| "If You Don’t Create Your Own Future – |
| Someone Or Something Else Will Create It For You." |
THE MAGIC LIFE - A Novel Philosophy
by Ace Starry
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Chapter 9
The awful smell of ammonia slapped me in the face. I opened my eyes, shaking my head from the pungency, and tried to focus. Almost a lost cause, but then my thinking cleared a little. An Emergency Medical Team member was waving something in front of my eyes and nose, something to wake me up and clear my head.
"I'm awake. What happened? Where am I?" I asked, still in a daze, but slowly realizing what was going on. My eyes began to focus as my head cleared. Apparently, I had been out cold for more than a few minutes. The EMT’s had already bandaged my arm and now worked, bent over the hood of the car where Gina's body lay in a pool of her own blood.
"We’re ready to lift this one, Mike," said one of men who was bending over the hood of the car, yelling to the man standing above me.
"Okay, you just sit tight here for a second," he said to me, giving me a pat on the shoulder. He then, in one continuous motion, stood and hurried over to the front of the car. They lifted Gina's rag-doll body from the hood on to a stretcher making sure not to move her spine. One of them came back over to me.
Tears automatically filled my eyes, "Is she alive?"
"She's still alive," assured the EMS man, named Mike. "We'll do everything that we can. Right now we need to transport all three of you to trauma at St. David’s. Can you walk?"
"Yeah, I think so," I said, wincing from the pain as I tried to use my arm to help me stand.
"Careful, here let me give you a hand," Mike said as he pulled me up by the uninjured arm. "Is the lady … is she your wife?"
"No, she’s not," I said, trying to hold back my tears.
Escorting me to the front seat of the ambulance, he said, "Why don't you ride over in the front. I'm sorry, but we need all the room to work in the back. Come on." Painfully slow, I walked over to the cab of the ambulance, stepping over what was left of my torn and bloody silk jacket and the smashed photo that lay in the street. Sitting down inside the ambulance, I stared through the small window into the back where Gina lay motionless.
Why? I began to cry as I feared that I might lose her forever. She was slipping away from me before I had a chance to say I love you. "Why did it have to happen? Just when I thought that I was going to be happy, they take it all away."
The driver jumped in and turned on the siren, pulling out into the traffic. I turned in the seat so that I could see through the window without turning my head. The EMT’s worked frantically on Gina. By now she had tubes stuck into her veins, an oxygen mask on her face, and her beautiful dress was cut off of her shoulders. But Gina was still motionless except for the violent jerks of her head and body as they performed CPR. One of the men shook his head then took out a syringe plunging it into her left arm. By the looks of things, I could tell that she was near death.
We pulled up to the Emergency Trauma Ward entrance where two doctors, several nurses, and orderlies were waiting. Like a well-placed guard, one of the nurses stepped in front of me cutting me off from reaching the stretcher, which held Gina as they whisked her away. Finally inside, I was approached rapidly by a nurse with a pen and a clipboard in her hands.
"Are you the next of kin?" asked the nurse.
"No, I am just her boyfriend," I said.
"Do you know how we can reach the next of kin?" she asked, writing as she spoke.
"Yes, I work for her father. I can give you his number," I said relating all of the information that I could, after which she asked me to sit in the waiting room and said she would have a doctor see me shortly. I remarked that I was fine and that I just needed to know that Gina was all right.
"You're not as fine as you think," she replied. "We need to get someone to set your arm."
That was the first time I noticed my broken arm. "No wonder it hurts so much," I said to myself as I limped my way toward a nearby sofa occupied on one end by a Hispanic woman crossing herself and praying. Leaning back, I rested my feet up on the coffee table, trying to get comfortable. It wasn’t working; my head and arm, both throbbing torturously, hurt way too much.
What was actually only ten minutes passed by like an eternity. A nurse finally approached me; I was half sleeping, half trying not to pass out, with my eyes half-closed. Evidently assuming I was asleep, the nurse touched my shoulder and spoke very softly to me. "Mr. Carpenter, the doctor will see you now," she said.
"What about Gina?" I asked, grimacing slightly from the pain, letting out a guttural groan as I did. My heart sank. My bottom lip began to quiver, and I wasn't sure if I wanted to hear what they were going to tell me. My fear – that they would tell me she was dead.
"Maybe the doctor can tell you about her condition when you talk with him," she replied.
I really didn't expect her to know what was happening anyway. But I would be damn glad to finally get in to see a doctor. The nurse led me into a sterile room and had me sit on one of those cold steel examination tables covered with paper. She then took my blood pressure and pulse, asked me a few questions about dizziness and nausea, wrote a few notes into my file and then trotted out the door, completely emotionless the entire time.
I was expecting a long wait, but the doctor appeared almost as soon as the nurse had shut the door. "Hello, James, I’m Dr. Zenner. I’m going to have to pull that bandage off and take a look at your arm. First let me..."
"What about Gina? Is she going to be all right?" I asked in a state of panic, biting down on my lip (a bad habit which surfaced whenever I was under stress). If he didn't give me an answer, I just knew it was because Gina had died and since I wasn't a relative, I was not notified.
"Which one was Gina?" he asked.
"The girl brought in with me … in the black dress," I said, nearly panicked. Realizing too late that, by the time the doctor examined her, the dress was probably removed and, anyway, what she looked like was far from his mind.
"I'm not sure, just calm down, both women are alive. Was she the one driving the car or the pedestrian?"
"She was the one hit," I said and tears rushed down my cheeks. I was not crying; I just couldn't stand it any more. "Just tell me, is she going to be all right?"
"James, she is receiving our best possible care. She is listed critical right now. That means that she has suffered life-threatening injuries. She has had a severe head trauma and has not yet regained consciousness. Both of her legs are broken, she has severe lacerations about her neck, and she has lost a large amount of blood. The best advice I can give you is to pray and wait."
I hadn't realized that during our conversation the doctor had removed part of the bandage and was giving me a localized anesthetic. After re-bandaging he walked over to a cabinet and pulled out a couple bottles of pills. "I’ll assume that you are going to be staying in the waiting room for a while. These pills will help with the pain, but no driving while you’re taking them. Take two every couple of hours," he said as he gave me a paper cup full of water and two pills. I didn't know if they were pain pills, or tranquilizers, or what, but at that point I hurt too much to care.
"The nurse will wheel you down to X-ray now and we'll get a picture of the break in your arm, so that we can set and cast it. And try not to worry, I'll keep you posted on the Lee girl's condition, just as soon as I return." With that he scratched a few more notes in my file and left.
In the quiet I sat there, the only sound was the rustling of the paper that covered the cold metal table I was sitting on. It’s just an illusion, I thought. It’s got to be just an illusion.
The nurse entered a few minutes after that. Beginning to feel light-headed and nauseated again after I had taken the pills, I guessed that they were starting to have an effect. Calmly, the nurse asked me to accompany her to X-ray. However, when I proceeded to get down off of the table and stand, my legs collapsed under me. My vision went spinning and then dark. I was out again, like a light.
Next thing I remembered, I could feel the cool soft sheets against my skin and the pillow under my head. The air had that very recognizable hospital smell. I felt a little dizzy and drowsy, like the feeling that you get when you fall asleep on a late night road trip trying to stay awake to keep the driver company. I felt the need to be awake and I attempted to sit up – disoriented. But still, somehow I figured out that I was lying in a hospital bed in the dark. When I tried to move, I realized that my right arm was very heavy. I couldn't bend it. Then it all started to come back to me; I had broken my arm and it was in a cast.
The room was void of light. I had no idea what time it was, what day it was; I could barely remember who I was...what I was. There in the dark silence I remembered. "Gina," I said aloud and sat up in the bed. What about Gina? I reached around groggily to find a light or the nurse’s call button. Then a voice out of the darkness, I recognized. Soothing to my ears, commanding and calming, it was the voice of Max Vi.
"James, she's going to be all right," he said.
Peering into the black void, I squinted my eyes. I could almost see him standing in front of me in the darkness. Then the lights flashed on, the brightness hurting my eyes. Not Max, but rather, a nurse was there to take my blood pressure. "Yes, we could use a little light," she said. Then she took my vital signs silently and recorded them on the chart. "You just get some sleep, and we'll talk about it in the morning," she said, clicking the lights back out.
Too tired to comment further, I shut my eyes once again. My head spinning in a fog, I drifted slowly off to sleep. Dreaming again, Christmas Day 1968, and we are just finishing opening the presents. I see my father sitting in his Lazy Boy recliner, his feet propped up on the simulated-marble coffee table, Kodak Instamatic in hand. Everyone is so happy, the best Christmas morning I remember. The music on the reel-to-reel is playing Elvis Presley’s "Blue Christmas" – the joyful scent of the Christmas ham baking fills my every breath.
Carl has already made quick work of his gift wrapping, the remains of which now blanket the room like remnants of an early morning snowball fight. Carl cheers, "Look Daddy!" getting exactly what he wanted, a "Robotron," a remote-controlled robot that goes forward and backward with hands that change to missiles firing ten feet at the touch of a button. Why he wanted that, I hadn’t a clue. Still, he is pleased as punch to run it back and forth over the tiled kitchen floor.
Still wrapped in its red foil wrapping, my big present is sitting on the coffee table. The label says: "To Jimmy, From Happy Papa." I tear at the paper with a vengeance to reveal that my dream had come true also. Inside I find the Blackstone Jr. Magic Set, my first real new magic kit. Having seen a commercial on TV, I begged my father to get one for me – seventeen tricks guaranteed to amaze your family and friends.
"You are going to have to give us a show after dinner," says my father, peeling one of the oversized navel oranges which Santa always left in our stockings.
"Say thank you to Happy Papa," says Mother.
"Thanks, Papa," I reply and I run over to him, giving him a hug – so real I can feel the rough tickling of the wool on his sweater.
Then just as dreams always change, without any foreshadowing at all, we’re suddenly sitting at the dining table. Mom brings out the main course, making a big production number just as she always had before Dad died. "Presenting the star of the dinner, ta dah! You think I’m a ham, this is a ham!" she exclaims. She was so much happier, so full of life when father was alive.
Dad stands up; he picks up my plate to serve me a slice of ham. Fear and pain come over his face, a look that I’d never seen from him before. Dropping the plate back down to the table with a clank, he bends over grabbing his abdomen in pain. Carl and I both look quickly over to Mom for some kind of reassurance.
"Are you all right, dear?" asks my mother, almost nonchalantly.
"Sure, it’s just some extra acid, nothing a few Rolaids won't fix. Don't worry yourself," says Father.
Now the dream shifts time and place again. Now I am sitting in the hospital waiting room again. In my lap is my talent show trophy. My mother is seated across the hall from me. Carl, still just a little boy, is on her lap, eyes closed, mouth open, sitting upright but asleep.
"Mrs. Carpenter," says the doctor as he enters into the waiting room.
"Yes," replies my mother, as she stands up, carefully laying my brother back down onto the couch. Mom and the doctor walk across the cold gray room to the other side. I don't take my eyes off the doctor’s mouth. Not actually hearing him, I can read his lips and make out the words he is saying perfectly, "I'm sorry, Mrs. Carpenter."
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Carpenter," he says.
"What about the show?" I shout, jumping out of my seat, the words echoing over and over. The trophy falls from my hand slamming against the hardwood floor, breaking into pieces.
"She is dead," my mother says crying, my dream confusing the two realities.
"No, she can't die. I love her. We have to do a show for Papa," I explain. "We have to do a magic show for Happy Papa!"
"There aren't going to be any more magic shows," she says. "There is no more magic."
With that I opened my eyes.
There, wearing his white tuxedo, sitting calmly at the foot of my bed, was Max. Not yet noticing that I was awake, in his hand he was holding the chain he generally wore around his neck, rubbing the small white cloth nonchalantly between his thumb and forefinger. Having turned on the small lamp on the table next to him, he was quietly reading a magazine. When he heard me stirring he stood up, turned, and set the magazine down.
"Are you awake?" he asked.
"What are you doing here?"
"I figured that you could use a guardian angel about now?"
"I knew it. And am I glad to see you," I said.
"Tell me, will Gina, will she be all right?"
"Jim, no one can predict the future," Max said.
"You can. I know you can," I said, knowing that he could, but refused to tell me.
"I can tell you that whatever happens has a purpose," Max said, "The purpose is to help you to discover your why. Whenever an individual is ready to discover the why to his existence, he suddenly is given an opportunity. Usually that opportunity is in the shape of a tragedy or challenge. If she needs to die in your world for you to discover why, then she will die."
"But, I don't get it," I said. "I just don't understand, why?"
"Jim?" he asked. "Why are you alive? What is your reason for being? You can't go through your life just existing. You have to have a passion. You have to know what drives your vitality. This is how you will learn to run. Jim, you need to discover your reason to live – why you are, who and what you are."
"Don't you understand? It’s Gina," I said. "She’s my reason to live. With her I can have meaning in my life." Maybe because I was so tired or had been through so much, whatever reason, tears flowed down my cheeks.
"James, we all have a reason for being, it’s similar to a contract which we make with ourselves before we enter this life. Life is the struggle to meet the terms and conditions of that contract with yourself. There are two ways to complete this contract. The first way is when we have completely fulfilled our obligations to ourselves the contract simply ends. The second is when, because of circumstances beyond our control, occasionally we are unable to fulfill our obligation. Then life steps in and lets you start over. The forces in charge of life always take the necessary steps to meet their end of the bargain. Understand that this includes creating any necessary tests, trials and tribulations.
"If your reason to live dies, you will die, too," Max said, now standing at my side. "But, if you go on living, then whoever or whatever died was not really your reason for living after all."
I was tired; I felt so sleepy; I wanted to sleep.
Max then reaches over and takes hold of my left hand, which is not in a cast.
"Here Jim, I want you to have this."
He places the silver chain with the pinned piece of white cloth into my hand, closing my hand tightly around it. "This piece of cloth is all the magic you will ever need to bring Gina back. If you believe in its magic, you can know how. But you must first find your why for being. Without understanding your why you will never know how. There is no how to life’s magic if you don’t understand who you are, what you are, and most importantly why you are."
The room is becoming foggy. Somewhere in the fog, Max fades into nothingness. Clenching my fist over the necklace, I realize I’m asleep.
The next thing I knew, I opened my eyes to a sun-filled room. The brightness of the sun shown through the sheers, the drapes now pulled back by a nurse who had awakened me. Feeling something in my hand, I looked to see if it was there; but I was not holding the necklace – only the corner of the sheet. It must’ve been a dream.
"Good morning, Mr. Carpenter," said the nurse. "How are we doing this morning?"
This nurse was someone that I didn’t recognize. I felt a little bit groggy, but not so much that I didn’t remember the night’s events.
"How’s Gina? Is she going to be all right?" I asked.
"What was her full name?" asked the nurse.
"Gina Lee," I replied, hoping for a square answer.
"I'm sorry, but you're going to have to ask the doctor."
I knew the answer before I even asked the question. Then I had another question. "How did I get in here? What’s wrong with me?"
"Well, let me see if I can tell," she said as she picked up the chart, "It says here that you were admitted the day before yesterday for a broken arm, bleeding ulcer and a related reaction to a drug. Did you faint or something?"
"I guess I did – you mean that I have been out for two days?" I replied in confusion, but not expecting an answer. "I don't remember."
"Well, you’ve been sleeping awhile. Of course you were admitted after four in the morning, so it’s only been a day really. The reaction probably wasn't too bad, because the doctor seems to have treated it with simple medication," she said. "He will be making another round at four thirty; you can ask him all of your questions then. Meantime, several people came to see you and left you cards and flowers. You seem to be a pretty popular guy at work."
I looked over at the credenza where there were two bouquets of flowers and several cards propped up against them. "Could you please hand me the cards?" I asked.
"Certainly," she said as she picked up the cards and handed them to me one at a time.
Opening them was a little difficult. However, once I got used to the fact that my right hand didn't work very well in the cast, I was able to rip them out of their envelopes ungracefully. The first card had a magical motif and was signed from the gang at work. "Wishing you a magical recovery," it said. The second card, a more plain vanilla "get well soon" variety, was signed simply: Mr. Lee. I wondered if he were still here; I wondered if Gina were still here. I had been out for almost two days.
The doctor walked in, quickly picking up my chart and asking, "How are you doing?"
"I'm all right, but I need to know how Gina Lee is doing," I said.
Not even looking up from the chart, he asked, "Is she a relative or friend of yours?"
"She was with me, uh, ... on a date, when she was hit by the car. We were both in the accident. Please, I’ve got to know. I've been out for two days and the last I knew she was in intensive care, and they didn't know if she would live."
"Jim, let me be straight with you. Gina is alive, but she is hanging on by a thread. I really didn't give her as much credit as she was due. With an injury to her head that severe, she should not even be alive."
"Thank God she is alive," I said. "Can I see her?"
"Jim, she hasn't regained consciousness, and I am very sorry, but to be absolutely truthful with you, it is highly unlikely that she ever will," he said.
My heart stopped. I experienced that same indescribable emptiness that I had felt when my father died. It suddenly became painfully obvious why all that her father had written on his card was "Mr. Lee." That he could have written anything at all was a wonder. She is dead, I said to myself, and my eyes filled with tears. I started to say something, but my mouth became dry, quivering, and I found that I couldn't speak.
"I'm sorry, Jim, in your condition, I really didn't want to tell you. But you do have the right to know," he said. "As for you, the medication we are giving you seems to have done the trick. You should be able to leave here within a couple of days. We just want to keep an eye on you for a while and monitor your progress."
"That's what they told my father, too," I said, and I guess that the doctor said a few more things to me, but in my almost catatonic state I really didn’t care and didn’t know what. I couldn't hear him anymore, completely unaware of anything going on outside of my own thoughts. Oh, I was aware that the room was now empty; I was empty.
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