Super World Page 2

  "A child shouldn't die before her parents," he said. "But I don't need to tell you that."

  "No, you don't."

  "I don't want you to leave."

  "I know." Jamie leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. His bristle scratched. She smelled no alcohol on his breath – just a faint whiff of Old Spice. She'd asked him to refrain from drinking this morning and it seemed that he had.

  "Thanks for supporting me," she said.

  "I don't feel like I am."

  "Here we are," Sam announced.

  She and her father looked down. Her ten-acre property now reduced to the size of a postage stamp – the house and shop and garage a trio of Lego structures. Sam circled her tiny kingdom. She shuddered.

  "You don't have to do this, Jamie," said Sam, watching her.

  "It's okay." She swallowed a deep breath. The air up here made her lightheaded – or maybe it's because I'm hyperventilating? "Just tell me when."

  "All right." He gave her a grim smile. "Put on your goggles. Then unbolt your door and slide it to your right until it locks."

  Jamie placed the goggles snugly in place. She snapped the door latch and shoved the door until it latched. Cold wind roared in, smacking her face. Fear smacked her as well. As Sam had said, she didn't have to do this. They could land and she could return to her warm bed. An overdose of painkillers and fading away seemed suddenly immensely appealing.

  "Not too late, sweetie," said her father.

  "I'll be okay." It sounded contradictory, but in that moment she believed it was true. "See you later."

  "You got it." Her dad was blinking back tears.

  "On the count of five," said Sam. "Five, four, three, two..." He throttled down the engine, and the cool hiss of air filled her head. "One."

  Jamie half-stumbled, half-launched herself into the air. She glanced back once. The plane was already a memory – receding like a fast car passing by on a freeway. Then all her attention was on the ground. From their height you'd have roughly two minutes of freefall.

  The postage stamp below was swelling in size far too fast. The field she and Dennis had seeded with corn, tomatoes, green beans, summer squash, and spinach every spring was rushing up to greet her. Too fast to think or reminisce, despite the clichés about one's whole life passing before one's eyes. But not too fast for regret – and a sudden and unwelcome burning desire to live. What did the poem say? Do not go meekly into the dark? Rage, rage, against the dying of the light?

  She spread her windbreaker. It puffed full of air like a sail, theoretically cutting a few miles per hour off her fall. She'd read about people surviving freefall from planes. Sometimes when Dennis jumped, she took thin comfort in those tales. It was possible to survive. Did she want to survive?

  Jamie wanted to consider that question more, but the ground was already at her feet.

  She continued her descent in warm darkness.

  Chapter 2

  JAMIE FLOATED TOWARD THE light at the end of the tunnel. She hoped Dennis and her daughter, Kylee, would be waiting, but when she opened her eyes she was greeted by a row of beeping machines and the back of her father's head angled up at a television mounted on a far wall. The NBA Finals logo blazed across the screen.

  So definitely not heaven, then.

  "Hey..."

  Cal Winters spun around and jumped to his feet as if spring-loaded. "Hey!"

  "Dad."

  "Baby!"

  He was grinning so hard, Jamie worried he might sprain his face. Cal sprang toward her and then slowed himself to a dignified walk. He grasped her right wrist, below her I.V. bracelet.

  "You're okay," he said. "I haven't talked to a doctor – they probably rushed out to play golf this weekend - but the nurses told me no broken bones, no internal injuries. A few bruises, that's about it."

  "How is that possible?"

  "You landed in your garden mulch pile. I forgot it was even there."

  "So did I."

  "What are the odds, huh?"

  "About the same as an object from space smashing one of my targets?"

  "Pretty damn close, I'd say."

  Jamie smiled. She'd joined the list of miracle falling-from-planes survivors. That was kind of cool, even if she still was dying from cancer.

  "How did I get here?" she asked.

  "A neighbor, Lamar Anderson, spotted you falling and called it in. He was out in the fields and happened to look up at the plane. Wasn't sure what he was seeing at first, but then figured it out."

  "What do they think happened?"

  "You're in the psychiatric wing of Wayne Harver, which should tell you something. They think you tried to off yourself. That's what Lamar and the paramedics thought when they beat us to you and said you weren't wearing a chute. We'd never planned on BSing anyone about that part, anyhow." He moved closer to the bed, looking over his shoulder and lowering his voice. "We said you surprised us by jumping, according to plan. Assisted suicide being illegal in this state and all."

  Jamie gave him a grim nod. She'd never in a billion years believed she was the type of person to attempt suicide, and as justifiable as she thought it was in her case she still wasn't looking forward to explaining or defending herself.

  "You're quite the local celebrity," Cal chuckled. "The Grand Forks Times calls you the 'Miracle Girl.'"

  Jamie snorted. "All that miraculous luck so I can go on living a few more days or weeks."

  "Makes you wonder. If you're lucky enough to survive jumping out of a plane, what else might you get lucky about?"

  He was no longer smiling. His eyes were earnest, shining with a determination that she hadn't seen since the first days after the diagnosis.

  "How are you feeling, by the way?"

  Jamie had been too preoccupied by her survival to even consider that. She checked herself out, surprised to find her usual nausea and sense of being an animated corpse missing. Maybe the fall had shocked those symptoms out of her for the moment. She was surprised by a sudden urge to tear out the I.V. line and hop out of bed.

  Her dad was giving her a weird, knowing smile. "Feeling better?"

  "Not bad. They probably have me pumped full of painkillers. Why are you looking at me like that?"

  "It’s just, well, I've been feeling better myself. A lot better."

  "Really? I'm happy for you."

  "I touched the basketball rim this morning, before driving over." He gave her a guilty smile. "I was just feeling light on my feet, bouncy, so on a lark I just ran over and jumped. And damned if I didn't curl my fingers around the rim!"

  Jamie stared at him.

  "I've never been able to do more than brush my fingers on it in my prime, and even then only on a good day. You know I had these dreams of dunking, but I never came close."

  "Yeah, I remember."

  "But you know, now I think I have a chance. At forty-seven years old and fifty pounds overweight."

  "And a bad back."

  "Right. But that's the thing, J. My back doesn't feel bad now. In fact, nothing feels bad."

  He smiled at her as Jamie sorted through the implications.

  "And that fall," he said. "That pile of grass wasn't that tall – maybe four feet high – and you didn't even hit it square-on. You landed at over one hundred miles an hour, Jamie. I mean, maybe that would've been enough to stop you from being killed, but you're barely bruised! The doctors couldn't believe it."

  "So what's your theory? You sound like you have one."

  "The cylinder. That object that fell from the sky, just like you did."

  "What? You think it's protecting us somehow? Making us tougher?" Jamie cocked a sardonic eyebrow. "Better at basketball?"

  "I don't know. Maybe it's giving off some kind of healing energy?"

  Jamie started her usual knee-jerk dismissal of her dad's eccentric theories and ideas. He'd never been shy about embracing odd beliefs – Kennedy was killed because he was going to reveal the truth about UFOs, AIDS was artificially engineered, the Rothschild
s plotted to rule the world.

  "I suppose you've worked up a theory of what it is by now," she said.

  "I'm gonna say what you're expecting. It's alien."

  "It couldn't be some kind of experimental satellite, or part of one that broke off?"

  "Does that look like something our government made?"

  "How would I know? Who knows what they're working on these days?"

  "True. Maybe they could make something that looks like that, but I'm not buying they have the power to increase my vertical leap."

  "Right. That would obviously require an unearthly power."

  A short knock on the door preceded the arrival of a man in a doctor's smock and a young woman wheeling a cart.

  "Ah, you're awake," said the man. "I'm Dr. Willers. This is Angela Sorenston, a P.A. I often work with. How are you feeling, Mrs. Shepherd?"

  "Pretty good." Jamie rubbed her shoulders. "Surprisingly good, considering."

  "Any pain or soreness?"

  She shifted her body under the sheets. "Not really. But I'm guessing you have me on painkillers?"

  "No. You didn't appear to be suffering, and we wanted accurate feedback regarding your physical condition when you awakened."

  "How long have I been out?"

  "Roughly twenty-four hours. We performed a CT scan and a MRI soon after you arrived and didn't discover any damage that warranted intervention – other than fluids. You were severely dehydrated."

  "You didn't see any other problems, Doc?" Cal asked.

  Dr. Willers shook his head and smiled. "No signs of internal injury. No broken bones or lacerations. All your organs looked fine. Some minor bruising, but that was about it."

  "Doctor." Cal spoke with slow emphasis. "You do know that my daughter has been diagnosed with Stage Four pancreatic cancer?"

  "No. I didn't get a chance to check into her medical history. Give me a moment."

  Dr. Willers moved to the cart and its laptop. The physician's assistant helped him key in some commands. Jamie watched shifting images from the screen reflecting on his face for a minute or two, not daring to feel too optimistic. They hadn't been looking for cancer, so they hadn't seen it. It was probably that simple. Cal walked over to them, peering at the screen along with the doctor and the P.A.

  A frown appeared on the doctor's face.

  "Hmmm," he said. "You were diagnosed with pancreatic cancer almost two years ago. You stopped chemotherapy six months ago." He shook his head. "I'm looking over the scans again, and still not seeing anything resembling growths or any kind of damage. Everything looks clean."

  "Are you sure those are my scans?" Jamie asked.

  "Quite sure. I was there when they performed the CT, and watched the images real-time. I was pretty shocked to see no sign of injury. I wasn't looking for cancer, but I can't imagine missing Stage IV metastases. Given your diagnosis I would expect to see significant damage to several organs, including your pancreas and liver."

  "But you don't see anything?" Cal was gripping one edge of the cart as if bracing himself up.

  "Nothing but healthy organs and blood vessels."

  "There's no chance of a mistake?" Jamie asked, swallowing.

  "To err is human, as they say. And if I hadn't been there during the CT, I'd say your charts got mixed up with someone else's. As it is..." He shrugged.

  "How is that possible, Doctor?"

  "I have no clue, Mrs. Shepherd. Sometimes things happen we just don't understand. I see your oncologist is Dr. Armory. I'll give him a call."

  "If I'm okay, can I check out? I'd like to go home."

  "Unfortunately, an observation period of 72 hours is mandatory after attempted suicide." Dr. Willers gave her an apologetic smile.

  "You know she's not really suicidal, right?" her dad grumbled. "She has – or had – pancreatic cancer, for God's sake."

  "Of course I understand, and I personally see no problem with her going home, but I'm afraid that's state law now. But why don't we do this – take you off your I.V. and get you situated in your own room in the psychiatric wing? It's a nice facility with a wonderful staff and I'm sure you'll be comfortable there."

  "Sounds great," said Jamie.

  Dr. Willers and his assistant smiled as if they hadn't heard her sarcasm, and shuffled out of the room pushing the computer cart.

  Cal came over and wrapped her in his arms. "My baby girl is gonna live!"

  Jamie hugged him back, bobbing on alternating waves of hope and skepticism. Miracles don't happen to me. And yet, undeniably, at least one had. Maybe her dad was right. If she had one miracle, why not another? But she wasn't counting on anything quite yet.

  INCARCERATION PROVED no obstacle to Jamie having the two best days of her life during the last two and a half years. She walked free of pain and with plenty of energy. Enough energy to feel constrained wandering the hallways or watching movies five to ten years out of date or attending therapy.

  "Goals Group" was a therapy group devoted to making a better life on the outside, where a kindly, sixty-something lady with a strong Minnesotan accent named Joan Larson guided everyone toward positive-thinking about their lives.

  But it didn't matter much how boring the routines or people were. As her mother had said – along with virtually every other mother – "If you have your health you have everything."

  Her oncology doctor, Saul Armory, came to visit on the second day. He said he'd checked her scans and confirmed that she appeared to be cancer-free. He gave her a cursory exam, feeling her lymph nodes, pressing her belly in places that would've been sheer agony before the fall, and shaking his head and smiling in a disbelieving more than pleased way.

  "You seem to be perfectly fine," he said. "I have no explanation."

  He left her with the promise that they'd conduct more tests when she was released.

  That afternoon in the communal room Jamie spotted a former student of hers, Kevin Clarkson, playing chess with himself at a small table well-removed from the others. Kevin was probably her most impressive student from her brief teaching career. He'd scored A's in pre-calculus and advanced biology with no apparent effort, leaving the impression he'd do the same with much harder university courses. His quiet focus had been amazing. She guessed he'd been fourteen or maybe even thirteen as a high school sophomore – she dimly remembered him skipping a grade or two – which would’ve made him eighteen or nineteen now.

  She'd heard he'd gone off the rails in his senior year, and that his clear path to an advanced math or science degree at a prestigious university had been derailed by increasingly odd behavior. She'd heard rumors of obsessive compulsive disorder or some variant of Asperger's. All very depressing, but then her personal trials had erased all thoughts of Kevin Clarkson.

  Now he appeared as calm and focused as she'd remembered him: adjusting his glasses and peering at the chess pieces, which he moved with calm deliberation, as if he were a grandmaster in an important tournament. Jamie strolled over to him.

  "Who's winning?" she asked.

  "White," he said without looking up.

  "Do you remember me? Mrs. Shepherd from Grand Forks High?"

  "Of course. You were my favorite teacher."

  He spoke without inflection, as though stating an uninteresting fact. His expression was pleasant, meditative, but not especially interested. His eyes remained fixed on the pieces. He moved a white bishop, checking the black king.

  "I'd say black is in trouble," she said.

  "Perhaps. But he has resources."

  "How did you end up in here?"

  "I left home and was picked up by the police, who sent me here."

  He spoke without any apparent emotion, as if noting the temperature. He blocked the bishop with a pawn.

  "I jumped out of a plane."

  He looked up at her, the first glint of interest in his eyes. "Why?"

  "I thought it would be a cool way to die. I was diagnosed with Stage 4 pancreatic cancer."

  "Only one percent survives
after five years."

  "Yup. That was me." Jamie hesitated, wondering how much to share with this obviously troubled young man. "But after my fall, the CT scans didn't show any cancer."

  Kevin blinked at her behind his glasses.

  "The doctors don't know why," she said. "But so far it looks like I've had some freakish remission or something."

  Kevin returned to his chess game.

  "But there's something I'm not telling them," said Jamie, wondering again why she was sharing things with him. But with his mind, maybe he'd have an insight? "An object fell from the sky a few days ago on my property. It looks like a big capsule or maybe a propane tank, except it's all black."

  Kevin paused with his hand on his bishop. He regarded the pieces with sudden intensity, as if they were somehow related to what she'd just said.

  "My dad claims it's made him more athletic," she said with a snort.

  "Arthur Clarke's monolith."

  "What?"

  "From the book and movie, 2001: A Space Odyssey."

  "I didn't see it."

  Kevin resumed studying the chess board. After a few moments he took the pawn with the bishop.

  "Carlsen missed the win with his white-squared bishop on move 23," he said. "He should've captured the b pawn."

  "Who's Carlson?"

  "Magnus Carlson, reigning world chess champion."

  "Oh."

  Jamie's sneeze came out of nowhere. Too sudden and explosive for her to turn away or control. She could only watch, mortified, as a plume of her saliva sprayed over the chess pieces. Kevin retracted his hands as if from a hot burner, his face twisted in distaste.

  "Sorry," Jamie murmured.

  The boy bolted to his feet, rattling the chess pieces, and marched out of the room. Probably in search of disinfectant, Jamie thought.

  Her sneezing continued – explosively, unpredictably – and she returned to her room to weather the storm. The kindly group counselor, Joan Larson, checked on her when she didn't show for the "goals" meeting and arranged for an allergy medicine to be delivered. The allergy meds arrived an hour later, and that seemed to calm Jamie's itchy sinuses.