Shaking Off the Dust

I dedicate this book to my father, who believed in me and made me strong, to my baby brother who made me laugh and to my son. Three I loved and wish would come to haunt me so that I might talk with them just one more time. To all my living family, I thank you for the inspiration, love and support, especially Mom.

Thanks to my critique partner, Allison, and a very special thank you to my patient and wise editor, Anne.

I blew out a long breath while I nervously awaited my role in this awkward memorial service for an unhappy soul. I looked up at the huge oak tree, its dark branches misshapen from last year’s tornado.

The leaves hung daintily on the limbs, dancing sorrowfully in the autumn wind, before they glided in unhurried descent to the ground.

I tried not to squirm in my solemn black dress, one size too small, compliments of my sister who never has gotten my size right. “There is a certain bleak beauty here. I can understand why they chose this setting for the memorial service. It’s just this side of creepy,” I said.

“Yeah, the rain clouds and the local news truck add just the right touch.” Vicki was leaning into my ear, my left ear. I’m deaf in my right. As my oldest friend, she’d finally learned to get the right ear. Sorry, I mean left.

“With any luck they won’t notice me.” I was an unremarkable woman with dark blonde hair in the traditional chin-length bob. The humidity caused my hair to frizz, minimizing the artfully placed golden highlights that were lost in the muted light of cloud cover. At five feet three, with an ordinary shape, I got lost in the crowd.

No surprise the news cameras were not pointed in my direction. They pointed towards the beautiful people, the men at this memorial service.

Bright lights suddenly shone from the news truck and the aging local newscaster stood in front of it as he began to speak. I could see the thick pancake makeup from where I sat.

“Thanks, Bob. I’m here today to pay tribute to an American hero. The death of Dr. Tom Mecurio in a terrorist bombing has shocked our tristate community. The tragic crash during take-off of Mediterania flight 1029, caused by a terrorist bomb, has horrified the world. Neurosurgeon Dr. Tom Mecurio suffered a traumatic brain injury that caused his death three days later, but not before he was flown back to the United States where his wish to be an organ donor was honored. Today, in this private ceremony, his last wish will be fulfilled.” The camera panned the small memorial service.

It wasn’t that Tom didn’t deserve it, but honestly, you couldn’t turn on the national or local news for the last three weeks without them replaying him returning to the United States for organ harvesting. Then, as a matter of course, every national television news magazine had a human-interest piece on the recipients.

He had gotten much more than fifteen minutes of fame.

“This weather is turning ugly.” Vicki glanced expectantly towards the sky. She was petite with a long neck. She kept her brown hair short to emphasize that neck. I would too. “If we don’t get to the actual sprinkling of his ashes, it may become slinging of mud.”

“I swear you have no respect for the dead. Tom Mecurio was a great doctor and saved my life.”

“He was an asshole most of the time, as you well know. The fact that he did save your life is the reason I’m here.” She stuck her chin up a little. “You notice that the only others besides his partners are the ones from the emergency room that we talked into attending.”

“Vicki, Vicki, be nice! I don’t think he could stop himself from being such a prick. It was like a prick compulsion.” I really was trying to be on my best behavior. My mouth seemed to have a mind of its own sometimes, especially around Vicki.

“Did you notice the gorgeous Asian guy standing near his partners?” She did a long distance appraisal of the man in question. “I heard from Dr. Brewster that he was Tom’s best friend. They were college buddies. He’s a research neurologist who came up from U of L. He’s awful pretty, all wrapped up in tall, dark and exotic. Yum.” She bobbed her head taking in the sparse gathering. “I don’t understand why they let news people know this was going on today. I thought it was going to be a private service.”

Tom’s will specified that he wished to be cremated after the harvesting of major organs. Supposedly, he was “looking forward to shaking the dust of this world off his feet”.

I sighed again and gave Vicki a quick nudge. “Do you think any of these people really cared about him, besides maybe his best friend?”

“Hannah. I doubt that Tom let people get that close to him. You saw all the news reports about his time in the foster care system and going to college on a scholarship. I don’t think he ever learned social skills.

He sure didn’t act very social.” Vicki’s voice was soft and little sad.

In our emergency department, Tom Mecurio was known as that arrogant neurosurgeon who thrived on making everyone else miserable. Since he’d stalked into the department that first day he’d been on call for us, he had caused a lot of nurses to cry. When he arrived, younger nurses hid and the older ones flipped a coin to see who had to deal with him.

I shouldn’t complain, because he’d never made me cry. At times, I’d been furious at his attitude. I even laughed at a joke he told once, but I’d never squeezed out a tear for him. I may only be an emergency room nurse, but by the standards of my particular hospital and community, I found it to be true that all the neurosurgeons were arrogant. It was a side effect of holding someone’s brain in your fingers. One mistake and you could make a genius an idiot.

“Heads-up, Jim is motioning for you to begin.” Vicki inclined her head towards Jim Turner, the hospital chaplain. This formal memorial service was his idea. He’d thought it would be a fitting tribute if one of Tom’s patients handed the urn over to his partner.

I looked up at Jim as a large raindrop hit me on the forehead. It was time. The wind was blowing the fallen leaves around, sending them towards us and away from the water. The urn containing Tom’s ashes made clinking noises as it was buffeted against the tree.

Jim put a reassuring hand on my arm when I reached him. “Are you ready?”

With a nod, I proceeded to play my part. The plain silver urn was heavy in my hands as I picked it up, gingerly sliding my fingers across the engraved name, Thomas Michael Mecurio. There was the Christian symbol of the fish on the lid. I tried not to run to the edge of the lake where Dr. Eric Chow, a neurosurgeon in Tom’s practice waited, but I wanted this to be over. I gave him a sad smile as I offered up the urn.

Eric unscrewed the top, handed it back to me, then walked as close to the water’s edge as he could. His feet were precariously wedged between the exposed tangles of roots that crawled into the murky lake.

He swung his arms, casting out the ashes in an arc above the water.

Jim began reading. “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”

At the first “dust”, a wind that had been blowing my midlength black dress between my legs gusted hard and seemed to grab the ashes as they hovered in midair, milliseconds from descending into the water. As if by an unseen hand, the remains of Tom Mecurio were propelled right into my face. I inhaled, pulling particles into my nose and mouth. My face and eyes were covered in the dust. I couldn’t breathe for the ash now caught in my lungs. I stumbled backwards, away from the tree, trying to clear the clinging particles from my eyes. That’s when lightning struck the tree.

The last thing I thought was, how fitting. That would teach me to say rude things at a funeral service.

I was cold and wet as I opened my eyes. Dr. Tom Mecurio was inches away and staring into my face.

“Oh my God, I’m dead.”

“You can see me?” Tom asked, surprise on his face.

“Well, yeah. I’m dead.”

Vicki leaned forward into my line of sight. She seemed to pass through Tom’s face. “Sorry, dear. You are having some bad luck, but you are still alive. I was afraid you’d had it, girl. The electrical arc blew the lid of the urn right out of your hand.” She winked at someone I couldn’t see, someone behind me. “That cute Asian doctor even checked you out. The news camera got the whole thing. They did a close-up of your hand where the fish symbol is now burned into the palm. Oh, and you can thank me for making sure your dress was pulled down first.”

“How long was I out?” I continued to stare at Tom Mecurio, who frowned. He leaned over me until I felt claustrophobic. He wasn’t a huge man, but even with his trim build, he was tall enough to be impressive when you look up from the ground.

“It’s been twelve minutes. EMS just got here and are unloading their gear. They’ll be with you any second. It’s Bobby and Tony.” Vicki disappeared.

I looked at Tom and tried to shake my head, but someone was holding it in alignment. “I’m hallucinating,” I whispered.

“Hello.” The voice was deep and reassuring. “What are you staring at?”

The cute Asian doctor leaned over into my visual field. I stared at his upside-down face. It made me

dizzy. My eyes were sensitive to the light and my hand hurt. “I’m going to throw up.”

I’m always as good as my word.

The nice man and paramedics rolled me onto my side and held my neck in alignment while I redecorated the soggy ground. Once I was done, they eased me onto a backboard. Someone put his palm across my forehead. He had long cool fingers. I liked his hands there.

“I’m sorry. I’m not usually such a pain,” I blubbered.

“I don’t think you are, but we have some paramedics here who are trying to push me aside and do their job. You will be the better for their doing that.” His voice was soft and velvety. His speech had a slow cadence, but I didn’t notice an accent.

“You’ve been very kind,” I mumbled.

After they did the usual poking and prodding, I felt a sting and cold traveled up my arm. Their conversation was muted, as if it were a long way from me. My eyes felt so heavy I couldn’t open them. I drifted off again, briefly wondering why I would hallucinate Tom Mecurio.

“Hannah!” Dr. Perez’s familiar voice said like it wasn’t the first time. “Open your eyes.”

I think I grunted. It was some weird noise I don’t usually make. “I choose not to.”

He clucked his tongue at me. “Open your eyes or I will be forced to pinch you.”

I lifted my eyelids and squinted. “I’d pinch you back if I felt better. Seriously, JJ, my head is ready to burst and the light you are shining into my eyes is making me sick.”

“Okay, but you must follow all my other commands. You know the routine, wiggle your toes, grip my hands.” It was the same exam I’d seen him do on thousands of others. He removed the backboard and rigid collar around my neck.

When he finished, I could hear him at my head. “You’re a celebrity, Hannah. A renowned neurologist rode along in the ambulance with you and a news truck followed. Security is blocking a lobby full of reporters trying to get back here for your first post-lightning interview.”

“No thanks.” I put my hand over my eyes.

“You got a jolt of electricity. That urn lid was your downfall. You may have a permanent scar in the shape of a fish on your left palm. Your heart rate was fast and irregular when you came in, so I plan to hold you for observation tonight. You were very lucky.”

“Thanks, JJ,” I said, to let him know I’d been listening.

“I’ll send Martha in with some drugs for your headache and nausea. You may have to wait a while for a bed. They want to get you moved without showing the way to the press. Dr. Shimodo is out in the emergency room. Do I have your permission to share your lab results with him?”

“I suppose I owe him that much for taking care of me after I went down for the count.”

“I’ll check on you later.”

The door closed behind him and I could tell he had turned off the light. My left hand hurt and my head throbbed, but I was not feeling as bad as I thought I should. I felt warm under the blankets and there was cool air on my face. It could have been worse. It could always be worse.