The Blue Mirror

Prologue

Blue striped cotton pajamas had absorbed most of his perspiration, but when he awoke, it was with such a start that he didn’t notice the damp fabric clinging to his skin.  Neither did he notice his wife’s low nasal breathing, the hum of the central air conditioning, or the plush carpet crimping under his feet when he slid out of the king-sized bed. 

Standing in the ornate black and gold tiled master bathroom, he splashed cold water on his face and while he was still dripping wet, he peeled off his sticky pajamas and underwear.  He grabbed a monogrammed hand towel, wiped the sweaty dampness from his neck and groin, then tossed the soiled towel into the corner on top of the pajamas and stepped back into the darkness of the bedroom to dress.

Outside his stucco and brick house, he breathed in the warm, polluted August air, full of the unremitting Beverly Hills stench.  One of four garage doors opened and he backed out in an ebony, hand polished 450 SL Mercedes Benz, and with his mind set, he drove out slowly, opened all the windows and wondered why he couldn’t remember if his wife was still beautiful. 

Within minutes, he was pulling into the driveway of Valley Hospital, home for the rich sick.  Here he was, Dr. Kristopher Tenor, Chief of Cardiology, and a man who still caused a few young heads to turn.  As he approached the hospital doors, his thoughts were comprised of scattered memories: A luxurious room at the Schloss Hotel Kronberg in Germany; Nolan’s first Christmas; an affair with Sheila; a second affair with Sheila; Frank Sinatra at Caesar’s palace--

Once inside the hospital, he avoided the elevators and instead climbed the six flights of stairs to the Intensive Care Floor.  Carefully stepping into the alcove, which provided some concealment from the hallways, he immediately became the eyewitness to the chaotic scene of a code blue.  Scrambling doctors and frenzied nurses everywhere.  He stood speechless--his heart racing.  Yes--yes.  It might finally be possible. 

When he was certain he wouldn’t be seen, he dashed to the supply closet, took a freshly laundered aqua-green surgeon’s gown and slipped it on over his clothes.  With a matching facemask further hiding his identity, he slowly emerged from behind the supply room door to be struck with the realization that it was his own patient who was suffering a cardiac arrest and causing the code blue. His lack of caring caused him to hesitate.  The old man will die and I don’t care.  What is happening to me?  For the first time in his career he felt no concerns, instead he felt anger and resentment for God’s scattered mercies.  Why let him go, he thought, and not others?

He quickly scurried to the patient’s door and guardedly peered inside.  Conducting jelly already applied, the paddles were being secured into place on the old man’s chest and when the command was given, he saw the patient’s involuntary lurch--his back arching with a spasm-like jerk as the electrical current surged through to his failing heart.  As the nurses quickly moved to prevent him from falling off the bed, Dr. Kristopher Tenor darted past the door, he passed the deserted nurse’s station, and continued down the hall to room 630.

Entering this room, as he had done for the past nine years, he was immediately overtaken by the grim atmosphere, the sickened air of foreboding now at its apex.  He had learned to hate the sounds of the machines; the continual bleep--bleep--bleep of the brain scan, the inflating and collapsing rubber lung that forced air into the unthinking being that lie in the bed.  The perpetual rhythmic sounds were a caustic reminder that the machines were day-by-day, month-by-month and finally year-by-year, keeping alive the residual piece of life--keeping alive the tragedy he had caused.  Over the years, he had        watched the young girl, her pliant frame distorting until she had curled unto the fetus-like ball she had been fifteen years before.  Now, she was only a pathetic creature lying on her side--her skeletal legs drawn up, her emaciated arms and hands with yellowed nails folded and tucked in close to her chest. 

Standing over the bed with an odd, pious expression, he gently picked up one of her small frail hands, kissed it and with all the tenderness and love a father can have for a daughter, he spoke to her. 

“You’ll be able to rest now, Melanie.  Daddy loves his little princess.”

He thoughtfully held her hand a moment before putting it back to rest and made a quick, perfunctory sign of the cross.  The time had come.  He bent down, reached behind the bed and without having to search, easily found the plug to the life support system and pulled it from the socket.  Instantly, it was quiet.  Silent.