Believing Cedric (37 page)

William Kirby knew that, to many people, such observations might be considered flights of fancy, which were discordant with his profession and personality. But he didn't see it that way. Einstein had often quoted that a sense of the mystic—that a wonderment at what is all around us, yet impenetrable—was the germ of all true science and art. William agreed. He loved medicine (and all the sciences really) because of the driving force behind them, the disciplined and systematic search to understand what we don't when it would be better for humanity if we did. And William didn't see this teasing out of the natural world's mysteries as an attempt to control them, but as a means of being closer to them, and even, in some way, to honour them, revere them.

With opinions like these, it was incredible to think that he'd been called a skeptic more than a few times in his life and, once, even a cynic. Though he remembered the circumstances. The problem was, thought William, that people naturally linked any kind of infatuation with the mystical with things of a much less credible nature. Like the ridiculous pseudosciences (astrology, numerology, phrenology) or the endless splay of New Age egocentricities. Now these things, on the other hand, William was happy to dismiss with a snide remark or roll of the eyes. Sure the mystical was alluring, a kind of intoxicant, but if he found that others, or even himself, were crossing the line, feeling a little light-headed with it, it was best, in William's opinion, to stamp a solid foot on the ground and keep it there. One must—
must
—always fall firmly on the side of reason, on quantifiable, evidence-based principles that could stand up to peer review and rigorous scrutiny.

Which is maybe why William liked to keep a thumb on the pulse of how quickly things were changing, scrolling through the biggest online science magazines in the evenings, why he was a devout follower of
Boing Boing
. Because every passing week saw incidents surfacing that laws hadn't yet been designed for, or had even considered; let alone corresponding ethical codes and conduct. The speed at which society was being asked to adapt was an exponential one. A fact that most people probably found daunting, but which seemed to fuel William, absorb him. All the more because the upshots and spinoffs of the progressive global village, the urban displacements, eclectic cosmopolitana, and the newly invented alternative lifestyles could even be seen in rural Ontario life.

There was Lynn, with her tattoos and piercings, living just up the road with another woman her age, both of them young enough to be his daughters. The couple had bought a small farm on the outskirts of town and had slotted themselves into the same chores and rounds that the family before them had maintained, every day, for more than fifty years. They kept chickens, horses, a few milk cows, a large enough garden to keep them cooking over the summer and fill their freezer for the winter. He'd met Lynn like he met most people, as a patient, which, as with most people, led to cordial hellos in passing, but then, as a pleasant surprise, to a few eggs or surplus produce from her vegetable patch, handed over the fence when he sauntered by on his daily walks. Once, William saw her feeding a few of those eggs, presumably rotten ones, to her horses, holding them out in front of their noses, one at a time, until the horse had wrapped its velvety mouth around it, lifted its head, rolled the egg down the length of its tongue, and quietly crushed it at the back of its throat. Until he saw this, he had no idea that a horse would eat an egg. Another time, around New Year's, she gave him a chicken she'd butchered herself. A young woman from the city, butchering a chicken. William imagined the physical act, how she would do it, how discomfiting it probably was, knowing he couldn't do it himself.

Then there was Jack, living along the Drag River Walkway, who welded sculptures together out of salvaged metal. Or Walter, the hunting outfitter who'd moved there from Kansas City, spoke with what sounded like an exaggerated American accent and had a certificate in animal-assisted therapy, his clientele split between gruff hunters and timid children, rifle casings jingling in his pockets while he coaxed a youthful hand to pet a therapy llama.

Even the most no-nonsense people in the area could have hidden eccentricities to them, say things that surprised you. Like two years ago, when William had had a double load of firewood brought in and piled under his deck in the backyard. It was the third year that he'd gotten his wood from the same guy, Steven Greig, who spent the season cutting, drying, and delivering it himself; though William knew that he also worked on a selective logging crew, doing some tree pruning and other grunt work for a horticulturalist in town, some snow plowing for a contractor in the winter. He was a serious fellow, quiet, hard-working, who always wore a stern expression. He lived with a local woman with similar traits, and they had three children, whom they'd christened with interesting names that William had a hard time remembering, like Nodin and Sade. As he was finishing with the wood—immaculate rows, stacked into stable walls, already divided into thick rolls and halved logs that could be easily cut into kindling—William decided he would give him a little extra this year, waiting for him to run his sleeve across his brow before handing him a beer.

“Thanks,” Steven had said, twisting the bottle open but not taking a sip until he'd caught his breath. They stepped into William's spacious backyard.

“You do good work, Steve. Thanks a lot.”

Steven nodded firmly.

“So,” William, straining for a bit of light conversation, “your last name's Greig. Is that British? German? What is that?”

“Hell if I know.” Steven shrugged, almost cutting himself short with a swill of beer.

“So did you grow up up north then? Sudbury or something?”

“No . . .” he said hesitantly, a deep mumble. “No-no. Grew up all over the place. Mostly in Tronno, I guess. Kind of an orphan. Kind of a street kid. Gettin' inta all kinds a trouble.”

William studied his face, suddenly intent on his expression, trying to read into the details between the words. “Who knew? Living on the street, eh?” He took a swig of beer himself, shook his head. “Wow.”

Steven took another steep sip. “Yup,” he said with finality. They chatted about the yard for a few minutes before Steven handed his empty bottle back to William. “Thanks for the beer. Gotta get goin'. Send ya the bill.”

“Hey, thanks a lot again. It looks great under there. No kiddin'.”

“N'probems. Anytime. Bye.” He walked to his truck, visibly self-conscious, and jostled into the cab, slamming the door hard.

William watched the truck as he pulled away, wondering about him, never having thought of Steven as one of those people who might be coming out on the better end of a tough life. He wondered what kind of trouble he'd gotten into, knowing, at the same time however, that he'd never find out. Then, as the truck turned onto the road, William saw that one of Steven's kids had written into the thin layer of dirt that coated the vehicle's paintjob, a child's fingertip dragging clean the words
DaDs Truk
. William smiled. He was beginning to develop a weakness for graffiti. With a fling of his arms, he drained the last of both of the bottles onto the grass and went back inside.

William followed Hanif into the crash room, where Janet had turned on the machines and instruments and was busy checking the monitor. Hanif asked her where the crash cart was, and after she'd pointed to it, he began going through the items, seeming overly calm, moving fluidly, lifting the glass vials to read the labels. “The atropine is . . . ? Oh wait, eer it is. Sorrie.”

William, leaving Hanif to sort through it himself, walked through to the staging area and opened the bay doors, a burst of autumn air sighing into the building. He stepped outside, checking his watch. In the crisp distance, the approaching siren could already be heard. William scratched at his palm, sauntered out onto the ramp where he saw a car driving by on the township road in front of the hospital, loose leaves chasing close behind it, caught in the eddy of its slipstream like just-married cans tied to the bumper of a honeymoon car. He caught a single flash of the approaching ambulance strobe out of the corner of his eye while looking just beyond the township road, at the marsh on the other side of it, remembering what had happened to him early last week.

William had been on the way out the door for his daily stroll when his wife asked him to find her a few cattails for a dried-grass arrangement she wanted to put into a tall vase by the fire. So William grabbed the pruners on his way out of the yard and climbed along the old road, now a trail, making his way past the bare spot that looked over the town, the steeples of the churches the tallest points, towering high, almighty, though unused and unthought-of. The trail continued to where it branched off to circle the marsh, which he descended toward, thinking about the logistics of cutting cattails and bringing them back intact. As usual, he was alone on the trail, which he was happy for, appreciative of the space and quiet.

He found them easy enough, jutting out of the marsh's edge, though most of them had already gone to seed, their brown velvet splitting along a seam that seemed to bleed out with a type of downy cotton. He decided he would pick them anyway, let his wife be the judge of whether she could use them or not, but as soon as he walked into the reeds he found himself stepping onto a ground that was veiled and unnaturally soft, which had him rethinking the idea. He stopped, looked around. A few remnants of fall colours were standing out against the browns and greys of early winter, a yellow leaf caught in the sepia culms, a brush-dab of maroon, a fist of rust. There were also birds, he realized, twittering and chirring in the rushes in front of him, hidden. On a whim, he clapped, just once, never for a moment imagining that it would have the effect that it did.

The entire marsh seemed to erupt, and the sky darkened with hundreds, maybe thousands, of small black birds. They formed a bleary cloud that spread and thinned itself one moment, then condensed and folded in on itself the next; but it was always whorled and synchronous, always acting as one. Like history. Like a nation. There was a point when the flock passed low over his head, and he was sure he felt the wind of their countless wings, and flinched beneath its tremolo, ducking low into the sedges. Then the flock collected and spiralled above the marsh that was farthest away from him and, rather abruptly, sunk into the reeds again, leaving the autumn air empty but for their sounds, now remote and muted.

When he stepped out of the rushes several minutes later, without having procured a single cattail, he looked both ways along the trail, as if about to cross the street, and was somehow disappointed to see that no one else was there, that he was still alone. And as he stood on the edge of the marsh again, he was struck with a strange sensation, a thought. It occurred to him that there might be someone else out there who'd experienced exactly what he just had, who had stood in some rushes mesmerized and half-frightened by a swirling flock of blackbirds. And for some reason—he couldn't even begin to say why—it was important that that person existed. He continued on, thinking of who they might be, imagining a younger woman, an older man, crouched in another marsh, another time. When he got home, he apologized to his wife for not bringing her back any cattails. He said nothing about the blackbirds.

And now he found himself looking for them here, in this other marsh, scanning for a brief flapping or flutter above the wetland as the ambulance sped closer, but didn't manage to spot anything. He began to step backwards, back into the crash room, the sirens switched off as the vehicle turned into the hospital's driveway, the engine wheezing with a final acceleration before it reached the staging area, where everyone was more than ready for it.

The rear doors flung open, stretcher wheeled out. The paramedic that had been treating the patient in the back moved along with him, giving chest compressions as he sidestepped into the crash room. There, a collection of hands gripped on to the large man and slid him onto a proper bed, hoisting on the count of three.

As this was happening, the paramedic that had been driving held the patient's chart out in front of him and brought everyone up to speed. “Okay: fifty-eight-year-old male; single motor-vehicle accident off Highway 118; found unresponsive behind the wheel; no trauma noted per se, except for minor laceration to right arm; gentleman extracted from vehicle without difficulty; no pulse on arrival, chest compressions were begun; hooked up to
AED
and found patient to have ventricular fibrillation; shocked once, got a brief pulse, which fell into pulseless v-fib again; shocked a second time, got some electrical activity, but no pulse. We've been bagging and masking with chest compressions for thirteen minutes now.”

“Thanks, John,” William, his back already turned to the paramedics, prepared to intubate while Janet hooked Cedric up to the cardiac monitor.

“Doctor Kirby,” Hanif said, busy watching the screen, waiting to see what would come up on it, “Can you intubate please? Oh yes. I see. Good.”

William had worked the laryngoscope into Cedric's mouth, found the slot between the vocal chords, and fed the plastic tubing inside, fixing it onto his cheeks with stretchy material and tape. The lower part of Cedric's face was now obscured.

The paramedic continued with chest compressions, numbering them off under his breath, “. . . five-and-six-and-seven-and-eight-and-nine-and-
thirty
. Breathe.”

The other paramedic, who had just taken position at Cedric's head and connected the bag and mask to the tube, gave two squeezes of air.

Everyone paused to look at the monitor. But there wasn't much to see. No sound, no movement, no squiggling lines.

“Asystole. Okay,” Hanif said. “Okay. I think we should try for a shockable rhythem. Let's cut his clothes off and get a Foley in please.” A forty-five-second flurry of hands, medical scissors, yanking fists of fabric, and Cedric was naked with a catheter in his bladder, his bloodless urine a good sign.