Jack O'Connell - The Resurrectionist

Alone in the doctor’s office, Sweeney’s eyes lingered on the final panel and, once again, he found himself feeling something close to sympathy for the cartoon strongman, exiled and adrift, the world torn down in a random instant and supplanted with a precarious replacement.

Closing the comic book, Sweeney tried to bring himself back to the here and now. But in seconds he found himself studying the cover, this grotesque family portrait of circus freaks that an artist had elevated into icons. Then he heard the door open and, immediately, he rolled the book and slipped it into his back pocket, covering it with the tail of his sport jacket.

“Sorry for the interruption,” Dr. Peck said, coming around the desk and sliding back into his seat.

“Not a problem,” Sweeney said.

Dr. Peck was one of those individuals whose voice, on the phone, had conveyed his appearance: entirely bald, bordering on gaunt, well groomed but with lips that were too thin and pale. He looked as if his grandfather had owned the most efficient general store on the prairie. But Sweeney knew this wasn’t the case.

“We were speaking, I believe, about the accident,” Peck said as he reopened Danny’s file, then sat back and waited.

Like everyone else, Dr. Peck wanted a recounting. One more smug little prick who had to have the story. He sat and waited, actually folded his hands across the hollow that passed for his belly and assumed a position of clinical concern. His vision seemed to focus on the knot of Sweeney’s necktie, a Christmas present festooned with chicken boys.

Sweeney cleared his throat and tried to stay calm.

“As I was saying, it’s been a difficult year. But I think this move will be a step in the right direction for us.”

“The doctor in Cleveland—”

“Lawton.”

“He will be forwarding the rest of the boy’s records?”

“Daniel.”

Peck squinted as if he didn’t understand. As if the name weren’t on the file in front of him.

“The boy’s name is Daniel,” Sweeney said and crossed his legs. “You should have received the records already. I’ll call this afternoon to remind Dr. Lawton.”

Peck nodded and opened the manila folder on his desk.

“Coma is a complex condition, Mr. Sweeney. The word itself is used incorrectly more often than not.”

Sweeney nodded back. He needed the job and he’d burned all his bridges back in Ohio. But there was still a limit to the amount of patronizing shit he’d endure.

“As you might imagine, doctor,” he said, “I’ve immersed myself in the literature since the accident.”

Peck sniffed and closed Danny’s file, pushed back just a bit from the desk and lifted the coffee mug that featured a line drawing of the Clinic.

“I’m not trying to be difficult, Mr. Sweeney,” Peck said. “I understand what you’ve been through. This is a heartbreaking situation—”

“This is my life, doctor. This is not a situation, this is my life. And I don’t mean to be disrespectful or ungrateful. But your associates offered me this position and I accepted it. I pulled my son out of the St. Joseph and moved us eight hundred miles from home. And now you’re sitting here telling me I might not have the job.”

Peck put the mug down on Danny’s file.

“That’s not what I’m saying, Mr. Sweeney. Not at all. I simply want to make sure things are clear here at the start. I’m certain we both have some natural concerns and—”

“I have one concern and that’s the well-being of my boy. You tell me what your concerns are and I’ll address them.”

Peck picked the mug up and Sweeney saw that it had left a brown circle on Danny’s folder. The doctor was quiet for a minute and then he sniffed again. His voice, when it came, was lower.

“I want to make sure you have a realistic picture of what we can and cannot do here. Your son, Daniel, has had minimal brain activity since the day of the accident. According to the records I’ve received, the doctors at the St. Joseph have administered all the standard and appropriate therapies. We’re a research facility and we do good work. But the last thing I would want is to give you false hope.”

“I can promise you,” Sweeney said, “I’m a realist.”

They looked at each other until Peck blinked.

“All right,” the doctor said, putting on the weary voice. “I’ll take you at your word.”

“I appreciate that,” Sweeney said.

Peck looked at his watch and then slid another file out from beneath Danny’s. Sweeney felt some relief — the interview was coming to an end.

“Your CV looks fine,” Peck said. “You studied at Ohio State?”

A nod, waiting.

“Concentration in pharmacognosy?”

Another nod.

“But you never went into research?”

“I had intended to,” Sweeney said, trying not to sound defensive, “but it didn’t work out that way.”

Peck smiled as if he understood, then asked, “What made you decide on pharmacology in the first place?”

“My father had his own shop.”

“You liked working for the big outfits?”

Sweeney shrugged. “They paid well. They moved you along. I was thinking of buying my own franchise before the accident.”

Peck let the last sentence hang for a beat or two.

“And your wife was a pharmacist as well?”

A nod, thinking, Just ask, you little hump. When the doctor refused, Sweeney said, “We met in school.”

“May I ask if you’ve pursued any counseling in the last year?”

It was not what Sweeney expected and he took a moment before saying, “May I ask how that’s pertinent to my job here at the Clinic?”

Peck maintained a bland expression but scratched his nose.

“You’ve suffered extraordinary stress and grief. You’ve lost your wife and, for all intents and purposes, your son. And I’m about to put you in charge of the Clinic’s drug room. Which is to say, I’m giving you responsibility for all of the Clinic’s patients.”

Sweeney wanted to stand up. He wanted to move around the desk and pick up the coffee mug and break the man’s stuffy nose with it. He wanted to put the fucker on the floor and kick him in the head until Dr. Peck was a patient at his own Clinic.

He did none of those things. He folded his hands on his knee and said, “You’ve got my letters of reference there, doctor. You’ve got my employment history and you’ve probably got the results of your inquiry to the Ohio board. I’ve never been cited for anything. My performance reviews have all been excellent. This position means a pay cut for me. But it seems to be the best place for my son. Now either I have the job that was promised me or I don’t. If I don’t, please let me know. Because if that’s the case, I have to phone my lawyer and make new arrangements for my boy.”

Peck let the room go quiet before he stood up.

“I apologize,” he said, “if you feel my question was inappropriate.”

He extended his hand. Sweeney stood and took it across the desk.

A smile now, as the doctor moved to the exit.

“You’ll call Cleveland and see about those missing records?”

“I’ll call,” Sweeney said.

Peck opened the door to the office.

“You’ll find human resources downstairs. They’ll have some paperwork for you to fill out and you’ll need to have your photo taken.”

Sweeney stepped into the reception area and said, “Thank you, Dr. Peck.”

Dr. Peck nodded and said, “Welcome to the Clinic.”

THE PERSONNEL MANAGERwas an older woman named Nora Blake. She wore a white summer suit and a perfume that Sweeney hadn’t smelled in twenty years. She filled out his paperwork in the basement cafeteria, where she bought him coffee from an antique vending machine.