Michael Palmer - Flashback

Mainwaring smiled stiffly. "My apologies, Iverson, " he said. He extended his hand, but shielded from Suzanne the hostility in.. his eyes was lcy. "Hey, no big deal, Jason. No big deal."

"Good. Well then, we'll have to see what we can do about drummin' up a little neurosurgical business for y'all."

"Thanks."

"Meanwhile, you might try to steer clear of politics around this place-at least until you've been here long enough to learn everyone's name." He checked his gold Rolex. "Suzanne, dear, I believe we still have time to complete our business. Nice to see you, Iverson. I'm sure you'll make the adjustment to this sleepy little place just fine."

Without waiting for a response, he took Suzanne's arm and strode down the hallway. Andy O'Meara, red-cheeked, beer-bellied, and beaming, strolled among the tables of Gillie's Mountainside Tavern, shaking hands and exchanging slaps on the back with the twenty or so men enjoying their midday break in the smoky warmth. Over nearly twenty years he had come to know each and every one of them well, and was proud to call them his friends. "Andy O, you old fart. Welcome back! "… "Hey, it's Mighty Mick. Way to go, Andy. Way to go. We knew you'd beat it."

First the cards and candy and flowers when he was in the hospital, and now this welcome back. They were a hell of a bunch. The very best. And at that moment, as far as Andy O'Meara was concerned, he was the luckiest man alive. Tomorrow would be Independence Day-the day for celebrating the birth of freedom. And this day was one for celebrating his own rebirth. "Hey, Gillie, " he called out, the lilt of a childhood in Kilkenny still coloring his speech. "Suds around, on me."

After three months of pain and worry, after more than a dozen trips to Manchester for radiation therapy, after sitting time and again in the doctor's office, waiting for the other shoe to fall, waiting for-the news that "We can't get it all, " he was back on the road, cured. The bowel cancer that had threatened his very existence was in some jar in the pathology department at Ultramed-Davis Hospital, and whatever evil cells had remained in his body had been burnt to hell by the amazing X-ray machines. The backseat and trunk of his green Chevy were once again filled with the boxes of shoes and boots and sneakers that he loved to lay out for the merchants along route 16, and the rhythm of his life had at last been restored. "To the luck of the Irish, " he proclaimed as he hoisted the frosted mug over his head. "And to you, Andy O, " Gillie responded. "We're glad to have you back among the living."

Andy O'Meara exchanged handshakes and hugs with each man in the place, and then set his half-filled tankard on the bar. It was his first frosty in more than twelve weeks, and with a full afternoon of calls ahead of him, there was no sense in putting his tolerance for the stuff to the test. He settled up with Gillie and stepped out of the dim, pine-paneled tavern, into the sparkling afternoon sunlight. He prided himself on never being late for a call, and Colson's Factory Outlet was nearly a thirty-minute drive through the mountains. He switched on the radio.

Kenny Rogers was admonishing him to know when to hold and know when to fold. The country/western music, usually Andy's staple, seemed somehow out of keeping with the peace and serenity of this day. At the edge of the driveway he stopped and changed to a classical program on WEVO, the public station. Better, he thought. Much better. The tune was familiar.

Almost instantly, it conjured up images in Andy's mind-softly falling snow… a stone hearth… a roaring fire… family. As he hummed along, Andy tried to remember where he had heard the haunting melody before."… What child is thi-is, who laid to re-est in Mary's la-ap, lay slee-eeping?…"

He surprised himself by knowing many of the words. "This, thi-is is Christ the Ki-ing, whom shepherds gua-and and angels sing…"

It was the Christmas carol, he suddenly realized. That was it. As a i child in Ireland it had been one of his favorites. How strange to hear it in the middle of summer. He paused to let a semi roar past. The noise of the truck was muted — almost as if it made no sound at all. Andy shrugged. As wonderful as it felt to be back on the road again, it also felt a little odd."… Haste, ha-aste to bring him lau-all-aud, the Ba-abe, the so-on of Mary…"

He closed the windows, turned on the air conditioner, and swung out of the drive onto route 110. The green of the mountainside seemed uncomfortably bright. He squinted, then rubbed at his eyes and wondered if perhaps he should stop someplace to pick up a pair of sunglasses. No, he decided. No stops. At least not until after Colson's. Settle down, old boy, he said to himself. Just settle down. He adjusted the signal on the radio and settled back in his seat, humming once again. Route 110 was two lanes wide, with a narrow breakdown space on either side. It twisted and turned, rose and dropped like an amusement park ride, from Groveton on the Vermont border, along the ridge of the Ammonoosuc River Valley, to Sterling and Route 16. A scarred, low, white guardrail paralleled the road to Andy's right, and beyond the rail was the gorge, at places seven hundred feet deep. Andy's restless, ill-at-ease sensation was intensifying, and he knew he was having difficulty concentrating. He adjusted his seatback and checked his safety harness.

The guardrail had become something of a blur, and the solid center line kept working its way beneath his left front tire. He tightened his grip on the wheel and checked the speedometer. Forty-five. Why did it feel like he was speeding?

Subtly, he noticed, the trees on the mountainside had begun to darken-to develop a reddish tone. He rubbed at his eyes and, once again, forced the sedan back to the right-hand lane. Twenty-five years on the road without an accident. He was damned if he was going to have one now. Ahead of him, the scenery dimmed. A tractor trailor approached, sunlight sparking brilliantly off its windshield. Suddenly, Andy was aware of a voice echoing in his mind-a deep, slow, resonant, reassuring voice, at first too soft to understand, then louder… and louder still. "Okay, Andy, " it said, "now all I want you to do is count back from one hundred… count back from one hundred… count back from one hundred…"

Out loud, Andy began to count. "One hundred… ninety-nine… ninety-eight…"

A blue drape drifted above him, then floated down over his abdomen.

"Ninety-seven… ninety-six…" e Hands, covered by rubber gloves, appeared in the space where the drape had been. "Ninety-five… ninety-four… Why aren't I asleep?" his mind asked. "Ninety-three… ninety-two."

"Bove electrode, please, " the low voice said. "Set it for cut and cauterize."

Another pair of gloved hands appeared, one of them holding a gauze sponge, and the other, a small rod with a metal tip. Slowly, they lowered the metal tip toward his belly. "Ninety-one… ninety-"

Suddenly, a loud humming filled his mind. The metal tip of the rod touched his skin just below his navel, sending a searing, electric pain through to his back and down his legs. "Jesus Christ, stop! " Andy screamed. "I'm not asleep! I'm not asleep!"

The wall of his lower abdomen parted beneath the electric blade, exposing a bright yellow layer of fat. "Eighty-nine!.. Eighty-eight! … For God's sake, stop! It's not working! I'm awake! I can feel that!

I can feel everything! "

"Metzenbaums and pick-ups, please."

"No! Please, no!"

The Metzenbaum scissors sheared across Andy's peritoneum, parting the shiny membrane like tissue paper and exposing the glistening pink rolls of his bowel. Again, he screamed. But this time, the sound came from his voice, as well as from within his mind. His vision cleared at the moment the right headlight of his automobile made contact with the guardrail.