For those of you who enjoyed that last excerpt from my forthcoming novel, I though I'd add two more. The first one gives you a look at one of the book's co-protagonists, Dr. Donald Firkin. The second comes from later on when Anna's struggling with her patient, Adam Renfrew.
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Toronto 2011
Come on, heads my darling. Let me see
heads.
Professor Donald Firkin slapped the
coin on top of his hand and discovered that once again, it had landed heads’ side
up. That made it twenty-four times in a row, the odds of which happening were –
he tallied the number on his computer’s calculator – nearly seventeen million
to one. It would’ve been an extraordinary feat, had he not been using a trick
coin that showed heads on both sides. When he was twelve years old, his father
had made a rare appearance at his mother’s house and given him the coin for his
birthday. For months afterward, he’d used it to swindle his brothers and sister
into losing bets and surrendering their favourite toys. After a while, though,
his siblings sniffed out the deception and demanded that they be the ones who
chose heads. So that was that.
Firkin heard a knock behind him. He
recalled that he’d scheduled an appointment with a student, but didn’t
immediately turn away from his computer. Instead, he played a round of
Solitaire, knowing that the game’s lame green backdrop lay fully within his
visitor’s view. Only when he’d finished did he finally turn and face his
student – a blonde girl named Danielle who was enrolled in his second-year
English Literature class. Her outfit consisted of black spandex leggings, a tan
leather bag, and what looked to be a poorly tailored tanktop, which hung
properly over one shoulder while sliding lazily off the other. The girl bore a
term paper in her hands. As her email had suggested, she wanted to “discuss” –
or in other words, argue – the grade she'd received on it. Already, Firkin
could see her bottom lip quivering.
“Hello,” he said, waving at a
chair. Danielle dropped her bag to the floor and sat down. She held her paper
in front of her chest and stared down at it, shoulders hunched, trying to
steady her fingers. Firkin pushed his bold, rectangular glasses up his nose and
ran a hand over his bald pate.
“Yeah, like, I dunno.” Danielle
glanced up, but finding him silent, dropped her eyes back to the paper. “It’s
just like, you know, like, I don’t see what’s wrong with this.”
Firkin steepled his fingers and
nodded. “Okay… Well have you read over the comments I wrote in your margins?”
Danielle nodded several times and brushed
some hair out of her eyes. “Yeah, but I mean, you know, like – How come you
gave me a sixty-two?”
Firkin repeated his question about
whether she’d read his comments. Danielle titled her face toward the ceiling,
trying to keep the wet cups of her eyelids from running over. When she lowered
her gaze to him again, she used the back of her hand to dab one eye. “I just
don’t think it’s fair,” she insisted. “I mean, like, I think your comments are
right and everything. But I was a straight-A student in high school.”
Firkin sighed. “I understand that
university can seem difficult, Danielle. But this is not a first-year class and
I cannot raise your mark. Your paper has many problems with both its writing
and its argumentation, and I have tried to point them out in my comments. I’m
sure that if you consider my notes carefully, you’ll show a lot of improvement
on the next assignment.”
Danielle was shaking her head
before he'd even finished speaking. “But this one mark will kill
my GPA! It’s already over.”
Firkin knitted his brows and leaned
back in his chair. If Danielle expected an exceptional average on her
transcript, then yes, there was no avoiding the fact that a sixty-two would
require her to shift her expectations for the coming semester. When he told her
this, she fell silent for a moment. But a transformation soon overtook her features.
Her face darkened. Supplication turned into anger when she realized how useless
it would be to appeal to his sympathy. She flipped her paper around and fwapped it with her index finger. “But look
at the comments!” she shouted. “You say here that my ideas are vague
[fwap]
and over here that my phrasing is awkward [fwap!].
What does that even mean?” She threw her hands up. “I mean, your marking is so subjective.”
Firkin could barely keep himself
from laughing. It was wonderfully predictable for a student like Danielle to
challenge the “subjective” nature of English grading when things didn't go her
way. When Danielle realized how little of an effect she’d had on him, she wept
openly.
“Danielle,” Firkin said. “You need
to understand that – ”
“That what?! That English isn’t
subjective? That’s crap and you know it. It’s just your own stupid opinion.”
He sighed and glanced at her over
the top of his black frames. “So what, Danielle?”
The girl’s jaw fell as she drew her
hands away from her face. What did he mean, so what? His personal opinion
was about to wreck her GPA and ruin her future. Firkin interlaced his fingers
and dropped his hands between his knees. He continued to hold the girl’s eyes,
even when she couldn’t hold his.
“Danielle,” he said, “I know you
think that your GPA is going to determine your future. But trust me, it won’t.
When you get out of here, your prospects will be determined by your letters of
reference, your interviews, application letters, and quite frankly, the people
you know. All of these things are ten times more subjective than the marks I
put on your English papers. And you know what? All of them will have ten times
more of an impact than your GPA ever will.”
Danielle shook her head as fresh
tears gushed from her eyes. “You’re not allowed to say this,” she protested.
“It’s…” she searched for the word. “It’s evil.”
Firkin nearly laughed again, but
steadied himself out of respect for the girl’s condition. After all, what could
she know of the world outside school? It must have been nice to think that the
grades on her assignments could entitle her to a bright career. “I’m sorry to
tell you this, Danielle,” he concluded, “but the world is subjective, and it’s better
you learn that now instead of later. If my English class has been able to teach
you this much, then consider it the most important course you’ll ever take.”
“You can’t say this.”
“Life is not a math test you can
feed into a machine, Danielle. And thankfully, neither is an English Studies
paper.”
Upon hearing this, Danielle rose
from her chair and stuffed her term paper back into her bag. She didn’t bother
to shoulder the bag, but jammed it under her armpit and fled from the office. When
she was gone, Professor Firkin spun back to his computer. He opened his
internet browser and spent the next five minutes scrolling through the most
popular videos on YouTube. One clip showed a young man breakdancing
inside some sort of community centre. He was performing all of the usual
tricks, wriggling his limbs in a gelatinous fashion, spinning on the ground
with his legs splayed in a wide V. But suddenly a little girl wandered into the
young man’s path and paff! – was struck in the chest
by one of his whizzing feet. She soared a full five feet into the air before
landing on her back. Firkin clapped a hand to his mouth and smothered a squeal.
He paused to take in what had happened, then watched the clip again from the
beginning. He scrolled down to read the comments that other people had posted
about the video. The very first entry assured him that the child had
miraculously escaped this incident without any major injuries. He was happy for
that.
There was another knock at his
door.
“Hi there, Don.”
Firkin recognized the voice as that
of his young colleague, Joseph Werth, and swivelled to face him. The man wore a
grey suit paired with a white shirt and sky-blue tie. He’d recently won a
tenure-track appointment in the department, and his entire body buzzed with a
fresh and irritating enthusiasm.
“So how are things?” Werth
inquired.
“I’m afraid I’m swamped with work,”
Firkin answered, reopening the Solitaire program on his computer screen. Werth
forced a collegial laugh.
“Taking a break from your research,
eh?”
“Not really. You don’t do so much
of that stuff once you get tenure, unless you’re desperate to impress people.”
He waved at the empty bookshelves that covered his office walls. All the other
professors in the department had made certain to fill theirs to the point of
overflowing.
Werth maintained his smile and
nodded. “Well,” he said, “I think that your book on the history of western
medicine is really wonderful, Don.”
“It feels like a lifetime since I
wrote that.”
“Quite an argument, though, to say
that we don’t know any more about human health today than we did a thousand
years ago.”
Firkin shrugged once more and
half-stood to pull the tail of his coat from beneath his corduroyed rump. “Well
let me ask you this, Joseph. What would you say is the cause for most forms of
cancer?”
Werth pursed his lips and
considered the question for several seconds, but eventually shook his head with
a snort. “Well, obviously there are different causes for different types. But
as a rule of thumb, I don’t trust anything made of plastic, or anything
petroleum-based, for that matter.” He paused again and glanced up at the
ceiling, trying to choose his words more carefully. “In the end, I guess I’m
suspicious of any chemical substance that’s artificially
synthesized.”
Firkin nodded and explained to
Werth that most of the North American middle class would agree with him. That
said, there was no denying how idiotic this opinion was going to sound two hundred
years in the future. It was not poor Joseph’s fault, of course. He was a smart
young professional. It was simply a fact that all scientific theories, by
definition, would eventually become outdated. Firkin’s book had merely tacked
one more crucial observation onto this point – that if scientific “progress”
was something that went on infinitely, every new breakthrough was infinitely
small. And if so, how could anyone rightfully call it progress?
When Firkin had finished, Werth
tilted his head from side to side and noncommittally answered, “Good point.”
“So what brings you to entrance of
my lair?” Firkin added.
“Oh, well I’ve heard around the
department that you’re quite the poker player, Don.”
“Practice.” Firkin jerked his thumb
back toward his computer.
“Yes. Well I was thinking about
putting together a poker night just for the profs, and wanted to gauge your
interest.”
Firkin glanced about his office and
drummed his fingers against the arm of his chair. “What night of the week would
it be?”
“Any night that works for you.”
“I’m afraid not, Joseph.”
Werth scratched the back of his neck
and rested his elbow awkwardly against the office doorframe. “Okay then. Well
I’m sure I’ll see you at the party coming up next week.” He offered one last
smile and disappeared into the corridor.
Firkin spun back to his computer
and opened his email account, where he was happy to find a message verifying
what Werth had just told him. There was going to be an interfaculty party that
week. He flipped open a leather-bound agenda on his desk and scribbled a note
about the party. There were some professors, he fondly recalled, whose banter
could make him nearly vomit with laughter, especially after he’d gulped down a
few glasses of the free alcohol these parties always provided. It would be an
enjoyable time, so long as no one talked about any articles they’d recently
published or prestigious grants they’d just landed. At this last thought,
Firkin felt his breathing become shallower. He dug at the horseshoe of grey
hair that wrapped around the back of his head. Joseph Werth’s grinning face
suddenly appeared in his mind, and Firkin watched in horror as the young man
lay down a handful of cards at a poker table. A full house, straight flush, and
royal flush descended in dizzying succession. Other professors from the
department materialized on either side of Werth, snickering as Firkin squirmed
in his chair, helpless as a worm pinned to a dissection board. They all wanted
to see him defeated at something. But he would never give them that sort of
satisfaction.
Clutching his chest, Firkin stood
up from his chair, pulled his corduroy coat over his shoulders, and exited the
English faculty’s building by the quickest possible route. Once outside, he
drew a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket and lit one. The smoke encouraged
him to breathe deeply. He tried to focus on the sound of the wind rustling through
the municipal maples decorating the sidewalk.
Yes, he thought. The party could be good.
Blood
The squelching and squeaking of wet
rubber soles echoed through the linoleum hallway. Not a single patient or staff
member lay in sight. Anna had just come in from the rain, and the evaporating
moisture was igniting her scalp with a maddening itch. She tried to ignore the
sensation, but not a minute passed before she started clawing at her irritated
skin. Flakes of dandruff leapt from her digging nails and vanished into the
shoulders of her white lab coat. When the itch had finally abated, she glanced
over her shoulder, fixed her hair, and ducked into one of the hallway’s many
rooms.
“Hi there. How are things today?”
Adam Renfrew grimaced as she
entered. His face glowed beet-red and looked swollen – a very strange turn from
the ashy pallor he’d shown just a day earlier. Anna suspected a fever, and quickly
confirmed with her thermometer that Adam’s temperature had run to 104 degrees.
“Would I ever love to stick my head
out there right now,” Adam said, inclining his head toward the rain pattering
against his window.
“Okay,” Anna said. “I’m going to set
you up for a few more tests, and we’re really going to get to the bottom of this,
okay Adam?”
“You mean you haven’t really tried up ‘til
now?” Adam gave a half-choked laugh. It was the first time he’d laughed in
front of her. The sound was deeper than his young voice seemed capable of.
“I was just being positive,” Anna
answered. “A good attitude does more for your health than you might realize.”
Adam waved a hand at her and let
his eyes fall to his lap. “Yeah, I was just messin’ with you, Babe. I know what
you mean.”
Her mouth tightened into a frown. “Babe?”
she demanded. “Please Adam, how about we stick to Doctor Mercer?”
Adam stared at his feet and wiggled
his toes beneath the bed sheet. “Seriously, though,” he said, “D’you got any
clue what’s wrong with me?”
“We’ve narrowed it down to a few
things.”
He lifted his gaze back toward the
window, where drops of rain clung to the pane and dribbled downward, zigzagging
toward the bottom like rival skiers. The grey sky beyond glowed with a leaden
intensity that stung the eyes. “You know,” he finally said. “I think you’re the
only person who comes in and out of this room, Anna.”
“Hasn’t
your nurse been by?”
“Yeah, but
she just gives me my food and stuff. I think she’s a little afraid to come near
the bed, since none of you know what’s wrong with me.”
Anna
glanced down at her clipboard. She had little more to say, but didn’t feel
right leaving so quickly. There was something particularly disquieting about
Adam today: a devilishness that animated his laugh, and which now seemed to be
twisting his mouth into an unnerving grin.
“Adam.”
“Yeah?”
She laid her hand on the bed’s guardrail.
Adam met her eyes as she peered down at him. “Do you really have no
one we can inform about where you are? Not even a friend?”
Adam’s grin
flickered. But like a rebounding flame, the thing swiftly returned and engulfed
his entire mouth. His lips curled backward, baring his teeth. Farther up his
face, his pupils glowed like two searing black coals. “Tell you what,”
he suddenly answered. “I’ll call my people when you tell me what’s wrong with
me.”
“So you do
have people in your life,” Anna said, striving to keep a steady voice. “Why
won’t you let us contact them? Are you afraid of something?”
Adam turned his head from her
again, though his burning eyes lingered on her face for a few extra seconds.
Massive pearls of sweat rolled down his forehead and dripped from his nose.
“I’m going to double-check your
temperature,” Anna said. She bent over the bed and reinserted her thermometer
into his mouth, making sure to watch his eyes, which were turned toward the
window. When two minutes had elapsed, she pulled out the thermometer and
checked it, finding that his temperature had risen even higher to 105. When she
glanced up from the thermometer, she found Adam glaring at her. She recoiled,
but he caught her by the wrist and held her with an unnatural strength. The
veins distending up his forearm looked as though they could leap from his body.
“You know what?” Adam hissed, “I
find it really weird that you don’t know what’s wrong with me. How long have I
been in here, anyway?”
His hot
breath stung her face. Nonetheless, Anna met him with a glare of her own. “Let
go of me,” she ordered.
Adam held fast
and peered into her eyes. As the two of them remained in this embrace, Anna
sensed she was no longer looking at the same Adam Renfrew she’d committed to
the hospital a week earlier. She reached forward and pinched the hand that was
holding her, but its grip only tightened around her wrist. “Let go of me now,”
she ordered again.
“You know
what would bring the fever down? A little kiss, Honey. Maybe a little…”
“Adam!” Anna drove her nails into
his hand until they punctured the skin. When blood flowed from the hand, Adam
relaxed his grip. His smile disappeared and his eyes fell half shut. In the
half-second before she tore herself from his grasp, Anna could feel his temperature
plummet.
“I’m
sorry,” he said. “I don’t know why I did that.”
Anna rubbed
her wrist and cast him an unforgiving glance. “This is a pretty drastic shift
in behavior, Adam. I’m going to have to call in a psychologist.”
His eyes
popped open again. “You mean I’m going nuts?! How can you tell when you don’t
even know what’s making me bleed black stuff out of my face?”
“The two
things might be unrelated. And in any case, we’ve got to try and look at what’s
happening to you from every possible angle.”
Adam lifted
his head from his pillow and threw it back down – hard – several times. “Why
don’t we know already?! I thought you docs were supposed to have all this stuff
figured out.”
“We’re narrowing it down, Adam. We
really are.”
“The folks
in charge are going to come get me soon. So you’d better hurry.”
At
the mention of the “folks in charge,” Anna stepped forward again. “Adam,” she said. “Your fever might be making you
delusional. Can you tell me if you see any colored threads or popping lights right
now?” She noticed at this same moment that Adam’s hand was bleeding far too
much for such a small cut. She turned to retrieve a bandage from the metal
cabinet behind her.
