Call Me Methuselah

Chapter 1Oscar couldn’t help himself. Standing beside the bed, in his breezy hospital gown, he held a pen and stared at the medical consent. Something must have happened, maybe the hit to the head. He needed to write about it. Before the accident, he wouldn’t waste his time with this. Oscar flipped the form, blank side up. Pen to paper gave him a rush. All the day’s minutia flowed out. When he’d filled the page, he turned the sheet over and wrote in the margins until full. Scanning the room, he found nothing else to write on. Some text ran across computer screens on medical equipment no longer attached to him. It lacked a keyboard, too bad. The details in this room deserved more thorough description. The urge might pass. It hadn’t been a day yet. When he woke up changed from the coma, everything before his eyes greeted him with such importance, it compelled him to document it. He used to see things quite the opposite. Looking back before the crash, life had lost its savor and he didn’t even know it then. No wonder his longtime friend, Karen, had taken to calling him a grumpy old man. Though young, for all intents and purposes, he’d become jaded—until the accident. Now the world seemed new. He got back in bed and tucked in his writing with him. Picking up the hospital phone, he couldn’t remember the mobile number, so he called the house. Miguel’s son answered. Oscar got right to the point. “I’m awake. Ask your father to bring my laptop.” The boy agreed and abruptly hung up, like he couldn’t wait to spread the news. Oscar put down the phone. The door opened, and a nurse came in with a tray. She stood next to his bed and gave him a smile, covered with her mask. The twinkle in her eye revealed it. From the tray, set on a table, she lifted a rubber strap and wrapped it above his elbow, where a sore vein bulged in the crook. He wished he hadn’t pulled out the IV by accident earlier, something he wanted to write about. She wiped his skin with cool alcohol. “We might give you a port.” As she went for the syringe, he tensed, and his knees tented the sheet. When the needle neared his arm, Oscar looked away. Rain dripped down the window, gray outside behind the blue rolling shades. The pressure from the strap loosened. Distracting himself, Oscar focused on the room. Florescent light glared on bare white walls. Wilted amaryllis in a vase sat on the dull nightstand by matching plastic chairs. The other bed was empty. That surprised him. Before his accident, he’d heard the hospitals were nearly full. “What’s going on with the pandemic?” “It’s almost over.” When he glanced back, blood filled the tube. He averted his eyes again. The nurse’s free hand rested on his wrist. She patted him gently. He relaxed his legs and straightened them. Bound to happen eventually, they’d probably found out something. He kept calm and tried not to worry, having gotten out of tighter spots than this. “Done yet?” He didn’t want to look. “I hardly felt a thing.” With strangers, he watched what he said and minded his pronunciation. Nothing from the old ways slipped out. Her eyes seemed to smile at him again. “It didn’t hurt, because I’m good.” Hers was the type of Belizean accent to which he aspired. People didn’t talk like that here in the old days. Each year, conventions changed a little, making it hard to keep up. “All done, big boy.” She pulled out the needle by the vial and set it on the tray. Had she said big boy? Really? He didn’t know how to take that. Learning English as a foreign language had come easier for him, surprisingly, than maintaining it later. What with all the new words each year and those strange expressions going in and out of fashion, not to mention the peculiar intonations. “I’m not a kid.” If she only knew. The nurse pressed some cotton over the red spot. “Hold this.” He put a thumb there. Smiling again, she detached the hypodermic from the vial, which she capped, and discarded the needle in the red receptacle. Should he leave his home in Belize, after all these years, it might have come at a good time for him. He yearned for a fresh new start and couldn’t wait to write about it, maybe in Tagalog or Javanese this time when he’d become fluent. Possibly, he knew the sounds already. That would help. She reached for a roll of adhesive bandage and the scissors. Unrolling a piece, she snipped it off. He considered himself fortunate his mother tongue contained a full assortment of consonants and vowels, which neither his ear nor mouth had forgotten. He seldom encountered a phoneme he didn’t already know. With the bandage hanging from her little finger, she gestured to the cotton, where his thumb held it in place. “You can let go now.” He did. “Good boy.” The cotton fell off. He folded his elbow and cradled it against his chest. “Don’t talk to me like that.” She dangled the adhesive strip over him. “I can’t put this on that big strong arm unless you let me.” He clutched his elbow close to him. This nurse’s bedside manner struck him as far too casual and somewhat unprofessional. After all, they’d just met—or, rather, he’d met her. Come to think of it, she might have cared for him for weeks now. Where he held his arm, the little hairs stood up. The thought of her bathing him made him bristle. Someone else, besides her, might have done it, he guessed, and that calmed him a little. She wiggled her pinky. The waving bandage stuck to it. When he didn’t extend his arm, she flicked the strip off her finger with her thumb. The bandage landed on the sheet above his navel. Then she picked up the blood-filled tube and attached a label. His eyes met hers. The woman’s face lit up. Maybe he’d overreacted and figured he should show some gratitude, make some conversation. “You like your job? Sticking people with syringes?” Her smiling eyes gleamed at him. While picking up a pen and holding the point against the label, she didn’t write but seemed to wait for something. He knew that look. Her gestures and posture spoke to him the oldest language, the way she held her head and raised a shoulder. It gave a tilt and lift to her breasts, ample cleavage showing pert and tan against the crisp white blouse. If this were flirting, it had to stop. He cleared his throat. “I hope my boyfriend gets here soon.” With raised eyebrows, she looked away, then focused on the label and her writing. When finished, she put down the vial and leaned against the bed. “It surprised us you woke.” “Well, here I am, ready to go.” Her hip bumped the mattress side, and the springs beneath him gently bounced. “Your car was totaled. The paramedic called it a crushed tin can.” He shook the image from his mind. “I missed that part, must have passed out.” “The coma was deep. They said we’d lost you.” “Sleep with your own eye.” Having snapped a little at her, he sat up and regretted his tone as well as the outdated idiom. Throwing back the sheet, he swung his legs from under it. “I’m getting out of here. Where are my things?” The medical consent fluttered and landed on the pillow. “You’re not ready. The doctor’s doing tests. What’s this?” She grabbed the consent and looked at it puzzled. Oscar recalled he hadn’t found his shoes yet. He stopped on his way off the bed. A tightness tugged at his gut. “Tests for what?” Bending over him and still holding the paper, she placed a hand on each of his shoulders and pushed him back on the pillow. “Blood work, MRIs, and COVID screening. You didn’t sign this.” She waved the form in his face. The COVID test might come in handy. “Can I get a report?” “The doctor will have it.” “A copy?” “You have to go to Medical Records for that. Why do you need it?” “When’s it ready?” “Not until morning. Who wrote on this?” “Where are my things?” “There’s nothing left except the wallet.” She gestured to it on the table. “We had to cut off your clothes, and the shoes filled with blood.” Someone knocked on the door. The nurse walked over and opened it. Miguel stuck in his head. He’d gone grayer. “You’re awake! It’s so good to see you. I got your message.” He waved a laptop computer in his hand. Oscar couldn’t help but notice the nurse’s face tilting up and down as she eyed Miguel. She seemed to settle on his potbelly, went back to the bed, and abruptly picked up her tray from the table. How rude. Was it the age difference, Miguel’s physical condition, or the same-s*x relationship that disgruntled her? No matter, once he got out of the hospital, Oscar planned to never see her again. “Come in.” He gestured his guest forward. Miguel took a couple steps and stopped. The nurse, not smiling anymore, stared at him again, and focused on his extended stomach, then back up at poor Miguel’s puzzled face. Oscar chuckled. She turned to the bed and glared at him. He rolled on his side, matched her gaze, and winked. “That’s him.” This should get the point across. By the lopsided way her cheeks perked up, she’d probably pursed her lips. “I’ll leave you two alone.” Oscar nodded. She turned away and left the room, not bothering with closing the door. “Get that, please.” Miguel shut it. “Come. Sit.” Miguel took the chair by the bed and set the computer on the mattress. “Thanks for bringing this.” Oscar rubbed his fingers on the smooth plastic case. “Did you want anything else?” Miguel asked. “I got your message from my son. You never know with him. He met me at the house as I was driving up and handed me that.” Miguel pointed at the computer. “I turned around and came right here. Wouldn’t you like your pajamas? Maybe some gummi bears?” “This was all I asked for.” He picked up the computer and put it on his lap. “Why didn’t you text me?” “The phone’s gone.” It still shocked Oscar that nothing survived the accident except himself and his wallet. “I’ll get you a new one, like the one you had.” “No. Wait. I don’t need it.” He wanted a different kind. “Why? Is there something wrong? You’re well now, aren’t you?” Miguel straightened his back against the chair. “The shape you were in was awful.” “I’m fine.” In fact, he felt great, better than in a long time. The prospect of moving again could be a little daunting, but he had a plan. Miguel glanced at the door. “That nurse scared me. She looked so grim—I thought she had bad news—pretty though.” “She thinks you’re my boyfriend.” Oscar chuckled. Miguel’s face pinched up around his mask. “Why would she think that?” “I told her.” Oscar pulled up the sheet to his neck. Miguel squinched his eyebrows. “Why?” To put a little distance between her and himself, but Oscar didn’t go into it. “Just to see her reaction.” “Oh, sir, you shouldn’t have told her that. It’s not in my job description.” “I won’t again.” He might anyway. Tomorrow was Oscar’s last chance at giving Miguel a hard time, something he would miss as well as the man. “When did you come to? Dr. Killington said you wouldn’t, but I didn’t believe him.” “In the middle of the night, gradually.” “Good thing you gave me proxy, they were turning off the life support. I said no.” “What else did I miss?” “I called the lawyer about the car. He filed a claim and said no problem. They gave us a loaner. It’s an SUV. I like it. Everything’s fine at the house.” “How’s your family?” Oscar hesitated asking. With sweet little Mina so ill before his accident, he prayed she’d recovered to play again on the backyard swing that she loved so much, always begging him to push her higher in the air. “The little one’s still sick. They say the sepsis affected her lungs. She’s been back in the hospital while you were here but doing better now. Everyone else is fine. They’re all asking about you.” “You’re a good man, Miguel, like your father and your grandfather. I miss them.” “They were fond of you, too, sir. I’m glad I’ve been able to walk in their footsteps and hope I’ve served you well. Maybe my son can, too, or my daughter. I want to tell them about you.” Since Oscar suspected that Miguel already had told them, he played along. “It might be too soon at their age. What if they talk to their friends?” It didn’t matter. No one would believe it, but Oscar didn’t want to put the children in that situation. “They’re starting to wonder. Angela is asking, too. It’s hard lying to my wife.” Miguel had told her. Oscar had no doubt. He’d neither permitted nor prevented Miguel from telling his wife, though Miguel seemed to think he required permission. Oscar let this assumption lie, better Miguel decided for himself whether he told his wife. That knowledge might have serious consequences. From long experience, Oscar knew the danger he faced, not only for himself but for everyone around him. Miguel stuck out his chin, a little defensive or maybe offended. “I hope you know that Angela’s your friend.” Oscar knew this and liked Miguel’s wife very much. All the same, “My secret’s a burden we shouldn’t give anyone lightly. I’ve seen it turn friends to enemies.” Miguel huffed. “They know there’s something strange. When can I tell them?” “When the time is right.” Right for whom, Oscar purposely left out. It was up to them. He didn’t want to complicate their lives any further than he already had, especially so soon before his departure. He would miss them. “Book me a flight to Los Angeles. My COVID test is ready in the morning. I’ll be gone for a while. Pack my bag. Don’t forget the passport. The one I have is long in the tooth, but it will do.” “The visa’s still good?” “Yes, it’s in the safe. Bring a couple thousand US dollars. Before you take me to the airport, stop by the Medical Records Office and pick up the report. Oh, and the phone, get the prepaid kind, the anonymous one, two of them. Use cash.” “How long are you going?” “I don’t know yet. If I’m out of contact, fall back on the plan.” “Is anyone helping you there? Should I come along?” “I’m meeting someone.” Oscar hoped Karen was home. Afraid to use the hospital phone for that, he hadn’t called her yet. They might have Wi-Fi here, and he could email her. If not, he would use the burner phone that Miguel was buying. “One other thing, when you come tomorrow, bring up some clothes and shoes. The ones I had are ruined.” Bloody feet flashed in Oscar’s mind, and Miguel’s eyes turned to the floor. “How did the accident happen?” Miguel asked. “A dog was on the road. I swerved and missed it.” “Oh, sir, you shouldn’t have.” “I had to.” He cleared his throat. “It’s getting late, maybe you can stop by Medical Records, before it closes, and find out when it opens. Ask them if they need the proxy. Make sure they’ll give you the report. If they don’t, I’ll get it myself once I’m dressed.” He needed to relax and took a deep breath. Miguel stood and nodded. “I’ll check it out.” As Miguel was leaving, a man with a pocket protector and blue bow tie on his short-sleeved shirt appeared at the door. Miguel stepped around him. “Excuse me, Dr. Killington.” Just outside the room, Miguel stuck his head back in. “Oscar woke up. I told you he would.” Then Miguel was gone. Holding the consent with Oscar’s voluminous writing, the doctor walked to the bed. He put the form on the table and took Oscar’s pulse, fingers to the wrist. “I’m your attending physician.” “The one with the tests?” “Yes. Dr. Killington.” He looked closely in Oscar’s eyes and took a little flashlight from a pocket. The beam made Oscar squint. Gloved thumb and index finger approached his face. The doctor spread Oscar’s eyelids and peered in. “What did you find out with all those tests?” Oscar had enough of this but needed to know. Dr. Killington put away the flashlight and stepped behind the chair by the bed. “Well, quite a bit, Mr. Flowers. Can I call you Oscar? You’ve just met me, I know, but having worked on your case for so long, I feel like I know you.” “As you wish.” “Good. Oscar, we’ve found something unusual in your blood. Stem cells, embryonic, unheard of for adults, and the numbers are off the chart. They’re multiplying as if malignant.” “I have cancer?” When he realized his jaw had dropped, Oscar closed his mouth. “Not likely, we don’t know what it is. I want to keep you here for observation.” “You’ve had me all this time. Why would you need more?” “I’d thought it would be longer. When you were comatose, your multiple fractures healed at a remarkable rate. It seemed almost impossible.” “Then you must have made a mistake.” Oscar raised his eyebrows. “We have images.” A silent pause weighed heavy on Oscar’s chest. “How long are you talking about?” “I don’t know yet. Then there’s this.” The doctor picked up the form. It didn’t matter. They couldn’t keep him. “If it’s more than a couple days, I’ll need to tend to some business. I feel fine.” “Yes, you look good, too. I saw your driver’s license. It says you’re thirty-five, hard to believe.” Oscar swallowed air. Holding the paper, the doctor stepped around to the front of the chair. He sat and leaned forward. “Is there anything you want to tell me?” “No. Why?” Oscar regretted asking no sooner than the words came out of his mouth. “I know this can’t be,” the doctor said, “but I remember a story my great uncle told me when I was a boy, quite a while ago now. He used to know a man in town who, rumor had it, never aged.” “Imagine that.” Under the doctor’s probing gaze, time slowed, but Oscar looked him right in the eye, unflinching. Arrow would be proud. Dr. Killington raised the form. “Who wrote on this?” Oscar looked around. Obviously, he’d done it himself and might as well admit it. “Me.” “Why?” Oscar shrugged. The doctor pointed at the page. “It says here that when you woke, you sensed a new wonder in the world and felt compelled to write about it.” “I suppose I did.” “Have you experienced this before?” “No, not that I recall.” Dr. Killington pulled out his pen and scratched something on the form. “Give me that.” It bothered Oscar that someone added to his story. “It’s mine.” He reached for it. The doctor held it back. “I know you’re not Oscar Flowers. Don’t worry, I haven’t told anyone, but I might have to. You can stay in my clinic. You’ll be safe there. You’re not a well man.” “Is that what you wrote?” “No, it’s a diagnosis.” Oscar resisted asking. “Hypergraphia.” The doctor raised the scribbled form. “Compulsive writing, like this, could stem from the trauma to your temporal lobe.” Oscar sighed, trying to understand. Oh great, just what he needed on top of everything else. Killington leaned back. “Think about my offer. We’ll talk in the morning.” He got up and left the room, closing the door behind him. Oscar stewed on the doctor’s words. Having always recovered completely, he maybe hadn’t this time, disturbing. Whatever happened to him in the accident, he couldn’t wait to write about it. As Oscar opened the laptop, his near-death experience weighed heavy on him. He could have died in that car, and no one would ever know his story. The thought of it scared him, even more than Hyena’s curse, now seemingly coming true with the hundred-year floods, massive fires, and lingering pandemics. He made a mental note to add the details in a later chapter and switched on the machine. The screen lit up with a new document, and he wrote… Of all the names I’ve gone by, it’s Methuselah that best suits me, with its allusion to long life. When already much older than the famous one in the Bible, I chose his name for myself. No other alias compares to it. They’ve all fallen short… Oscar looked up at the door as a meal cart nudged it open. A gray-haired man with sad eyes pushed through. He rolled the cart to the bed and transferred a tray to the table. A chicken breast, red beans with rice, and the local callaloo greens showed under a clear plastic cover. “Enjoy your dinner, young man.” Though no sign of a smile, crow’s feet creased the attendant’s face, as a heavy-footed weariness escorted him out with the cart. Hard as Oscar tried, he couldn’t put himself in those shoes. Old age mystified him, so close to it and yet so far. He wanted to understand, and given his years, he almost convinced himself that he could, despite his jet-black hair and lineless skin. His stomach grumbled. A good appetite survived the weeks of tube-feeding. He’d woken early morning with the apparatus up his nose and down the back of his throat. The nurse, unceremoniously, yanked it out before breakfast. The thought still gave him shivers. Or had it been lunch? Whichever, his last meal of soft rice and eggs left him famished. This dinner arrived with him hungrier now than that time on the raft with Arrow. Oscar uncovered the plate and ate a few bites of chicken, though slowly as the nurse had suggested, before going back to writing… I stay young. Most assume no more than twenty. I don’t know why. When people demand an explanation, as they often do, it’s time for me to move and take another name… The cup of guava juice drew his attention, and he sipped some. Then he ate a bite of greens before returning to the keyboard… It wasn’t always like this for me. Once, I really was young. It’s hard to say exactly when. We had a different concept of time then. I remember standing on that rocky ledge above the water. Preparing to dive, I’d undone the first knot on my loincloth when, across the strait, a lion’s roar rumbled. Many years before Methuselah, thousands, longer than forever, a giant lake filled the Kalahari with marshes and islands. I grew up on one of these, unaware of my special condition. Today, with the lake long dry, geologists have found its passage to the sea and call it Makgadikgadi, the place of thirst. It’s a modern word for the old lake, not Her real name, which I would write here if these letters could convey its sounds. Its meaning loosely translates to Our Mother. I turned my back on Her. Cursed to see the end of the world, I’m afraid it’s near. Call me Methuselah. This is my story… Oscar paused for a minute and wished Arrow were with him. As if he was, it seemed like only yesterday when, back on the lake, they first met. Oscar’s fingers caressed the keyboard…