Categories > Original > Drama > Separation
November 4, 1977
"Mrs. Kalahearn?"
Rick wasn't exactly sure what to expect. He'd never dealt personally with Ray's family before. What he knew about them he'd learned through unreturned letters, aborted phone calls, and unflattering stories from Charles and Alex. Ray himself had had little to say about them, perhaps because he felt uncomfortable defaming his own blood, no matter how bigoted. Either way, the petite, dark-haired woman staring blankly back at him did have a certain gravitas to her. Rick reminded himself that he was here not just on business, but on behalf of her youngest child and only son.
"Yes? If you're selling subscriptions or sharing the 'good news', I'm afraid we're not interested. We're staunch Baptists and if you want donations you'll have to speak to my husband's financial manager. Good day."
Clearly, she'd done this a couple of times. Before she could close the door completely, Rick spoke up:
"I'm here on behalf of your son."
"I don't have a son." She was seconds from slamming the varnished cherry wood in his face.
"He's been gravely injured."
The swinging door abruptly skidded to a halt an inch from the jamb.
"What?"
"Mrs. Kalahearn, your son has been severely injured in the line of duty," the words sounded like those of a military officer; then again, they were supposed to.
The door was open again, the blank look staring back at him.
"He was injured?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"What happened to him," she asked at length. "Was he badly hurt?"
"I'm afraid so, ma’am. He sustained a broken neck and a severed spine."
That got her attention.
"He what?!"
"Sustained a broken neck and a severed spine," Rick repeated, "and has been in a coma for close to three months now. We’ve been trying to contact you, but your husband has an excellent security team."
A long and very empty pause. Mrs. Kalahearn's expression remained as blank as ever and Rick began to wonder if his dry, militaristic delivery had been too harsh?
"...would you like to come inside, Mr. Dicker?"
"Thank you."
Considering the home belonged to a senator, Rick had been expecting something a bit more elaborate. Still, according to Ray, the Kalahearn household had subscribed to a rather simple lifestyle even before the budget cap. The home and furnishings bespoke old world gentility; elegant, yet simple and practical. The decor appeared to be largely ancestral, the living room sofa of dark wood and thickly-stuffed velvet recalling an era when bustles had been in vogue. Rick sat on it gingerly, wondering how Ray and his three sisters had managed not to break the thing into splinters when they were children? He waited, politely balancing a cup of tea in an equally antiquated china teacup while Mrs. Kalahearn made a few phone calls. After fifteen minutes on the phone and another ten of awkward waiting, her husband arrived home and Rick had the unenviable task of explaining what had happened.
"Mr. Dicker," Senator Kalahearn offered the clipped greeting along with an equally brief handshake. "I'm told you're here on official business."
"Yes, sir," Rick replied, only his many years as mediator between the Super community and the rest of the world keeping him calm in the presence of the man who had banished Supers from the East Coast. "It's about your son."
The senator nodded. "Johanna said he'd been injured. Is that true?"
"Yes, sir. Your son was injured in the line of duty back in September. My company as well as the hospital has made numerous attempts to contact you, but did not receive any response. Ray is currently in a coma and the hospital would like to treat him, but can’t without consent from his next-of-kin."
"What kind of treatment?"
If the man was concerned at all about his son, he gave little or no indication. Still, his responses, while curt, lacked the icy disdain that had initially frosted his wife's voice. Perhaps this was what the senator looked like when emotionally distraught? Rick briefly attempted comparing the two Kalahearn men in his head, but soon gave up, the polarization giving him a headache.
"That I'm not entirely sure, you'll have to talk to the hospital yourself. I understand it’s some sort of operation to reconnect his brain to his spinal cord, it involves new technology only recently put on the market."
The senator raised an eyebrow.
"Sir, your son was damn near killed. According to medical definition he is only a few brain waves away from being clinically dead. He is not conscious, nor is he breathing on his own. However, out of respect for his beliefs as well as the legal system, we need your permission before he is treated one way or the other."
The senator’s eyes had grown narrow and cold. "What exactly happened, Mr. Dicker?"
Rick briefly outlined Ray's injuries, and how he had gotten them, leaving out a few minor surface details such as the giant robot and mad doctor. While true, such superfluous side-notes tended to lead listeners into the realm of disbelief and Rick didn't want that. He had his work cut out for him as it was. There was an admittedly guilty satisfaction to be had in their expressions of slowly increasing horror as he described the three month coma, the spinal damage, ruptured organs, and broken bones. They listened in silence, Mrs. Kalahearn growing white while her husband's face became stony and grim.
"And the doctors believe he will recover after this treatment?"
"Physically, in time, perhaps," Rick affirmed. "However, this is all based on the assumption that he does, in fact, wake up. Should that happen, even with extensive therapy, it will take a while for his brain and nerves to get talking again, but that’s skipping ahead somewhat. He needs to regain consciousness before we can think about anything else.
“What I need right now Senator, Mrs. Kalahearn, is permission to either treat your son, or to pull the plug. It isn’t fair to leave the poor kid hanging, so to speak. Whatever he did to fall out of your good graces, I’d say it’s time to forgive and forget. This is his life we’re talking about.”
“Not to sound callous Mr. Dicker, but what would such treatment cost? I am not a wealthy man.”
Not filthy rich, but comfortable, certainly, Rick thought. Still, the Senator probably assumed an agency such as the NSA did not exist- which was just as well- and that any insurance Ray might have would not pay for something so elaborate and risky as the surgery Dr. Straussen had suggested.
“As an employee of my company, Ray has an excellent benefit package. We will continue to provide any treatment he may need. However, as I said, we can’t take any further steps without your consent."
A long moment while the senator thought.
"Just sign here, or here, Senator," said Rick, pointing to various spots on the medical forms spread across the coffee table, "and I’ll see Ray’s wishes are carried out."
"That won't be necessary, Mr. Dicker," the Senator stated, standing. "I'm going to fetch my son and bring him home."
"Mrs. Kalahearn?"
Rick wasn't exactly sure what to expect. He'd never dealt personally with Ray's family before. What he knew about them he'd learned through unreturned letters, aborted phone calls, and unflattering stories from Charles and Alex. Ray himself had had little to say about them, perhaps because he felt uncomfortable defaming his own blood, no matter how bigoted. Either way, the petite, dark-haired woman staring blankly back at him did have a certain gravitas to her. Rick reminded himself that he was here not just on business, but on behalf of her youngest child and only son.
"Yes? If you're selling subscriptions or sharing the 'good news', I'm afraid we're not interested. We're staunch Baptists and if you want donations you'll have to speak to my husband's financial manager. Good day."
Clearly, she'd done this a couple of times. Before she could close the door completely, Rick spoke up:
"I'm here on behalf of your son."
"I don't have a son." She was seconds from slamming the varnished cherry wood in his face.
"He's been gravely injured."
The swinging door abruptly skidded to a halt an inch from the jamb.
"What?"
"Mrs. Kalahearn, your son has been severely injured in the line of duty," the words sounded like those of a military officer; then again, they were supposed to.
The door was open again, the blank look staring back at him.
"He was injured?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"What happened to him," she asked at length. "Was he badly hurt?"
"I'm afraid so, ma’am. He sustained a broken neck and a severed spine."
That got her attention.
"He what?!"
"Sustained a broken neck and a severed spine," Rick repeated, "and has been in a coma for close to three months now. We’ve been trying to contact you, but your husband has an excellent security team."
A long and very empty pause. Mrs. Kalahearn's expression remained as blank as ever and Rick began to wonder if his dry, militaristic delivery had been too harsh?
"...would you like to come inside, Mr. Dicker?"
"Thank you."
Considering the home belonged to a senator, Rick had been expecting something a bit more elaborate. Still, according to Ray, the Kalahearn household had subscribed to a rather simple lifestyle even before the budget cap. The home and furnishings bespoke old world gentility; elegant, yet simple and practical. The decor appeared to be largely ancestral, the living room sofa of dark wood and thickly-stuffed velvet recalling an era when bustles had been in vogue. Rick sat on it gingerly, wondering how Ray and his three sisters had managed not to break the thing into splinters when they were children? He waited, politely balancing a cup of tea in an equally antiquated china teacup while Mrs. Kalahearn made a few phone calls. After fifteen minutes on the phone and another ten of awkward waiting, her husband arrived home and Rick had the unenviable task of explaining what had happened.
"Mr. Dicker," Senator Kalahearn offered the clipped greeting along with an equally brief handshake. "I'm told you're here on official business."
"Yes, sir," Rick replied, only his many years as mediator between the Super community and the rest of the world keeping him calm in the presence of the man who had banished Supers from the East Coast. "It's about your son."
The senator nodded. "Johanna said he'd been injured. Is that true?"
"Yes, sir. Your son was injured in the line of duty back in September. My company as well as the hospital has made numerous attempts to contact you, but did not receive any response. Ray is currently in a coma and the hospital would like to treat him, but can’t without consent from his next-of-kin."
"What kind of treatment?"
If the man was concerned at all about his son, he gave little or no indication. Still, his responses, while curt, lacked the icy disdain that had initially frosted his wife's voice. Perhaps this was what the senator looked like when emotionally distraught? Rick briefly attempted comparing the two Kalahearn men in his head, but soon gave up, the polarization giving him a headache.
"That I'm not entirely sure, you'll have to talk to the hospital yourself. I understand it’s some sort of operation to reconnect his brain to his spinal cord, it involves new technology only recently put on the market."
The senator raised an eyebrow.
"Sir, your son was damn near killed. According to medical definition he is only a few brain waves away from being clinically dead. He is not conscious, nor is he breathing on his own. However, out of respect for his beliefs as well as the legal system, we need your permission before he is treated one way or the other."
The senator’s eyes had grown narrow and cold. "What exactly happened, Mr. Dicker?"
Rick briefly outlined Ray's injuries, and how he had gotten them, leaving out a few minor surface details such as the giant robot and mad doctor. While true, such superfluous side-notes tended to lead listeners into the realm of disbelief and Rick didn't want that. He had his work cut out for him as it was. There was an admittedly guilty satisfaction to be had in their expressions of slowly increasing horror as he described the three month coma, the spinal damage, ruptured organs, and broken bones. They listened in silence, Mrs. Kalahearn growing white while her husband's face became stony and grim.
"And the doctors believe he will recover after this treatment?"
"Physically, in time, perhaps," Rick affirmed. "However, this is all based on the assumption that he does, in fact, wake up. Should that happen, even with extensive therapy, it will take a while for his brain and nerves to get talking again, but that’s skipping ahead somewhat. He needs to regain consciousness before we can think about anything else.
“What I need right now Senator, Mrs. Kalahearn, is permission to either treat your son, or to pull the plug. It isn’t fair to leave the poor kid hanging, so to speak. Whatever he did to fall out of your good graces, I’d say it’s time to forgive and forget. This is his life we’re talking about.”
“Not to sound callous Mr. Dicker, but what would such treatment cost? I am not a wealthy man.”
Not filthy rich, but comfortable, certainly, Rick thought. Still, the Senator probably assumed an agency such as the NSA did not exist- which was just as well- and that any insurance Ray might have would not pay for something so elaborate and risky as the surgery Dr. Straussen had suggested.
“As an employee of my company, Ray has an excellent benefit package. We will continue to provide any treatment he may need. However, as I said, we can’t take any further steps without your consent."
A long moment while the senator thought.
"Just sign here, or here, Senator," said Rick, pointing to various spots on the medical forms spread across the coffee table, "and I’ll see Ray’s wishes are carried out."
"That won't be necessary, Mr. Dicker," the Senator stated, standing. "I'm going to fetch my son and bring him home."
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