Painless (13 page)

Chapter 27

Monday morning, Billy joined the Whitcombs on a private jet that flew them to Raleigh-Durham International Airport in North Carolina. From there, they took a short helicopter ride and landed on the grounds of the Jordan Children’s Hospital in Durham.

With the helicopter blades still whipping in the background, they were met by Dr. Samuel Jordan. He was not only the lead physician, but had his name etched on the seventy-thousand-square-foot research and treatment hospital that served children with special needs, neurological disorders, and incurable diseases.

Samuel Jordan was lanky thin with sandy blond hair, looking much younger than his forty-eight years. He was what Carolyn would term as “shiny.” But he spoke with a gentle southern accent that gave him an “aw shucks” quality.

He greeted the Whitcombs with smiles and handshakes. He then turned his attention to Carolyn, whose sturdy barrette couldn’t keep her hair from blowing in the strong gusts of wind coming from the helicopter. She wore a pink cotton dress with a matching sling on her injured shoulder, although she kept removing the restrictive sling whenever the opportunity presented itself, much to her mother’s chagrin.

“And what is your name?” the doctor asked her over the whirring blades.

“Carolyn Whitcomb,” she shouted proudly.

“You look like a true southern belle, Carolyn Whitcomb.”

“Bells are on bikes, silly.”

“I stand corrected. But I must say that you don’t look like a Carolyn Whitcomb. You look like a princess. Would you mind if I called you princess?”

Carolyn’s face scrunched. “How did you know I was a princess?”

“Only a princess could radiate such delightful beauty.”

Carolyn giggled. “You talk funny.”

He laughed a charming laugh. “We do talk a little funny down here. You are quite observant. Did you enjoy your ride on the airplane?”

She bubbled with excitement. “It was coo’!”

Carolyn then extended her arms straight out to her sides like she had wings, and began running in circles, joyously making airplane sounds and laughing unapologetically.

The diagnosis had provided Beth with some relief, but it also had raised her over-protectiveness to Defcom-2 level. “Carolyn, be careful!” she yelled to her.

Dr. Jordan gently placed his hand on her shoulder. “Beth, we are not dealing with CIPA
patients
, but rather, CIPA
children
. During your visit I will provide you and Chuck with a plan to both keep her safe
and
allow her to be a normal child.”

Beth’s eyes welled with relief—Carolyn was in good hands. They caught up to Carolyn, still doing her airplane imitation, and headed for the front entrance.

“If you found the airplane coo’, Carolyn, then the helicopter ride must have been totally awesome,” Dr. Jordan said, matching Carolyn’s enthusiasm.

“Between you and me, I thought it was a little loud.”

He laughed. “We will try to work on that.”

Jordan Children’s Hospital didn’t look like a typical sterile hospital. It consisted of two ultra-modern looking pavilions connected by a glass atrium. Its bright orange and blue colors gave it a Caribbean feel.

Dr. Jordan opened the glass door for Billy and the Whitcombs to enter. But Carolyn stood frozen.

“What’s wrong, princess?” Dr. Jordan asked with a calm voice. Billy got the idea that this wasn’t his first experience with stage fright.

“I don’t like hospitals.”

“Well, this isn’t a hospital.”

Carolyn looked skeptical. “It isn’t?”

“No, this is a
children’s
hospital. Much different. It’s like a fun house where every little boy and girl who has a frown, we turn upside down.”

She remained a skeptic. “You promise?”

“You are much too smart to fool.”

 She shrugged. “I do like fun houses.”

He effortlessly won her over, and she agreed to enter. The interior had similar bright pastel color schemes. Rooms were built in unique shapes—octagons and such—and the lobby was circular. Much of the furniture and apparatus was scaled to a child’s size, and paintings hung close to the ground, at eye level for the children. Billy noticed that it was the opposite of
Peanut Butter & Jelly
, which he drew to the scale of how children see the grownup world.

Colorful plastic toys were prevalent in the lobby, and the speakers blasted the energetic theme song from
The Muppets
, which Billy remembered from his own youth. The feel was playful.

“I think I might like a children’s hospital!” Carolyn blurted.

Children greeted Dr. Jordan with the reverence kids usually reserve for
Dora the Explorer
. He charmed each one of them individually, knowing each child’s name and some personal item about them.

The first order of business was to get fitted for ID badges. In anticipation of her photo, Dr. Jordan found a cardboard crown that looked like something one might get at Burger King, and placed it on Carolyn’s head. “A princess must have her crown,” he said.

Carolyn flashed her big toothless smile for the camera. She then compared mug shots with Billy, who helped her pin the ID badge on her dress. She noticed a logo on the badge of the security company where two S’s were squiggled vertically, surrounded by a circle. They looked like…

 “Ewe…snakes,” Carolyn squealed.

After a quick tour of the Disney World of hospitals, they congregated in Jordan’s office. He went over his bio, including that he was a professor of pediatrics and neurology at Duke Medical in his “spare” time. He boasted that he was the world’s leading expert in CIPA, but then quickly joked that it wasn’t bragging, since he was possibly the only CIPA expert in the world. He had a comforting way about him, which was most beneficial to Beth. He squelched any idea that Carolyn might be used for scientific experimentation, and had already taken the liberty of contacting Little Brook Nursery School to lobby on Carolyn’s behalf. After he explained her situation, she was granted permission to return, if desired.

Dr. Jordan and Carolyn then went off for her comprehensive examination, which tested Beth’s separation anxiety. Three hours later, they reconvened in Jordan’s office. Carolyn bounced in, all smiles, wearing a miniature version of the white lab coat worn by Dr. Jordan.

Chuck scooped her into his arms, “How you doing, princess?”

She bubbled with excitement. “I like children’s hospitals!”

He couldn’t hold back his laughter as he set his fickle daughter down. The tension convention of the past week had turned lighthearted. Black clouds had been pushed away by the blue skies.

A stethoscope hung around Carolyn’s neck and she held a blood pressure monitor in her non-sling hand. She ran to Beth, wrapped the Velcro blood pressure cuff around her arm, and began aggressively pumping. She then informed her mother, “You’re a little high, maybe you should meet me in my office in two weeks to check you out.”

Everyone laughed, even Beth. But Billy didn’t doubt the last few weeks had left them all with high blood pressure.

Then Carolyn announced, “When I grow up, I’m gonna be a doctor and work at a children’s hospital!”

“You told me you wanted to be a firefighter. In politics they would call you a flip flopper,” Beth replied.

“I thought you were going to be a hockey player?” Chuck added.

“I thought you were going to be a newspaper writer?” Billy played along.

Carolyn sighed dramatically. “Can’t a girl change her mind?”

She had no use for the adults who were trying to drag her down, and seamlessly transitioned into a tangent that summarized the last couple hours she’d spent with Dr. Jordan. It included two other CIPA kids she met at the facility. Nadav from Israel and Hideo from Japan. “They are just like me!” she announced with joy. Just like her—they couldn’t feel pain. Still hard to believe.

Dr. Jordan confirmed the diagnosis from Yale, using layman’s terms so all could understand. The doctor then showed a video that painted both an optimistic and not so rosy look at CIPA. First up was a young boy from the Philippines who was diagnosed with CIPA at six months old. He was now twenty-two with fractured bones, severe bite wounds, and lost an estimated twenty pounds each summer due to heat exhaustion. He spent his days in a wheelchair and was emotionally like a child. Everyone watched in horror as the boy on the video rubbed his nose raw and struggled to speak without a tongue.

Billy noticed the hopeless look on Beth’s face, probably visualizing a similar fate for Carolyn. Chuck must have noticed the same thing and put his arm around her.

The good, yet still a work in progress scenario, was a little five-year-old girl from a small town in Florida who had been featured in a television news story.

While the little girl bounced around, her mother was interviewed. In a sweet voice she talked of how they knew something was wrong, but couldn’t put their finger on it, and of course, never would have thought in a million years such an ailment even existed. She told a wild story about how her daughter had come into the house one time complaining that she couldn’t get dirt off her arm, but her arm was actually covered by fire-eating ants she never felt. She described the delicate balance between protection and over-protection, including how they were initially so paranoid they made her wear a helmet, but eventually learned to loosen the reigns.

Billy noticed a certain comfort come over Beth. In the end, it wasn’t the diagnosis at Yale, the confirmation by one of the world’s leading pediatric neurologists, or even the support of Chuck and her family that gave Beth a sense of peace. It took the testimonial of another mother.

When the video ended, Carolyn said, “She seems nice,” referring to the girl. “Can I play with her?”

Dr. Jordan patted her on the head. “She lives far away, princess. I’m afraid I won’t be able to meet that request.”

Carolyn’s face slumped.

“But I know what we can do,” Jordan said. “What do you say you and your guests join me at my home for dinner tonight?”

Carolyn’s face perked up and immediately looked hopefully toward Beth, “Can we, Mommy?”

“I don’t know, Carolyn, I’m sure Dr. Jordan is a very busy man and we’ve taken up too much of his time already.”

“I insist,” Jordan said, closing the deal with his smile.

“Do you haff steaks?” Carolyn asked with building excitement.

“I sure do.”

“Do you haff strawberry milk?”

“You’re wish is my command, princess.”

“Then what are we waiting for? I’m starving!”

Chapter 28

They drove out of the hospital in Dr. Jordan’s spacious Cadillac Escalade Hybrid.

Their first stop was Duke University. The doctor had to pick up a few files from his office at the medical school, so Billy and the Whitcombs took advantage to stretch their legs. Beth purchased Carolyn a royal blue sweatshirt with white trim, the Duke school colors. As night grew closer, they hoped the sweatshirt would combat the falling temperatures that Carolyn wouldn’t feel or detect. Chuck mentioned to Billy that he could take advantage of the downtime to drop by Kaylee Scroggins’ dorm room, which received a glare from Beth.

When Jordan returned, they made the hour-long ride to the doctor’s home. The vehicle contained all the amenities: leather upholstery, DVD player, and a built-in car seat for Carolyn with attached video games. On the way, Jordan called in the dinner order to someone he referred to as Miss Rose. The menu would include steaks, corn on the cob, and peach cobbler for dessert. To Carolyn’s satisfaction, there would be strawberry milk to drink.

They arrived in Clarksville, a small, pace-slowed-to-a-crawl town, located just over the border on the southern tip of Virginia. It bordered Virginia’s largest lake—Buggs Island Lake—a fifty thousand acre body of water that was created when the Staunton and Roanoke Rivers were dammed. The town attracted numerous boaters and outdoorsman, but according to Dr. Jordan, Clarksville’s true appeal was that it allowed him to meld into the woodsy background and gain some peace and solace after a day of saving the world’s children.

The Escalade passed through an electronic security gate and rambled down a long driveway, lined with oak trees. They passed exquisite gardens, before arriving in front of an eye-opening, gable-roofed Georgian-style mansion built of sturdy limestone. Billy felt like they’d traveled back in time.

“Welcome to Jordan Plantation,” the doctor announced.

“You live in a castle—are you a king?” Carolyn exulted.

Jordan chuckled lightly. “No, but I am a sixth generation relation to Sir Quincy Jordan who built this plantation in 1787. Quincy was third generation from my namesake, Samuel Jordan, who immigrated to Middlesex County, Virginia, during the rule of Oliver Cromwell. The Jordans were one of the principal cavalier families of Virginia.”

Jordan went on to explain that his family had actually sold the plantation in the early 1900s, following decades of decline following the Civil War. It changed hands numerous times, including being purchased once by a famed horse trainer to raise thoroughbreds. But by the time the early 1980s rolled around, it had been deserted and left to die.

Jordan then surprised them when he mentioned that he didn’t have the same lavish upbringing as his ancestors, and was actually raised by a single mother in a dingy, one-bedroom apartment in Winston-Salem. According to Jordan, like the plantation, the Jordan family never recovered financially after the Civil War. So when he began to make money following medical school, he risked his savings to rescue the dilapidated family heirloom and build it back to the prominence he felt it deserved.

He described the heyday of the plantation with reverence, “At its peak, Jordan Plantation had ten thousand acres and approximately eight hundred slaves living and working on it. It was practically a city in and of itself, and was completely self-reliant. These days we have only about five hundred acres.”

“Only, eh?” Chuck quipped.

“What are slaves?” Carolyn asked.

“Slaves were a sad period in history that most Americans wish never happened. Have you ever done something you are not proud of?” Jordan asked Carolyn with the trained calm of a man who works with children.

Carolyn stuck out her healing, but still very mangled tongue. “The whole Dracula joke wasn’t my best move,” she conceded.

Everybody nodded in agreement. There was a certain relief to know there was a logical reason for her behavior.

Jordan took them around to a side entrance of the manor house. They moved down a musty stairwell and entered via an English basement. Jordan pointed out that it had been restored to the original eight-foot ceilings, which gave the illusion Chuck would scrape his head.

They walked up creaky stairs into the main part of the house and were greeted by a large oil painting of Sir Quincy, dating back to the 18th century. He did have a certain resemblance to Dr. Jordan, Billy observed.

They passed into a spacious room Jordan referred to as the saloon. Billy was impressed with the magnificent block-print wallpaper that filled the walls like a mural, depicting a French countryside. Jordan proudly went on about spending the last twenty-plus years restoring the manor house to the look and décor from when Sir Quincy first built it over two hundred years ago, including the English craftsmanship of the furniture and woodwork. The interior woods had been returned to their original pine and oak.

Antsy with the history lesson, Carolyn made a mad dash up the grand staircase that dominated the room. Built for the smaller human species of the 18th century, the steps were closer together, making it “kid-friendly.”

“Carolyn, wait!” Beth shrieked.

Jordan remained calm. Cool as a cucumber. “Remember what I said about letting her be a child, Beth. She’s just playing. We’ve kept her cooped up all day. Carolyn needs to spread her wings.”

Beth wasn’t listening. “Carolyn—get down here now!”

Carolyn reached the top, pirouetted to face the adults, and flashed her toothless grin. “Look Billy, I’m a bee—watch me fly.”

“Nooo!” everybody yelled in unison. It was like the sequel to a horror movie.

She flashed a “gotchya” grin and belted out, “I’m just kidding!”

Nobody laughed.

Once they talked Carolyn off the ledge, literally, the tour moved to the plantation grounds. Jordan took them to his favorite spot on the five hundred acres, which featured an idyllic, sloping view of the lake. The powerful sun had almost sunk completely into the lake, and dusk was starting to take effect. It was almost firefly time.

Carolyn began to run across the park-like lawns, again to Beth’s disapproval. But Dr. Jordan once more encouraged the behavior. “Think of her as a kite whimsically blowing in the wind. Hold on to the cord, Beth, but not so tight it impedes the freedom for which she flies.”

Beth actually gave in, causing Billy to exchange a head nod with Chuck, as if to admiringly say, “Oh, he’s good.”

The tour continued through the old slave quarters, a loom house, and a large horse-stall remaining from what Jordan described as an “ill-conceived” plan to turn the plantation into a breeding center for thoroughbred horses.

They then came across a triangular-shaped farmhouse with an inviting Federal-era style porch. Jordan’s tone turned apologetic, announcing, “This is the Plantation Office. If you don’t mind, I just need a moment to check in with Mr. Jones. He is in charge of running the day-to-day operations of the plantation. Then we can go see if Miss Rose has finished completing our scrumptious meal.”

Lounging behind a cluttered desk with his feet up, was a man Jordan introduced as Mitchell Jones. He wore a sleeveless denim jacket, showing off bare arms that were so inked with tattoos they reminded Billy of the block-print wallpaper in the saloon. His hair was in a ponytail, and had a long, graying beard to match, which he also kept in a ponytail, Captain Lou Albano style.

Upon the sight of the dapper doctor, he took a puff on the cigarette he was chomping on, and irreverently barked, “What can I do ya for, Sammy?”

Jordan seemed irritated by the sight of the man, but maintained his cool exterior. Billy immediately found their relationship odd. He was sure the slaves didn’t talk to Sir Quincy the way Mr. Jones talked to Sir Samuel.

“Who’s this?” Jones asked, pointing his smoldering cigarette in Carolyn’s direction.

“This is Carolyn Whitcomb and her family. They are special guests of mine,” Jordan replied enthusiastically.

Jones took another puff. The office reeked of cigarettes. “Oh, yeah—you’re the one with the CIPA. Why don’t you let me put my cigarette on you to make sure you really got it?”

Before Beth could pull out the hairs of his beard, one by one, he snorted a laugh. “I’m only messin’ with ya.”

Chuck looked like he might be thinking of dusting off his goony skills to protect Carolyn’s honor. But a defusing look from Beth calmed him.

Billy found the man’s knowledge of the rare disorder curious. But Jordan was supposedly the world’s leading expert on the subject, so perhaps it was the norm to entertain a CIPA kid.

Carolyn locked a frozen glare on Jones. Realizing she was out of sorts, Billy kneeled beside her and asked, “Are you okay?”

She pointed at Jones and exclaimed, “That’s Osama Banana!”

Mitchell Jones hadn’t made a great first impression on the Whitcombs, but they wouldn’t tolerate rude behavior from Carolyn. “That’s not nice, Carolyn,” Chuck scolded.

“Please apologize to Mr. Jones,” Beth instructed.

But she continued to stare at him like the little girl in
Poltergeist
stared into the television.
They’re here!

Then she turned frantic. “No, Mom, it’s Osama Banana! Do something!”

Jordan tried to soothe the situation. “I try to get Mr. Jones to cut his beard all the time. I can only hope that being mistaken for such a dastardly terror-monger is the wake-up call he needs to change his grooming habits. And if that doesn’t register, then I don’t know what will.”

Jones smiled wickedly, exposing cigarette-stained teeth. “You got a great imagination, kid. Especially the part how you thought your mother could somehow disarm the world’s most notorious terrorist.”

“Maybe she couldn’t...but I could,” Chuck said with an icy glare. Nobody threatened to put their cigarette out on his little girl without a fight.

After a brief macho stare-down, Jordan again played peacemaker. With a heavy hint, he theatrically announced how hungry he was and suggested they check on the progress of Miss Rose’s feast. Nobody argued.

After leaving the Plantation Office, Jordan apologized for Jones’s behavior, describing him as an old family friend who was superb at running the plantation, but added, “Unfortunately his people skills are, to say the least, lacking.”

They reentered the manor house through the English basement. Billy noticed that Carolyn’s disposition had taken a turn for the worse. Beth also noticed, mentioning that she had had “a long day” and needed a “nap.” Carolyn didn’t say anything, which was strange, since she usually saw a nap as a threat worthy of fighting to the death.

Billy knew something was wrong.