack in Valdosta. Emergency units there had responded, delivering him to the local hospital after stabilizing his vitals. The Valdosta doctors had concluded, under advisement from a local cardiologist, that his father’s condition warranted a transfer to a better-equipped cardiac unit in Atlanta.
The younger Marshall man had just celebrated his 28th birthday, but with the day’s events was feeling much older. Premature thick, grey hair, cut short at the sides and swept back, with no bangs, accentuated his thin face and slightly furrowed forehead. Green eyes, set back with narrow fissures, and long lashes almost made Jeremy look sinister, but a cosmetically altered row of teeth and a picture perfect smile, soon overcame most people’s first impressions. His nose, he’d inherited from his mother, was slightly angled to the left with an odd, little cleft right in the middle at the end. It drove him crazy but added character to his aging face. At almost 30, Jeremy’s lifestyle was already taking its toll. Too many meals at the mall and no exercise were wearing him down physically, but his brain was ever active, never a moment without something winding its way through the vast networks of his mind. Nights were often spent on the computer or reading material to keep his boss informed, but he could quite easily get by on four hours sleep without looking any worse for wear. Women found Jeremy Marshall attractive but he could not be bothered, the young clerks, interns and the occasional hooker were enough to satisfy his sexual urges, but a marriage relationship was nowhere on his radar, at least not yet.
The father and son had not spoken for months. The older Marshall’s wedding to a realtor, two years previous, had driven a wedge between them that seemed immovable. The woman, Beverly Davis, was a feisty piece of work, aggressive, motivated, and certainly not without merit, but Jeremy, from the beginning, believed the relationship was more about money than love. The weeks leading up to the marriage had put an unbearable strain on the father-son relationship; Jeremy had pushed for a pre-nup, which his father refused to consider. Blinded by love and lust, a man in the middle of his life would do all sorts of stupid things; at least Jeremy saw it that way.
His father had significant real estate holdings throughout the South, enough to make Beverly a very rich woman should he have an early demise, however, word of his heart attack had been a total surprise to the estranged son, and he suspected his stepmother had nothing to do with it. His interactions with Ms. Davis had been quite formal, with very little opportunity to get to know each other on a personal level, both lead very busy professional lives. She was likable and seemed to make his father happy, but two years for half his father’s estate was more than he could bear.
Jeremy was a top aide to a longstanding republican congressman who had a prominent position on the House Armed Services Committee. Most of his time was spent in Washington D.C. but he kept a home in Charleston, South Carolina, the place of his birth. It had been Beverly that had convinced his father to pull up roots and move his operation and home to Valdosta. The move had been more than troubling for Jeremy, what little control or influence he had with his father was gone, and he knew it. It was not that his father did not love him, he knew better, but the two men, both very independent, did not see eye to eye, and that was it.
The news of his father’s condition sent Jeremy’s mind into full, self-preservation mode. He wondered how much information, in regards to his father’s vast holdings, had been released to his new wife. Prior to the wedding he had warned his dad not to make his business affairs an open book to the realtor, but rather give it some time, see how the marriage went before disclosing everything. He hoped, as he sat in the office, that his father had taken that advice to heart. Jeremy had not been privy to the will since his father’s wedding, but suspected that it had been re-drafted over the past two years to include Beverly as a 50 % claimant.
He picked up the phone, but only after practicing speaking in a distraught, emotional tone, “Hello Bev, this is Jeremy, how’s my dad?” He needed some firsthand information before he’d be able to make any concrete business arrangements, didn’t want to appear too greedy, too quickly.
“Jeremy, you poor thing, all the way up there in DC by yourself,” she spoke in a sickening sweet Southern accent that he saw through in an instant. “How you holding up?”
Like she really cared. He again kept his voice quivering and full of concerned emotion, “I’m trying to keep it together but it’s hard, not being there and not knowing what to expect.” He played this game of chess better than most; his political career had taught him well.
“I’ve just spoken to the cardio specialist here at the hospital and he’s optimistic. They’ve got his vital signs stable for now, but he’s weak, very weak,” she repeated. “Are you going to catch a flight?”
“Just as soon as I can.” His mind reeled; he needed some time to do a few things before he showed up as the grieving son. “I’m thinking I’ll be there sometime tomorrow night at the earliest.” Needing to know the possibility of his father’s likely death, but not wanting to sound anxious, he was careful in the delivery of his questions. Mustering his best possible performance and even squeezing a tear from his eyes, he asked, “Is he expected to survive? Is my dad going to live?” That said, he listened carefully to the answer and the intonation. Chess was more than just making moves; it was knowing the mind of your opponent.
“It’s just too early to tell, like I said, they are trying to be optimistic, but I’m praying he’ll pull through for all our sakes,” she said, through real life sobs and tears. Maybe he’d read her wrong but on the other hand maybe he’d just met his match.
“Me too, me too,” he quietly said. “Listen, I’m going to get there as quick as I can, you’ve got my cell number so update me as needed, okay?”
“Sure, will do dear, goodbye.”
Jeremy spent the next three hours in his office making notes, running some through a shredder and setting others in a file folder situated prominently on his desk. At the end of that time he had devised what he considered to be a foolproof plan contingent upon two very key factors. One, that the will, did indeed, split the estate between himself and Beverly, and two, that in the event of his stepmother’s death the entire estate would revert to the sole heir, himself.
Jeremy looked at his watch, 2:30 p.m., he’d read between the lines of what his stepmother had said, knowing as well as she did that there was little chance of his father’s survival. Every minute between now and then would be critical. The aide walked down the hall, peering into offices, offering a friendly hello to his co-workers until he found an office that was unoccupied. Pulling the door closed behind him, he sat at the computer and searched for Lowndes County Land and Title, it appeared at the top of the search field. He clicked on the link that opened a homepage; scrolling to the bottom he found a contact number, which he dialed from the phone sitting on the same desk.
A woman answered the phone in a very professional manner, an accent, but not Southern, perhaps Texan, he asked to speak to the director and was put on hold while she patched him through. Mr. Ignatius Savard answered the phone, “Hello, this is Director Savard, how can I help you?”
“Iggy, Jeremy Marshall, how are you?” doing his best to sound sincere.
“Mr. Marshall, so nice to hear from you, I’m well, thanks for asking. How are things in our capital?”
“They’re good here but I wish I could say the same for my father, he had a heart attack today there in Valdosta and was airlifted to Atlanta.” Assuming the role of the concerned son once again.
Ignatius, Iggy to most, had been very helpful to the Marshall’s over the years as they bought and sold properties in Lowndes County. Jeremy knew Iggy to be a hard worker, stuck in a go nowhere job. Mr. Savard had reached the pinnacle of his career, opportunities had come and gone and with each advancing year Iggy found himself further and further behind. A penchant for gambling and an ex-wife to support had driven the balding, heavyset director almost to suicide. Jeremy considered them to be a bit more than casual acquaintances, more a resource than friend though, but the director didn’t need to know that. For his plan to succeed there would need to be eyes and ears on the ground in Valdosta as well as someone with access to county records. Iggy was the perfect man for the job, but Jeremy knew the director would need to be convinced.
“I’m shocked, I just saw your dad the other day over at the courthouse, he seemed fine. How’s he doing? Do the doctors know anything yet?” a concerned Iggy asked.
“We’re trying to remain positive, but I haven’t even seen him yet, just trying to get things in order so I can drive down.“
It suddenly seemed odd to Ignatius that Mr. Marshall would be taking the time to contact him before flying to his father’s side. Without asking, he could tell that something was up, but patiently waited to see where the conversation was going.
“I’m sure you think it strange that I’d be calling but I have something that I’d like to run by you, that is if you have time,” Jeremy conveyed in his smooth, convincing voice. “I’ll be driving to Atlanta over night and could stop in Valdosta in the morning.”
“Can I ask what this is in reference to?”
“Let’s just say that if Mr. Marshall passes I’m not likely to be in a very generous mood with reference to his bride of two years and I think you could play a helpful role in something I have in mind,” the son said, while trying to pick up the vibe coming from the other end of the line.
“I don’t see how I could possibly be of help, just what would you need me to do, exactly?” he cautiously asked. But before he could get a reply he thought of his surroundings and said, “Hold on, give me a moment.” He got up from his chair, closed the door and lowered the shutters that prevented prying eyes from seeing into his office. Returning to the phone he said, “We’re talking about something outside the law, right?”
The voice at the other end concurred, “You are correct, however, it’s a very victimless proposition, one in which you won’t have to get your hands dirty.” Jeremy was careful not to use the word crime as he lied to his ‘would be’ accomplice. “I can assure you, if all goes as I suspect it will, we will both be very wealthy men for the rest of our lives. Let me emphasize that again, very, very wealthy.” He knew he had Mr. Savard’s attention.
“Okay, let’s just say for the sake of argument that I’m mildly interested, can you tell me what I’d have to do?” the round little man inquired, beads of sweat forming on his brow. The possibility of a sting operation crossed his mind, but the thought of millions in his pocket forced him to press on.
“I’ll be leaving very shortly and will be arriving in Valdosta in approximately 14 hours. We’ll need to meet face to face but somewhere without any onlookers, do you have a suggestion?”
Iggy thought, pausing, just his breathe audible at the other end, “How about a vacant house? I just processed the paperwork on it today, some older home in the country that was part of an estate sale that is empty at the moment. New owners live out of state, won’t be anybody around for miles.” He was pleased that he’d been able to come up with someplace so quickly and under pressure.
“Sounds perfect, get me the details, and Mr. Savard if the authorities show up I will deny everything we’ve discussed and I am very persuasive. You can consider your present career over if you do anything to undermine our little arrangement. Do you understand?” the more aggressive man uttered into the phone.
“Yeah, yeah, wealthy you said, right and this is no joke?”
“No joke!”
Iggy scrambled through a couple of folders on his desk until he found the one he needed. He relayed the address and directions quickly over the phone to Jeremy who scribbled it down and placed it into his file folder.
“I don’t have to remind you not to tell a soul about this conversation. Is that understood? Not anyone, but if I get even a hint that you’ve talked, I will pull out and leave you penniless, are we clear?” There was no answer; he repeated rather forcefully, “Are we clear?”
“Yeah, yeah, crystal. So when should I be there?” the shaken director replied.
“Let’s say 6:00 a.m. at the location, come alone.”
“But what is it we are….”
Jeremy cut him off, driving home the point that he was in charge, “There’s absolutely nothing more you need to know now, I’ll explain in the morning.” He dropped the receiver back onto the cradle.
He was a time management genius, a stickler for details, and as he walked the short distance back to his office he started putting his ducks in a row. Rather than flying, he’d drive, reasoning that he’d felt the urgency to get to his father’s bedside and couldn’t wait to arrange a flight. The 13 hours it would take to drive would be valuable time for furthering his agenda and get the small details worked out in his mind before meeting with Iggy. The more he considered the plot, the more it became structurally sound in his mind. He, nor his partner, Ignatius, would have to get his hands dirty, but somebody would. Somebody would have to get their hands very dirty, but who. He could work that out later. Right now, more than anything, he needed to make sure his inheritance didn’t fall into the lap of some gold digging realtor.
Jeremy was unsure of exactly where all his father’s holdings were but he knew they were substantial. The largest and most valuable piece of property in his portfolio was just outside of Valdosta, one that he had purchased years ago with his forward looking vision, and his ability to turn worthless land into viable real estate. He had purchased the land with the expectation that, at some point, the military would need to expand the Air Force Base and the only direction they could go was south. The land had been obtained through multiple purchases from small farms and landowners, until he owned the entire section, save for one tract that fell to the extreme south of his.
With nothing more he could do from Washington, he made the rounds, telling everyone that his father was gravely ill and he would need to leave immediately for Atlanta. He put the most senior aide in charge with instructions to contact him via cell phone should anything urgent arise.
Packing was quick, only taking the necessities; he could buy anything that he’d forgotten later as the need arose. Confident that he had everything, including a small handheld recorder, he filled up with gas and started on the long journey south on highway I-95.
The drive had proven more difficult than Jeremy had imagined. Emotion, stress and the prospect of having to move an illegal conspiracy forward to achieve his goals, weighed heavily on his mind. When he allowed his thoughts to wander, he was taken back to happier times, his father sitting in the stands at his little league baseball game, a trip to New York to see the Yankees, nights around the kitchen table playing cards with family. All fond memories overshadowed by events of the past few years, mostly of his own doing. Opportunities lost, the birthday cards never sent, the phone calls left undone and so many other chances to repair the bridge that separated he and his dad, plagued his thoughts. The selfish panic that had set in when he received word of his father’s condition had mellowed as he’d driven the many hours throughout the night. There was no doubt in his mind that he loved his father. He had been a wonderful man, the example of his youth, a man of character and wisdom. Jeremy had envisioned himself as such a man, but the ugly side of politics had warped his perception of the world, seeing the dark and cynical as the norm, rather the exception. The plot that he had so quickly concocted took further shape and came together within his realist view of things. On one hand, he hoped for a full recovery, vowing to set things right and start anew with their relationship, but the power that would come from his father’s death pushed at him to embrace a more sinister view.
Playing devil’s advocate he spoke into the tiny recorder, hour after hour, trying to foresee any possible angle, any remote, unforeseen hiccup that could derail a strategy that would lead to his destiny. The exercise proved helpful not only to lay the puzzle out in his mind’s eye but also to keep him awake. The highway was black, very few cars, only semis and trailers delivering goods up and down the coastal highway. By the time he started to see mileage markers, indicating the remaining distance to Valdosta, he was physically and emotionally drained. He pulled off the highway at a rest area to stretch and confirm the directions to the meeting place.
It appeared he would be early, “I’ll maybe get a few minutes to sleep,” he thought, taking the time to use the bathroom, get a drink, then he was back on the road.
The directions Iggy had given were flawless. Jeremy pulled into the long, dirt path that lead to the house, arriving shortly after 5:00 a.m.. A whitetail deer, with a small fawn, stood on the lawn under a large oak tree, they darted into the brush that extended on either side of the home when the approaching lights hit them. The house, an older country style home with an extensive wraparound porch, was well kept with some wear to the dated paint, but for the most part was a sound looking property. His father had taught him what to look for when investing in real estate. He’d listened carefully, perhaps it was those early instructions that had trained him to be so careful, to examine everything he did from multiple angles and to second-guess nothing. His engine finally quiet, he reclined the driver’s seat and closed his eyes, sleep overtook him in seconds but he did not dream.
Tap, tap, tap, Mr. Savard gently rapped his knuckle against the driver's window. Slightly harder this time, tap, tap, tap, and a response from within the sedan's front seat. Mr. Jeremy Marshall shot forward in his seat, slamming his chest against the steering wheel and in the process honking the horn. Not exactly the reaction he had expected, but Iggy couldn’t help but laugh as the dazed man tried to get his bearings. Jeremy looked doe eyed through the window to see a trench coat covered Iggy staring back at him, knuckle still pressed against the glass. They nodded to one another in recognition and Iggy moved away from the door allowing Jeremy to climb out.
A very groggy Jeremy stretched forth his hand, taking Iggy’s in his, and shook it lazily. “Sorry about that, thought I’d catch a couple winks and fell sound asleep. Glad that was you looking back at me.”
“Hope it’s okay that I’m a few minutes late, took longer to drive out here than I estimated?” Ignatius explained in a hushed tone.
“Sure, I needed the extra minutes anyway. I don’t think there’s any need to whisper, you’d said nothing around for miles, right?”
“Yeah, that’s right. How was the drive? Bet you’re worn out,” the shorter man said in an effort to break the ice and set them both at ease.
“It was good, long, I’m almost regretting not flying,” Jeremy replied, reaching into his pocket and turning the recorder on. “You still interested in what we discussed over the phone?”
The generally cautious Iggy looked at the ground, again weighing the answer to that decision in his head, "I'd like to hear you out. I'm not interested in anything that gets anybody hurt, other than financially. Didn't get much sleep these past few hours thinking about what you've said but I'm still very much in the dark."
"Fair enough, I wasn't able to lay very much out over the phone so let's see what you think after I give you some details." Jeremy didn't want to give everything away, there would be time for that later, for now getting him to take the bait was the priority, setting the hook would be secondary. The two walked the short distance to the front porch of the house, no chairs, but the railing was clean and sturdy and the men sat in the early morning light and discussed the possible death of Mr. Marshall and the repercussions that would follow.
"I understand and agree that this Beverly Davis should be entitled to some portion of the estate, as you've explained, but certainly not 50 %, especially if your father has the assets you've alluded to. I'm not entirely sure how you'll keep her from securing it should your father pass away and the will shows her as a one half heir, but I'd like to help, as long as you keep the money rolling in. There's nothing worse than dealing with a greedy bitch, believe me, been there — done that, pretty much ruined my life. Everything I've worked for my whole life flushed down the toilet because of an ex-wife. A little payback would feel good for a change."
"There is no doubt that she will get the house, and I'm okay with that, but it's the properties and bank accounts that I find more troubling. I think the first thing we need to do is play this on the up and up, go down the road of executing all the legal options set before us, and only put our 'plan' into motion once we've exhausted all those avenues. We will need to wear her down, get her to the point that she is so anxious to settle that she'll take an offer that is more reasonable to us. I think that's where you'll be able to help." Jeremy saw the other gentleman lean in, his body language expressing how very interested he was in the discussion.
"I have no idea how much Beverly knows about my father's holdings but do you remember the amalgamation of properties he bought a number of years ago, just south of Moody?"
"Yeah, they were pretty rapid fire, one after the other. I think he owns most of that land except for maybe a few farms that were holdouts." Mr. Savard tried to remember the details of the acquisitions but it was too long ago to bring all the minutiae forward.
"He does, except for a single fairly large tract to the extreme south, but it's not of any critical importance. Effectively I need you to throw up any roadblocks you can to slow down her side of this forthcoming battle. I don't understand it enough to tell you how to do it, I'll leave that up to you, but you need to do everything within your power to manipulate, hide, disrupt the flow of information, to Beverly and her legal team, without it drawing attention to you or me. Can that be done?"
Iggy scratched his head, wheels turning, "I don't know for how long I'll be able to stall her, but I'm pretty sure I can slow them down. How long do we need to drag this out?"
"As long as it takes, like I said, we need to really wear her down. She's not getting any younger and she'll eventually see it our way and concede. I've dealt with people like her my whole life, I know she's going to have a breaking point; we just need to find it. I'm not going to blow smoke up your ass Iggy, I need to know if you're in this for the long haul. This could take months or even years, but I can tell you that at the end of the day you'll be a very rich man," Jeremy promised.
"Can you guarantee for me that no one will get hurt?" he asked, but the answer didn't matter, Iggy knew he was in regardless; the dream of wealth untold for a gambling addict was more than he could reject. Jeremy had counted on it.
"Yes, based on the information we have today, I can say yes, but we may have to tweak how we deal with her responses on an ongoing basis. The other thing I'll need from you is your watchful eyes right here in Valdosta. I can't follow everything going on here, I'll need to appear that I'm continuing to keep my nose to the grindstone in DC," the younger Marshall confirmed.
Over the next two hours the two conspirators worked out the logistics of how they would communicate, via the Internet, with a simple coded system. Phone calls would be almost never and generally only payphone-to-payphone. The connection between the two would need to remain totally obscure. Jeremy suspected, barring a quick acceptance of a limited offer, that another conspirator would need to be brought in at a later date to facilitate the nastier handiwork, but he did not address that or a number of other important details with the land and title director. Of course, the entire discussion and plans of the morning would be forgotten if his father survived. Jeremy tried to convince himself that his father's successful recovery was what he truly wanted.
The two, now on the same page, shook hands with a promise to stay in touch. Iggy left the home first, giving himself enough time to stop at a Waffle House for breakfast. Jeremy waited about 30 minutes before starting the four-hour drive to Atlanta. He confirmed the recording taken over the previous few hours, every word, every discussion; every communication would be documented and saved. One thing he'd learned dealing with slippery politicians was the need for ammunition, the more the better, especially if someone begins to develop selective amnesia.
Back on the road, Jeremy tried not to think about the discussion he’d just had with Ignatius, but rather poured his energy into what he would say to his father, if he was given the chance. A voice inside his head scolded him for thinking of his father as already gone, suspecting it was a foregone conclusion that he would not survive the heart attack. He vowed to himself that he could be the bigger man and say he was sorry for the misunderstandings, but as for Beverly, he was still unsure. The closer he got to Atlanta the more his heart ached for the fatherly companionship he’d once had. The prospect of never seeing his father’s smiling face again finally brought true grief, and for the first time in the past 36 hours, he cried.
The hospital was a massive structure with wings extended in every possible direction. At the front desk he asked for assistance in getting to the Cardiac ICU. A rotund, short black woman pulled a map from a thick pad and explained how he would navigate the hospital to get to the unit, highlighting the path with a pink highlighter. With map in hand, Jeremy moved through corridors filled with patients, visitors and medical staff, some obviously in a hurry, and others with ashen faces being consoled by loved ones. He reached the 4th floor of the cardiac unit, still unsure of what he would say but confident the words would come. Outside of the unit a set of doors blocked entrance without the approval of the nurses manning the unit station. A buzzer on the wall had a small note indicating that access would be granted once you explained your reason for being there. Jeremy depressed the buzzer and waited.
“Cardiac Unit, can we help you?” a female's voice echoed from behind the doors.
“I’m here to see my dad, Mr. Marshall. I’m Jeremy Marshall, just got here from DC,” he declared.
“Hold on a minute. Is there anybody here with the Marshall man?” he could hear her saying to someone close by. There was a shuffle of papers and then the phone went silent. A few seconds later he heard the latch on the door electronically open and the voice re-emerged over the intercom, “Come on in. Meet Beverly Marshall at the front desk please.”
He expected that it would be customary to hug the bereaved woman, even if he had little if any affection for her. Beverly was pacing near the desk where two nurses sat, one talking into a phone, the other flipping through a patient’s chart, but both ignoring everything else. The sound of respirators and other pieces of medical wonder beeped, pulsed and hissed all around them. The desk sat in the center of what looked to be ten rooms, separated only by curtains. Equipment filled each room, allowing just enough space for a hospital bed and a table on wheels, extending over the foot of each bed. Other nurses were moving in and out of the rooms, stethoscopes draped around their necks, each with a clipboard in their hand.
Beverly could be seen chewing her nails as she wore a groove in the carpet, “Jeremy, Jeremy, I’m so glad you’re here! I’ve been trying to call your cell but I just kept getting your voice mail. I was afraid something had happened to you as well!”
He had turned off his phone prior to talking with Iggy, so no calls could be traced, and he must have forgotten to turn it back on. They met in a somewhat awkward embrace before the two nurses at the desk neither acknowledged the union. “I got here as quickly as I could. Drove all night. What’s happened? Is he okay?” the distraught son asked.
“A couple of hours ago it looked like he was starting to regain consciousness but then lapsed back into a drug induced coma and we’ve not been able to communicate with him since. The doctors keep telling me that’s normal, but I’m terrified,” the deeply sad woman said, through tears streaming down her face.
“Has he said anything since he was taken to the ER in Valdosta?” Jeremy asked.
“You know your dad. All the way to the hospital he was telling them he was fine, probably just heartburn or something, but when they got him hooked up to the machines there, he had a second attack that was much worse than the first. That’s when they pumped him full of drugs and shipped him here. The staff at both hospitals have been phenomenal, really helpful, I think they are doing their best.”
“They damn well better be,” Jeremy warned, looking at the nurses seated across the desk, making sure they had heard what he said.
“Believe me they are. This is the best cardiac unit in the city and the specialist has been checking him regularly.”
“Is it okay if I see him?” Jeremy said, his voice hesitant and tensing.
“Absolutely! He’s sleeping, or at least it looks to me like he’s sleeping, but with the coma I don’t know for sure. I’ve been reading to him, seems to bring his heart rate down some if he can hear my voice,” Bev explained. She turned and walked around behind the station to room #9 where his father lay, tubes running into his nose and throat, with others hooked to bottles, hanging on either side of the bed, feeding unknown clear liquids into his veins.
The scene before him was not at all what he had expected. He had somehow thought he would show up, his dad would be sitting up in the bed complaining about hospital food and trying to convince the staff to bring him a milk shake. This was all too real, too overwhelming, too fast. He could feel sweat forming on his inner arms and the back of his knees; suddenly his peripheral vision wavered and turned dark.
Somewhere in a far off place he could hear people moving about and then a soothing voice saying, “Get his head between his knees, don’t let him fall on the floor again. Okay, that’s fine, looks like he’s starting to come back to us. Mr. Marshall. Mr. Marshall, can you hear me? You starting to feel a little better?” He felt some strength return to his limbs and he was able to hold his own head, with his elbows bracing the weight.
“Did I pass out?” he asked.
“Dead away,” a cute little nurse answered. “You’ll be okay, this happens more than you’d think. Just keep your head between your knees for a few minutes; somebody will bring you some juice. If you need us just holler, k?”
“Good hell Jeremy, scared me to death!” Beverly added her two cents.
“Sorry, didn’t know I would react this way. Probably lack of sleep and I’ve not eaten anything for hours.” A glass of orange juice was pressed into his hands, which he quickly downed. “I think I’ll be okay, feeling a lot better now.” He lifted his head to see his father’s figure laid out before him, monitors flashing numbers, and a heart beat pattern next to his bed. Jeremy slid his chair over next to the bed and laid his hand on his father’s extended right arm. It was warm, but there was no reaction from his touch. He lightly caressed the arm, trying to think of what he might say, but emotion tied his tongue and he could not speak. He sat like that for an hour, thinking, contemplating, and praying for a miracle.
“Jeremy,” he heard a whisper. “Jeremy, the specialist is here and wants to check him, you’ll need to leave the room for a minute,” Beverly said.
A tall, dark haired doctor, complete with lab coat, moved in and out of the rooms spending a few minutes with each patient, reviewing the chart and speaking to those that were coherent. The graying temples and slight paunch led Jeremy to believe that he must be about 50. Once he had spent a few minutes with his father, the surgeon greeted Beverly and Jeremy just outside the curtained room. “He’s stable. Vitals are good. Not much more we can do now but give it some time.”
“What are his chances?” the younger Marshall asked and followed up with, “If he does survive will he still be himself?”
“He’s suffered not one, but two, very serious MI’s in the past two days. He’s incredibly strong, a lesser man would be dead already. I can’t predict the outcome but in my experience he’s got a 50/50 chance of coming out of this okay,” the doctor carefully phrased his reply, looking at his watch before excusing himself and moving to the next patient.
“50/50? Could be worse,” Bev said.
“Yeah, I guess, wish there was something we could do other than wait. I feel so helpless.”
“You should get some sleep. I’ve got a room across the street at the hotel. Take my key and sleep for a couple hours, I’ll monitor things from here until you feel up to it.” She pulled a passkey from her wallet and handed it to him. “Take your time; I’ll phone if anything happens. Your phone on now?”
“Yup, I’ll take you up on that but I won’t be long,” a very tired Jeremy said, every ounce of energy he possessed zapped from his body.
He walked the short distance to the hotel, made it to the room but had a hard time remembering how he actually got there. He toppled over on the freshly made bed and was out before his head hit the pillow.
Five hours later the vibration, and then the sound of his cell phone ringing could be heard as it shifted about on the countertop, waking him up. “Hello, what’s up? Anything happened?” he managed to get out, his mind still very fuzzy.
“Jeremy, get back over here, we’ve run into a problem!”
He was suddenly very awake. “What kind of a problem? What’s going on Bev?”
“Just get over here as quickly as you can.” He could hear the sounds of nurses talking in the background and a doctor issuing orders.
“Okay, I’m on my way! I’m coming!” he said into the phone, already moving down the hall and running toward the hospital and his father.
The look on Beverly Marshall’s face was grim. A collection of nurses and doctors were huddled around the monitors, each taking notes, commenting to one another and the doctors whispering in distinctly subdued tones.
“What’s happened?” Jeremy said, not specifically to anyone but to all those present. Beverly took him by the elbow and pulled him aside.
“They’re not sure, but your father has started to run a fever and is having mini-seizures,” she said, trying to keep her composure.
“But what does that mean? What do they think is causing it?” Jeremy spoke loud enough for all to hear, which was his intent.
“I wish I knew,” Bev said and then again more quietly, “I truly wish I knew.”
The doctor that they had spoken with earlier, with the graying temples approached the two with a look of grave concern on his face. “Mrs. Marshall, Mr. Marshall, I’m afraid we have some rather distressing news for you. It appears that Mr. Marshall has, and is experiencing, a number of small but devastating strokes. We’ve intervened with some medication to expand the vessels that feed his brain but we don’t know, and won’t know for a time, how much damage has already been done. His heart is still pumping arteriole blood throughout his system but it’s just getting by.”
Jeremy spoke first, “What are you saying? That he won’t be able to recover from this or if he does he’ll be a vegetable?” He hated to use that phrase but couldn’t think of any other way of putting it, and he had to know.
Bev jumped in before the doctor could respond, “How long could he stay like this?”
“Could be minutes, hours or days, we just can’t predict it, but if we take him off the life support that is sustaining him at the present time, he’ll pass fairly quickly. His heart just can’t cope and his brain is showing less function even as we’re speaking.”
“Do you think you could give us a minute doctor?” Bev asked, nodding at Jeremy.
“Sure, take a minute, but we need to know how you’d like to proceed,” he said.
“Well Jeremy, I don’t know about you but I know your dad, and I don’t think life to him would be worth living if he had to be in a home surrounded with machines keeping him alive. We’ve got the money to do that if you think that’s best, but I just don’t see that as what he’d want. What do you think?”
The son looked at his shoes, both hands in his pockets, trying desperately to make the right decision based on what was best for his dad and not what was best for him. “I think you’re right. He loved life too much to want this as his ending. I know he believed in an afterlife, I’ve heard him say what a wonderful reunion it would be with grandma and grandpa when he joined them. If it’s his time, I think he’d want to go, as hard as that will be on us, I think that is what he would want.”
United in their decision, they shared a more compassionate hug than they had earlier in the day. “Doctor, we need some time to say our goodbyes, would you please turn off the equipment and let him pass naturally,” Beverly requested, tears staining her blouse as she heard her own words issue the death of her husband.
Beverly leaned over the heavily sedated Marshall in the hospital bed, she held him, his head in her bosom as she rocked back and forth, her tears spilling and running down his face. Jeremy stood away in the shadows of the curtains giving her some time alone with his father. He could hear her gently speaking to him, offering words of comfort and enduring love. The nurses had done as requested and disconnected all the tubes and machines, except for a lone heart monitor, that beeped out the rhythm of his weakening heart. Ten minutes after his stepmother entered, she exited, running past him and into the nearest bathroom.
Jeremy took a deep breath and entered the confined space of the intensive care room, closing the curtain behind him. He knelt by his father’s side took his hand in his and held it firmly. There was no response. “Dad, I’m here, it’s Jeremy. I don’t know if you can hear me but I had to tell you I’m sorry for all the stupid things I’ve done. I wish I could turn back the hands of time and spend the past two years with you, but I can’t, and now here we are. You can’t imagine how I’ve missed you. I guess you raised a son just as bull-headed and stubborn as yourself. I’ll never forget you dad, the times we spent together I’ll one day tell my own son, and your memory will live on.”
A beep on the monitor alerted Jeremy that something had changed; he looked up to see the bps signal dropping, now only registering 36. This is happening too fast, he’s slipping away faster than…. “Dad, I need you to know that I love you. I always have and I always will.” At that moment a miraculous thing happened, Jeremy didn’t know if it was his father speaking back to him in the only way he could, or just the muscles reacting to death as one finally gives in, but there was a very distinct, knowing squeeze of Jeremy’s hand, the assurance that a son needs to carry on, and then he was gone. The blue signal on the monitor flat-lined, and a steady beep sounded the end of a remarkable life.