Jack Cavanaugh - Death Watch

“That part’s fuzzy for me,” Sydney said. “Something about proving that God’s plan for humankind had gone south, that God had overestimated the goodness of man, that if a man knew his neighbor was dying, he wouldn’t do anything to help him. That’s why the confirmation notices to two acquaintances. Two Christians.”

Hunz listened as he read. “So, according to Billy Peppers, two Christians have been notified that I’ve received the Death Watch?”

“Yeah. But so far, you’ve not heard from anyone, have you?”

“Proving the Devil’s point, so it would seem.”

“That’s not fair,” Sydney said. “You’ve been out of the country. Who’s to say they haven’t tried to contact you?”

Hunz gave her an amused smile before returning to Billy’s notes.

“How do we break the Death Watch, did he say, or is this all gloom and doom? How does one battle the Devil? Make a donation to a rescue mission? Enlist a priest to do an exorcism? My head’s not going to spin around, is it?”

Now Sydney knew he wasn’t taking this seriously.

“You’ve been watching too many movies,” she said. “And I doubt Billy Peppers came all the way to Chicago just to take an offering.”

Sydney reached into her pocket. She tossed the crumpled salvation tract onto the table.

“You have to get right with God,” she said.

Hunz picked up the tract and examined it. The name and address of the mission was stamped on the back.

“You mean, I have to find Jesus. Get saved. Hallelujah, glory to God, and all that stuff.”

“Pretty much.”

He tossed the tract back at her.

“I don’t buy it.”

“Why?”

“Because that would mean the crazy evangelicals were right all along, and that’s unacceptable to me.”

Cheryl McCormick watched from her hospital bed as Dr. Lewis Boscacci wrote on her chart.

“Your blood pressure is elevated, not to the point of concern, and certainly not unusual considering the circumstances. Your blood work came back negative and the baby’s heartbeat is strong.”

Dr. Boscacci had been Cheryl’s OB/GYN doctor for a little more than six months. He came with the insurance package. With black hair and a substantial nose befitting his ancestry, Boscacci was one of those doctors who was pretty much all business. Prenatal checkups had been brief. He spoke to her through the clipboard. In, out, on to the next patient.

Cheryl lay beneath the covers in a hospital gown, her bed cranked up to a sitting position. Her clothes hung in a plastic bag on the handle of the closet door along with her purse.

Josh sat in a chair against the wall. Next to him, on a makeshift bed of pillows and blankets on the floor, Stacy slept.

The clock on the wall read 5:38 a.m.

The room was bright, as was the hallway. It was still dark outside the window. At the moment, all was quiet at Prentice Women’s Hospital, though ten minutes ago a wailing woman had passed by the open door, wheeled into delivery with nurses, doctors, and a man in street clothes—presumably the father—running beside her, all of them talking at once.

“Everything looks good,” Dr. Boscacci said to the chart.

“When will you induce labor?” Cheryl asked.

Boscacci didn’t answer immediately. He continued writing. Then, clipping the pen in his pocket, he hugged the chart.

Talking to the foot of the bed, he said, “We’re not.”

“Cesarean?” Cheryl asked. “Why? Is something .”

“I anticipate a normal delivery in about a month.”

Josh sat up.

“Dr. Boscacci,” Cheryl said, “I thought I made myself clear—”

“There is no medical reason to take the baby now,” the doctor said. “It would be irresponsible to do so.”

“Doctor, I have one day left to live. I don’t want my baby extracted from my dead body. The risk is too great. Surely you realize that.”

“Mrs. McCormick,” the doctor said with forced patience, “you’re not dying.” He looked at the chart again, lifting several pages. “I have examined your records. You’re a healthy woman.”

“Josh. In my purse. There’s an envelope with my name on it. Would you get it for me, please?”

Josh jumped up and dug into Cheryl’s purse. It was odd to watch a man she’d known for only a few hours rummage through her purse.

He handed the envelope to Cheryl, who gave it to the doctor.

Boscacci read the death watch notice. He shook his head. “I wouldn’t worry about this, if I were you.”

Cheryl stared in disbelief, with color rising in her neck and cheeks. “Not worry about it?” she said, a little too loudly. A scowling nurse appeared at the door and closed it.

“You are a healthy woman,” Boscacci repeated.

“Are you aware of what that is?” Josh said, coming to Cheryl’s aid. “Or have you had your head stuck in the sand for the last two days?”

“I’ve seen the news reports,” Boscacci said. “Mass hysteria, that’s all it is. I assure you, Mrs. McCormick, you will not die.”

“Well, I’m going to need more than your assurances,” Cheryl shouted. “I want this baby out of me.”

The doctor placed the death watch letter on the bed. “I will not authorize it,” he said. “But, if you insist, I will admit you for twenty-four hours. Should anything happen, you will be surrounded by medical personnel who are trained to handle every emergency. But I’m only doing this because of your near-hysterical state.” He wrote on the chart. “I will also insist you have a psych consult.”

“I want another doctor,” Cheryl said.

Boscacci’s eyes hardened. One more time he wrote on the chart. “Very well. I will ask Dr. Isaacs to look in on you in the morning for a second opinion.”

The door swung closed behind him as the last syllable of his last word sounded.

Josh stood beside the bed helplessly. “I can’t believe that guy.”

“Thanks for being here,” Cheryl said.

She held out her hand. Josh seemed eager to take it. He gave her hand a reassuring squeeze, then let go. But she didn’t let go of him. His hand was warm. Comforting. It surprised her how much she needed the touch of another human being right now.

“I can’t believe how kind you’ve been,” she said. “We haven’t known each other for a day and yet you flew halfway across the country with me, and now you’re here in the hospital with me.”

Josh shrugged. “If we’re going to lick this thing, we’ve got to stick together.”

He looked at her with understanding, as only another person living in death’s shadow could do.

“Stay with me?” Cheryl said. “I’m scared.”

“Shaquille O’Neal couldn’t muscle me out of here,” he said.

Itake offense to your remark about crazy evangelicals,” Sydney said to Hunz. “I am one.”

“Really?” Hunz said, surprised. “I never would have guessed.”

Sydney didn’t know how to take his comment. Was it a compliment or an indictment? She raised her chin a notch. “I was raised in an evangelical church.”

“Huh. I just can’t see you standing at airports handing out gospel tracts.”

“I’ve never done that.”

“Isn’t that what evangelicals do?”

Memories of witness-training sessions came flooding back to Sydney. She had attended her fair share of personal evangelism classes, each with a different approach. One had taught her to create opportunities by asking a provocative question: “If you were to die right now and God were to ask you, ‘Why should I let you into my heaven?’ what would you tell him?” Another class advocated the use of a tract similar to the one Lony had given her. She was taught to read the tract aloud. Four steps led to a prayer of decision. Then there was the approach that tied witnessing to other activities, like visiting first-time guests, holding neighborhood block parties, doing door-to-door canvassing, or inviting people to Bible study.