The Architect of Revenge: A September 11th Novel (10 page)

“Yes.”

He wasn’t.

“Dr. Merrimac”—the officer motioned to him—“any comments to Dr. Morgan?”

Ross Merrimac looked at his friend and studied the ill-fitting sport coat and the shirt collar that had grown too loose. The haphazardly knotted necktie displayed an out-of-character inattention to detail.

“Wes…I know you hurt,” he said. “Life is full of tragedy. Look at what you do for a living. We all feel for you.”

Merrimac tried to connect through the unspoken yet understood emotions of their world, but for Morgan his voice was just an irritation.

“You know your temper’s very short, and that makes you unsafe. We’re in a high-risk profession. We
cannot
have physicians who don’t control their actions.”

Morgan nodded but was oblivious to the words. He was problem solving—a habit ingrained over the years. As he considered the first elements of the new task ahead, those surrounding him at the table could only appreciate vacuity in the surgeon.

The senior officer asked, “Dr. Morgan, do you have any response to Dr. Merrimac, or any of us, for that matter?”

“No.”

Merrimac shook his head in disbelief. What had he missed? A man could be hurt, but a surgeon rarely cracked like this. Death happened, and life went on. He was watching his friend’s entire career fall apart. During the forty-five-minute meeting, Morgan had spoken only a few words and none in his defense.

“Dr. Morgan, please step outside,” the officer said. “We’ll call you back when we’re ready.”

Standing impatiently by a window, looking at the hospital Caroline had built, Morgan continued planning. In time he was again seated, staring in the same indistinct manner as before.

“Dr. Morgan,” said the senior operating officer, “this committee has discussed the circumstances of your actions and considered your tragedy.” His voice had become an annoying distraction. “You will receive a six-month suspension from all clinical activities. During this time you’re prohibited from entering this hospital for any reason. In June this committee will meet to consider your reinstatement. If for any reason you do not comply, your hospital privileges will be terminated.”

“Fine.” Morgan’s head never moved.

Several pieces of paper slid toward him. “Please sign these. One acknowledges the terms of your suspension; the other speaks to a required psychiatric evaluation and whatever treatment necessary. Take the copies with you.”

“Fine.”

He was on his feet and opening the door, only turning to acknowledge Merrimac’s voice.

“Wes, you take care. You can call me day or night.”

Morgan nodded once.

Outside the building he ground the papers in his fist, tossing the crumbled wad in the first trash container he saw. The surgeon had no interest in a couch, pills, or shock treatments.

Deaf to a speeding ambulance, he entered the university library and saw several coeds laughing quietly at a table near the entrance.

“Do any of you have a pen and paper I could buy?” Morgan asked them.

“I’ve got this,” one of the women giggled, holding up a pink legal pad and pen topped with a feather.

“That’ll be just fine,” said Morgan, giving her twenty dollars.

She looked surprised. “Anything else you’d like?” She smiled.

“No,” said Morgan, not playing to her suggestion. “This is all I need. Thanks.”

He walked to the stairwell, climbed several flights, and found a cubicle where he wouldn’t be noticed. He hung his raincoat on a nearby chair, tugged loose his necktie, and sat down. Occasionally he used a computer terminal or went to another floor to retrieve information, but mostly he sat and wrote, organizing his thoughts until closing time.

January 2002

R
oss Merrimac didn’t know what to think. Morgan had to be upset after the hearing, but needed to understand Merrimac was only doing
his
job. Morgan wasn’t one to hold a grudge—he just wasn’t that way. When the messages on Morgan’s phone went unanswered, Merrimac hoped his friend was simply taking a long vacation someplace like the Bahamas, lost in both the liquor and sunshine. Still, he worried about his star surgeon, so he left the hospital one wintry afternoon and drove to Morgan’s home. If there were no answer, Merrimac would tape prewritten notes to his front and back doors.

He rang the doorbell and waited.

When the door opened, Morgan’s trim beard made for a dramatic change in his appearance. Surgeons at the hospital weren’t allowed to have beards because whiskers could fall into the sterile field, but Morgan wouldn’t be back for several months, so it was okay for now—just different.

It seemed odd he was dressed in only a T-shirt, running shorts, and leather sandals, because it was fourteen degrees outside. Maybe he kept his place warm, but that warm?

Morgan remained in the doorway. He tugged the speaker buds from his ears while the wind blew on his bare legs. Annoyed he let Merrimac come inside.

“Got any coffee?” Ross asked, seeing the mugs scattered around the living room.

“Got no cream,” Morgan responded without enthusiasm, heading for the kitchen. “Only sugar.”

“No problem.”

Merrimac studied the room. The awards, photographs, and bric-a-brac that lined the shelves and mantle were gone except for a book wrapped in white cotton. On the floor nearby was a cardboard box with a hand-drawn red heart on it. Numerous maps lay strewn on the dining room table. On the seat cushion of an armchair a phone book had slips of paper jutting from the yellow pages. There were pads of legal paper everywhere, each top sheet covered with handwriting and dog-eared pages beneath. The coffee table had a pile of travel books; Morgan’s laptop computer sat nearby. Before Merrimac could see the website that was open, it switched to screen-saver mode.

The furniture, shoved close to the walls, created space for a weight bench.

“Whatever you’re up to, you’re doing what you do best: multitasking.” Merrimac was beyond curious.

“Going through all my old shit,” said Morgan flatly as he gave Merrimac the coffee. “It accumulates.”

That was interesting too. Morgan wasn’t known to be a pack rat.

“Mind if I sit down?” Merrimac asked.

“I’m really busy. But for a few minutes, I guess,” said Morgan.

Moving farther into the room, Merrimac found the single chair that wasn’t stacked with books. Morgan stood leaning against the mantle, his unambiguous posture broaching disinterest.

Pointing at the bare shelves, Merrimac had to ask. “Where’d all the things go?”

“Redecorating,” Morgan replied.

A quick excuse.

“Not a bad thing.”

Merrimac wasn’t convinced. He saw a bath towel on the floor placed at a strange angle to the room’s corners.

“See you’re working out. Good for you!”

“Trying to,” Morgan said.

“Nice beard, by the way.”

“Thanks.” Morgan hated the thing but was learning to live with it.

“Why did you grow it?”

“Running,” Morgan said. “My scarf.”

It sounded legitimate.

“How’s your mom doing?”

Merrimac was working hard to get Morgan away from simple sentences.

“Lizzie fell again.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

Morgan shook his head. “She’ll be gone soon.”

Even when talking about his mother, Morgan seemed disconnected. He had every reason to be numb—all that he loved in life had met tragic ends.

“We did a transplant the other day. Kid’s doing super!”

Ross hoped mentioning Morgan’s passion might lift his funk.

“Glad to hear it.”

“Spoken to the Pruitts lately?”

“After the memorial service, in Cay’s condo.”

That was the truth. Morgan adored Jon and Connie but he didn’t want to talk to anyone. All distracting entropy had to be controlled and eventually would be.

“So you’re doing okay?” Merrimac got to the purpose of his visit.

“Fine,” said Morgan.

“Where I come from, saying
fine
too many times doesn’t mean jack, brother. So…are you actually
fine
?”

Merrimac’s push for a deeper answer yielded only, “Yes…fine means fine.”

“I don’t believe you,” said Merrimac.

“Believe what you want,” said Morgan.

“Come on, friend. Talk to me! I’m your brother!” Merrimac’s frustration grew to concern. “Are you okay? Did you see the shrink yet?”

“I have an appointment next week.” It was a lie but might get rid of him quicker.

“Well…let me know how it goes.” Merrimac put his cup on a side table. “I miss you, man. We all do. We need you back. Abby hasn’t been the same.”

“Tell her not to worry. Tell everybody that.”

Morgan’s wristwatch beeped. Instinctively, Merrimac looked at his. It was 1:08 in the afternoon—an odd time to mark. Morgan gave him the unsubtle hint it was time to leave.

“Ross…I just need my space right now.”

“Okay, Wes.” Merrimac wasn’t satisfied but could do little more. “Stay in touch, will you?” He gave his friend a hug but Morgan reciprocated only weakly. “I’ll be going, then.”

Morgan opened the door. “Thanks for checking on me.”

One more try.

“Maybe dinner sometime?”

“Could work.”

Wouldn’t happen.

When the door shut, Morgan stared at the lock. “Fuck me,” he said. “I don’t need this.” He walked over to the towel, stuck the earbuds back in, and sat down on his knees.

Several minutes later he opened his bedroom door.

“Glad this shit was in here.” Stacks of cardboard boxes were everywhere. “Time to get rid of this crap asap.”

He noted it on a yellow pad then went to the table covered with the maps. For an hour he measured distances, performed a series of calculations and added the information to specific months of a calendar.

Morgan looked out a window. Snowflakes drifted past. That was good. Nobody would be out in this weather. He put on his long underwear, running suit, and knit cap, spun the dial on his iPod to the next program he needed, grabbed his gloves, and went for an eight mile run.

Jon Pruitt called. Caroline’s condominium had a sales contract.

“Wes…” he said, “You can walk through one last time, if you’d like…see if there’s anything more you might want that you missed.”

The sadness in Jon’s drawn voice worsened Morgan’s trepidation. The fresh confrontation with the grim reality that ruined his life would be unpleasant, but he’d go. There was one thing he’d forgotten and wanted even more now.

Morgan felt sick as he parked the BMW outside Lake Point Tower. He got out of his car.

“Good to see you again, Dr. Morgan. Are Mr. and Mrs. Pruitt doing better?” asked Robert. He’d been so kind and helpful, escorting them after a hug to Cay’s condominium.

For an hour after struggling with what to take, the Pruitts and Morgan each had a full box. Connie used a marker to draw a red heart on Morgan’s.

“Here’s the key, sir.” Robert handed it to him and said, “Would you like me to go with you?”

“I’ll be all right…only take a minute.”

Morgan knew neither was true but got into the elevator alone anyway.

His fingers shook when the key moved the tumblers. When he opened the door, the air was stale.

Her scent lingered everywhere.

Morgan went to the window and drew one set of drapes. Immediately he saw the forgotten smudges on the glass. They were Cay’s fingerprints.

Morgan sighed. She was so excited when the Fourth of July fireworks exploded over Navy Pier. She pointed at each brilliant burst of color. Later that night when the moon rose, she saw her handiwork and said,
“I’ll get those in the morning.”

She forgot.

Morgan walked into the kitchen, passing the remaining furniture lining the bare walls.

“Goddamn it!”

His fist slammed on the counter. With the vibration, a cabinet drawer slid open. It was empty.

“I loved your cooking!” His teeth ground. “God, how I loved your cooking…” With his eyes closed he inhaled deeply. “I can still smell every meal…”

Even late at night when he came from the hospital, Cay never seemed to mind feeding him.

“Forever bred in the soul of a Southern girl,”
she disclosed once with pride.
“Keeps you coming back, doesn’t it?”

Every step closer to her bedroom became a struggle.

Morgan paused outside Cay’s office. Her drafting table was gone. So was the orchid terrarium he had given her for Christmas. He had searched throughout Chicago for the antique copper and glass container, and the blue orchids inside. They were wilted but still alive.

“They’ll be fine,”
Jon assured Morgan, while watering the plants.
“I’m a pro with these,”
he said and took the terrarium to his car.

A slash of red on the floor caught Morgan’s attention. He went over and picked up Cay’s reading glasses. They had been stepped on.

“You were so irritated when you wore them to bed.”

“You never saw these,”
Cay had said as they vanished from her face.

The few feet into her bedroom stretched for miles. Morgan finally lay down on the bare mattress and gently rubbed his fingers back and forth where her body slept.

“Thanks for loving me,” he said to where her head once rested.

For several minutes the tears flowed.

Morgan rolled to the floor and groped under the bed until he touched the braided fibers of Caroline’s climbing rope. As he carried it back to the living room, his watch beeped.

He turned on his iPod and stared east through the window toward the lake’s gray horizon. Standing on his tiptoes, he crammed his face against the glass, trying to look straight down. He held up the rope, gripped its coiled loops with both hands, and tugged hard. He looked east again.

“Motherfucking asshole,” he said.

He closed the drapes and went to his car.

He’d never go back in there again.

Lizzie Morgan died three weeks later. She’d been in her facility’s hospice unit after the recent fall. When Morgan received the call, he went and held her hand for an hour as her breathing slowed, then kissed her forehead.

“You’re a great mom,” he said as she slipped away.

He would do as she asked and donate her body for medical research. Years before, she had made him promise, despite his protest.

“Wes, what good am I to others if I’m in a box?”

She thought what she said was funny.

Morgan thanked the staff then found a private room and called his attorney. Ridding himself of another detail, Morgan had transferred executor powers to the lawyer at the first of the year.