Eli (9 page)

“Pardon me?”

“It’s the sickness of the soul that I’ve really come to heal.”

For the briefest second Charlene was unsure how to respond. Conrad had to chuckle. The girl had no idea who she was up against. But this was her show and she would not be put off. “I see.” She cleared her throat. “Well, the reason I was asking was we have a production assistant . . .” She hththt 5/14/01 11:34 AM Page 59

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turned to the audience. “Keith? Keith Anderson, would you come out here, please?”

A young man on crutches emerged from behind the audience seating area. He wore a blue polo shirt and a pair of beige shorts that clearly displayed a left leg shriveled to a stump just below the knee.

Back in the control room, Suzanne turned to Conrad. “You never said this would happen.”

“I didn’t know, not until the read-through this morning.”

“Connie—”

“Relax.” He gave her a reassuring smile. “This guy can take care of himself.”

“But—”

“If he’s who I think he is, he’ll do just fine.” Conrad turned back to the monitor and watched with interest as Keith made his way toward the platform.

Charlene continued. “Keith has been physically challenged like this since birth, so . . .” She turned to Eli. “We figured if you really can heal whoever you want whenever you want, what better candidate than our young friend here?” She turned to the audience for confirmation. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

The audience clapped in approval. Eli rose to shake Keith’s hand. They spoke briefly, but it was impossible to hear what was said over the applause.

When they finally sat, Charlene motioned to Eli. “So what do you say?” She was still smiling, but there was no missing the challenge underneath. “Can you deliver? Right here, right now, in front of a national TV audience?”

Eli did not answer. Instead, he continued to watch Keith, who shifted uncomfortably under his gaze.

“Well?” Charlene smiled.

The audience waited patiently.

When Eli finally spoke, his voice was softer than before. And a little sadder. “I’m sorry, Keith.” He slowly shook his head.

Charlene’s smile began to fade.

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“I’m sorry they pressured you into this.”

The boy’s eyes shot up to Eli’s. A nerve had been hit.

“Is your prosthesis backstage, or did they make you leave it at home?”

The boy’s eyes faltered.

That’s when Eli turned to Charlene. “I expected you to turn this into a circus and try to make me jump through hoops

. . . but you should never have forced the boy.”

“Actually,” Charlene countered, “I believe it was Keith’s request. Isn’t that right, Keith?”

Keith swallowed, staring hard at the carpet.

Charlene fidgeted slightly. Once again she was caught off balance and once again she recovered. “So . . . Is that a no, then? Are you telling us you can’t heal our friend here?”

Eli turned his eyes from Keith to Charlene. The look was so powerful that the woman actually caught her breath. But before she could respond, a howling scream filled the studio.

“What’s that?” the director demanded inside the control room.

“Somebody from the audience!” the technical director shouted as he searched the monitors. “There!” He pointed to the black-and-white monitor used for audience reactions.

“Third row up, next to the center aisle.”

Conrad’s eyes darted to the monitor. It was a young girl, a teenager. Long blond hair. She was squirming in the seat as she took a breath and let out another scream, more tortured than the first.

“Looks like a seizure,” the technical director said.

Instinctively, Conrad glanced to the program monitor, the one still showing Charlene. If she was shaken before, she was definitely unnerved now.

The director swore and ripped off his headphones. “All right, stop tape! Stop tape!”

But Conrad had spotted something else. On Eli’s monitor.

An expression he hadn’t seen on the young man before—a quiet resolve, almost anger. “No,” Conrad said. He hadn’t hththt 5/14/01 11:34 AM Page 61

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worked in TV this long without having some instincts to trust.

“Keep rolling.”

“What?” the director turned to him.

“Keep rolling!”

“Connie, it’s ruined!” The director swore again. “We’ve got to stop the show and call the paramedics. We’ll go back and reset when they’re through.”

Up on the monitor, the teen threw herself onto the aisle steps where she rolled and writhed, shrieking out of control.

An older gentleman, most likely her father, dropped to her side, trying to restrain her, trying to keep her from hurting herself, waving off others who tried to help.

“Stop tape!” the director ordered.

“Look at Eli!” Conrad pointed to the monitor where they saw him stepping off the platform. “Follow your guest! Follow your guest!”

He felt Suzanne take his arm in concern. “Connie . . .”

But he knew what he was doing. “Keep it rolling! Keep rolling!”

The director stared at the monitor, then shouted over his shoulder to one of the production assistants, “Get the paramedics here.”

The boy reached for a phone as the director turned back to Eli’s monitor. “Camera two, follow him. Follow him!” He looked back to the program monitor. Charlene remained standing with her mouth open.

“Camera one, get off her, go to the guest, reverse angle!”

Images on the monitors swished as they turned and zoomed toward Eli, passing them and approaching the girl.

Her writhing eased as her father continued to hold her. Eventually he tried sitting her up. She relaxed some, but her mouth continued to twitch and distort.

Eli arrived and the father looked up at him. “I’m . . .” The man said something inaudible.

“Get me sound!” the director cried. “Get a mike in there!”

The father continued. “She’s been like this since she was a child.” He leaned his cheek against her sweating face, whispering something soothing into her ear. But the girl was again hththt 5/14/01 11:34 AM Page 62

62 growing agitated. The father looked back up to Eli. “We’ve tried everything, but—”

Suddenly, she threw her head back and cried, howling like a wounded animal.

“Give me close-ups!” the director yelled. “Three, tight on the girl! One, tight on Eli!”

Another cry. Then a voice began to rumble up from deep inside her. It came from her chest. Thick, raspy. Guttural. She tried to sound fierce, but there was no missing the fear on her face, and in her eyes. “Why have you come to torment us before our time?” she demanded.

Eli said nothing. He simply watched.

A sneer flickered across her face. “We know who you are.”

She gasped, sucking in air. Then she spit out the words, “You

. . . Chosen One! You son of the most—”

“Be quiet.” Eli’s voice was soft, but commanded absolute authority.

The girl’s mouth clamped shut. She tried to open it but could not. Her lips curled, then snarled. She hissed and growled, but her mouth remained clinched. She began rolling her head back and forth in frustration, saliva slipping out of the corners of her mouth, glistening on her chin.

But Eli was unfazed. Instead, ever so gently, he knelt beside her. Her eyes widened as she recoiled, pulling back and cowering against the steps, trying to get as far from him as possible. Seeing her fear, Eli drew no closer. Instead, he spoke two words. Just two. They were barely above a whisper:

“Leave her.”

Suddenly the body convulsed. Her head jerked to the left, then to the right, back and forth, back and forth, sweat and hair and spittle flying.

“Now!”

At the command she threw her head back, her eyes bulging at the ceiling, her mouth exploding open. But there were no words, just a low, guttural gasp, a hissing from the back of the throat. It started deep and quiet, growing in intensity, resonating through her entire body, until it broke into a shrill hththt 5/14/01 11:34 AM Page 63

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scream. Anguished. Chilling. So eerie that Conrad felt the hairs on his arms rise, a coldness sweep across his shoulders.

Finally the cry faded, ending in a ragged, raspy wheeze. And then the girl went limp, falling unconscious into her father.

“There’s your break,” Conrad said. “Go to commercial.”

The director nodded. “Got it. Camera two, go back to Charlene.”

The camera turned and focused upon the host. Unfortunately, she remained standing, mouth still agape.

“Go to commercial,” the director shouted. “Tell her to go to commercial.”

The technical director hit the intercom. “Charlene.” His voice echoed through the studio. “Char, go to break.” She still didn’t hear. “Charlene!”

At last she turned toward the camera, struggling to crank up just the right look of wisdom and knowing. It was only one sentence, but it seemed to take forever to get out the words.

“And we’ll . . . be back, right after this.”

v

I do not want heroic efforts made to prolong my life, and
I do not want life-sustaining treatment to be provided or continued: (1) if I am in an irreversible coma or persistent vegetative state; or (2) if I am terminally ill and the use of
life-sustaining procedures would serve only to artificially
delay the moment of my death; or (3) under any other cir-cumstances where the burdens of the treatment outweigh the
expected benefits. In making decisions about life-sustaining
treatment under provision (3) above, I want my agent to consider the relief of suffering and the quality of my life, as well
as the extent of the possible prolongation of my life.

Julia stared at the California Durable Power of Attorney for Health Care document she’d brought from home. The one her father had sent several years earlier. The one she’d protested and refused, but that he had sent anyway. And the one she’d kept because it was the responsible thing to do—

until he found someone else, which of course he never had.

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She looked back at the words:

I do not want heroic efforts made to prolong my life, and
I do not want life-sustaining treatment to be provided or continued: (1) if I am in an irreversible coma or persistent vegetative state . . .

Legally, it was cut and dried. If there was no chance of him living without life-sustaining treatment such as the respirator or feeding tube, or if they had to perform “heroic”

efforts to keep him alive such as resuscitation or CPR, then as his “agent” she had the power, no, she had the
obligation
to prevent those efforts and let him die.

But what if there was a chance? What if by applying those efforts or continuing those treatments a few more hours, a few more days or weeks or months, what if he eventually started to live on his own? Such things were possible. It happened all the time, though with far less critical patients. How was she to be certain,
absolutely certain
, that it could not happen with him? And if it could happen, and if she ordered the treatments to be removed prematurely, wouldn’t that simply mean that she’d murdered her father?

She continued staring at the paper.

I want my agent to consider the relief of suffering and the
quality of my life . . . I want my agent to consider . . . I want my
agent to consider . . . I want my agent . . .

She noticed the paper shaking in her hands.
Why?
She seethed.
Why am I always the responsible one?
She lowered the trembling paper and glared at the unmoving form in front of her. How dare he put her through this! How dare he make it
her
decision!

I want my agent to consider . . .

Tears welled up in her eyes. Tears of rage and hate and a hundred other conflicting emotions.

“Daddy, it’s not fair!”

“Just answer me, did you or did you not beat up Willard
Hayes?”

“But all the kids—”

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“Julia, answer me.”

She was in her room, sitting on her bed beside him. A dozen stuffed animals surrounded her, but each and every one remained silent. She was on her own.

She turned up the tears, increased the pout. It worked with her friends and their parents, it worked with Mom. Why wouldn’t it work with him?

“Jules, I’m asking you for the final time . . . did you beat up
Willard Hayes?”

“It’s not fair,”
she wailed
. “All the other kids—”

“We’re not talking about the other kids.”

She folded her arms in defiance. If it was a test of wills, she would win. This time she would win.

“All right.”
Her father took a deep breath.
“If you refuse
to take responsibility and answer my question, you will stay
in your room.”

She held out, saying nothing.

“You will stay in your room and, if necessary, you will
miss dinner.”

“DAD!”
she exploded.

“All I want from you is the truth, Sweetheart.”
He rose from her bed and headed for the door.
“And when you’re
ready to tell me the truth, when you’re ready to be responsible for your actions, we can talk.”

She saw the pain in his eyes, knew he hated for all the world to punish her, so she gave it one last try.
“Oh, Daddy

. . .”
It was the most helpless, pitiful whimper she could muster, and she completed the effect by looking up to him with a trembling chin.

“When you’re ready, Jules,”
he said, reaching for the door,

“just let me know.”
And with that, he closed it.

She let out another mournful wail, but even as it escaped, she knew he would not bend. He would not bend, and even more importantly, at the tender age of eight . . . she knew he was right not to.

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v

Dr. Thomas J. Kerston looked directly into the camera and furrowed his thick, graying brows. “I just want to make sure you’re not part of this whole New Age nonsense,” he said.