John Swinburn

Camber Morton’s head rested on a cushioned metal circle, exposing the back side through the circle.  He fidgeted while the anesthesiologist adjusted the gadget affixed high up on the back side of his shaved head. A nurse had taped his eyes shut a few moments before the anesthesiologist entered the surgical theater, so he didn’t know what she looked like. He thought she sounded young, though.

She called it an ‘intrusive deep delivery appliance.’ “Once we turn it on, you’ll feel a cold sensation as it sprays a topical anesthetic on your skin. Next, it will make a small, shallow incision in the numbed scalp.”

Camber already knew the steps that would be undertaken in the procedure. The surgeon, Dr. Shalafondra Gomez, had explained it to him in detail. But it was different, hearing the abstract explanation from Dr. Gomez; today, he felt the device strapped to his head, anticipating the incisions in his head and chest.

“After a pause,” the anesthesiologist continued, “it will inject more of the anesthetic into the incision and pause again. As it progresses, it will spray a biological glue, which seals the tissue surrounding the device to prevent bleeding. It will continue that process until it reaches your brain’s occipital lobe. At that point, Dr. Gomez will insert the fiber-optic transmitter. You will see flashes, maybe some colored bursts like fireworks, while she adjusts the transmitter.  Once she has it firmly affixed, you’ll see through the lens of her head-band cameras.”

It seemed to Camber that it took an hour for the device to work its way to his occipital lobe, though it actually took around five minutes. He had expected at least a little pin prick of pain, but he felt nothing but that one burst of cold. Dr. Gomez said “Good morning,” when she entered, but he couldn’t make out what else she said. It seemed she was talking to other people in the room; it was medical talk he didn’t quite understand.

Despite knowing the fireworks were coming, the first flashes surprised him. It was like viewing a full-on fireworks finale, the sort of explosive displays that erupted from the garnitures he once created for Fourth of July celebrations.

Suddenly, the flashes stopped. In their place was a clear view of his own face.

“Wow! This is remarkable. I can see myself. I can see the equipment behind me and the operating table.” He saw the anesthesiologist. She looked to be all of eighteen years old.

“Good,” came the reply from Dr. Gomez. “That’s what we were after. I want you to see what we’re doing; it will help you get a better sense of how to use the prosthetic when it’s fully integrated with your muscles and tendons.”

Camber’s left arm had been blown off just below the elbow when a fireworks mortar exploded prematurely while he was preparing it for launch. The blast shredded the lower part of his arm. Somehow, it left him able to move his arm and bend his elbow, but all sensation was gone from his shoulder on down; he couldn’t feel pain, heat, cold. Nothing. It was that fact that had prompted Dr. Gomez to decide to do the prosthetic surgery without general anesthesia, though the anesthesiologist would stay at the ready, “just in case sensation returns at the most inopportune time,” she said.

Camber thought the prosthetic device looked fragile. It consisted of a brown plastic cylinder at the top, where the electronics and computer circuits were housed, with two stainless steel rods emerging from the cylinder. The rods connected to a maze of metal that looked like mesh, and then to another series of smaller, thinner rods that would be Camber’s new fingers. Almost the entire length of the ‘fingers’ were encased in tan rubber that looked to Camber a little too much like condoms in use.

Camber watched as Dr. Gomez made precise incisions into the stump of his arm. The second she made a cut, it began to bleed slightly, but the hands of an assistant wiped away the blood and, using a device that looked like an air-gun, sprayed something on the cut, stopping the bleeding.

“We’re using biological glue to stop the bleeding,” Dr. Gomez explained. “Internally, it will be absorbed into your system when the wounds heal. Externally, it will peel off when it’s completely dry.”

An hour and fifteen minutes later, Camber’s view of the surgery changed to a view of the operating room as Dr. Gomez raised her head and stood upright.

“All right,” Dr. Gomez said, “I’ve attached extensor tendons to the prosthesis, see?” She lowered her head to just above the spot where his arm joined the device. Camber could see what looked like a stainless steel hose clamp,  connecting tissue to one of the rods.

“Yes, I see.”

“Okay, now, I want to see if you can move your new arm, but just a tiny bit; don’t try to lift it, just move it very slightly.”  Dr. Gomez raised her head so Camber could see the full extension of both parts of his left arm.

The arm moved slightly.

“Good! Now, you may not be able to control the hands yet, but let’s give it a try. See if you can make a fist.”

She leaned down again so Camber could get a close-up view of the clot of condoms.

He made a fist.

“Great! You’re ahead of the game! We’ll finish this up and then we’ll talk about the processes you’ll need to follow to get this to heal.”

The teenage anesthesiologist spoke. “We’ll retrieve the optical fiber and remove this intrusive deep delivery appliance, now.”

Camber felt a slight tug at the back of his head, then his vision went black.

“The fiber is resisting. I can’t seem to get it to detach from…oh my god!”

He heard a flurry of movement and then lost consciousness.

WHERE DOES THIS GO? I HAVE NO IDEA. PROBABLY NOWHERE.

Hearing the door rattle, Little Darby Tiptoe lifted his head and sat perfectly still. When it rattled again and he heard the groan of the hook and eye latch, straining to hold the door shut, he sprang to his feet and raced to the door to see who was there.

An unfamiliar face looked down on him from the other side of the wood-framed screen.

“Hey, boy,” the man whispered, “is anybody home? Are you a nice boy?” The man stood still, his eyes fixed on the dog. Little Darby Tiptoe, his head cocked slightly to the side, stood silently, looking up at the man. The man’s eyes shifted from Darby to the room behind, then back to the dog.

“If you were a mean dog, you’d be growling by now. How ’bout I come in and give you a treat?” With that, the man slid an ice pick through the screen and popped the hook up and out of the eye. He pulled the screen door slowly, as if he were testing to see if the dog would come at him. Little Darby Tiptoe stood motionless.

With the door opened wide enough for him to enter, the man inched his way in, his eyes on the dog. “Be a good boy, now, don’t be afraid of me. Don’t bark at me, boy.”

He reached around behind him with his left hand, closing the door so it wouldn’t make a noise.  Darby took two steps back from the man.

“Don’t be scared, boy. Here, you want a treat?” The man knew how to behave around unfamiliar dogs. His movements, slow and deliberate,  were textbook ‘how to approach a strange dog.’ He pulled a biscuit from his pocket and reached down to give it to the dog.

Little Darby Tiptoe’s lips curled, revealing menacing canine teeth, but he didn’t growl. “Whoa, boy,” the man whispered as he pulled back, “don’t go rogue on me. I just want to give you a treat.” The dog’s lips loosened when the man backed off.

“Okay, boy, you don’t want a treat. Just let me get by you, all right?”

The man leaned toward the wide opening into the living room. Little Darby Tiptoe watched him, but did not get in his way as the intruder stepped around him.

Darby followed the man from room to room at a distance of about ten feet.  When the man reached for the knob on Marissa’s bedroom door, Little Darby Tiptoe raced toward him, lunging at his right foot. Darby’s mouth opened wide, then clamped shut on the man’s Achilles tendon.

The man screamed and at the same moment thrust his right hand, the one holding the ice pick, down and backward toward the dog.  Darby released his grip on the man’s leg and ran toward the front door. The injured man hesitated for just a moment, then followed the dog. Little Darby Tiptoe scurried to the kitchen, beyond the screen door, and turned around to watch the man swing the screen door open and rush out, limping down the sidewalk, leaving a trail of blood behind him.

Darby’s eyes remained fixed on the man as he disappeared into the driver’s side of a car parked a block away. When the car pulled away, Darby turned. He followed the drops of blood on the wood floor, dutifully licking them up, erasing the unsightly evidence of a break-in gone bad.

With David’s foot tucked back safely in his flip-flop, it was Lisa’s turn to misbehave. She slipped the sandal off her right foot, reached under the table with her leg toward David’s leg, and brushed her foot lightly against the side of his knee.

Gloria did not see any of this inappropriate behavior beneath the table. But a woman sitting at a nearby table did. She watched David’s foot reach under the table and touch Lisa’s ankle.  She saw Lisa’s response a few seconds later, as she looked up after signing the credit card receipt for her meal. That woman, Dr. Cari Smithers, had the day before prescribed a cortisone cream to treat a rash behind Gloria’s knees.

A tall blond woman in her early forties, Smithers literally stumbled into Gloria at Ranger’s Gym six months earlier. As Gloria stepped off the elliptical machine, Cari rounded the track behind the machine, bumping into her. After an exchange of apologies, the two of them began chatting.  In the weeks that followed, they began to develop a friendship.

Cari’s training in medical school and the dermatology internship that followed taught her to keep her emotions hidden when dealing with patients. That training served her well outside her practice, too. Nothing in her face betrayed surprise at what she had seen. She first met David when he picked Gloria up at the gym, then later at a dinner party hosted by Lisa Benther, another of her patients.

Cari placed her napkin on the table, stood, and walked to the table where Gloria, David, and Lisa were sitting.

“Hi there! Looks like all the best people come to Kangaroo, doesn’t it? I just had their crab louie and I can recommend it highly!”  She turned to Lisa. “I’ve been admiring your black strap sandals, dear, they’re just darling!”

Lisa’s face flushed. “Oh, thank you! They’re one of my favorite pairs.”

Cari’s eyes turned to David, then quickly to Gloria. “See you tomorrow at the gym? Boy, do I have some stories to tell! Enjoy your lunch.”

David’s habit of inelegant dress annoyed Lisa Benther. Shorts, a t-shirt, and flip-flops were fine for the beach but were entirely unsuitable for wearing to lunch. Yet, there he was, sitting across the table from her at Kangaroo, one of the hottest new restaurants in Little Rock. Fortunately, their table was in a corner so she could claim a seat that put her back to the remainder of the restaurant. David’s wife, and Lisa’s friend, Gloria, was dressed more appropriately for the meal, in Lisa’s opinion. Gloria’s bright print blouse, capri pants, and brown leather sandals were casual, but not sloppy-casual like David’s attire. Lisa, of course, was dressed to the nines: a white sheath dress, gold chain necklace, triple gold bracelets, and black strap sandals.

“Lisa, I feel downright slovenly in your presence! Maybe I should be the one with my back to the room!”

Gloria kicked David’s foot under the table.

“Don’t be silly, David, I always say people should wear what makes them feel comfortable. Obviously, you’re comfortable in beachwear. Pay no attention to the other people staring at you.”

“All right, you two, let’s talk about something other than your competing fashion choices.” Gloria’s right hand slid across David’s knee, her palm clenched and ready for a painful squeeze.

“Well,” Lisa responded, “what do you think of the menu at this place? Isn’t it just amazing?  I’ve heard the Chilean sea bass is out of this world!”

“If restaurants and fishmongers keep marketing it the way they have been,” David said, “it will be out of this world soon due to overexploitation. It’s not really a bass, it’s a type of cod. It was called Patagonian toothfish until 1977 and very few people ate it until the early 1990s, when marketers seized on a way to turn it into money machine.”

Lisa’s cheery smile had turned to a glare by the time David finished. “Oh, I forgot you think everything we eat is on the endangered list. Do you see anything on the menu that I won’t feel guilty about eating?”

Gloria’s hand squeezed David’s knee hard enough to elicit an “ouch!”

“I’ll be good. I just rather enjoy getting under Lisa’s skin.” David smiled at Gloria, then gave Lisa a wink.

“Well, the farm-raised tilapia shouldn’t make my guilt-meter spike too high, and the ‘locally-sourced goat cheese crostini with grilled vegetables’ sounds good, too. I’m in the mood for an appetizer. Maybe I’ll want something else a little later in the day to satisfy my hunger.” David’s right foot slipped out of his flip-flop and he stretched his leg across under the table, touching Lisa’s ankle. She smiled.

I left the house at 4:30 a.m., slipping into the dark garage as quietly as I could so as not to wake my daughter’s dog, Winchester. When Winchester is awakened before his natural time to shake off the night’s sleep, he tends to drift off at inopportune times during the remainder of the day, like when he’s eating or relieving himself.

Seeming to have successfully left Winchester asleep in the den, I tapped the button on the garage door opener and watched the big white door rise to reveal the blackness of morning. I turned right out of the driveway, climbing the hill slowly to avoid slamming into armadillos and squirrels and raccoons. When I reached the top of the hill, the car did not follow the road down the other side but, instead, just kept going up at the same speed. I took my foot off the accelerator almost immediately when the wheels left the ground because, with the tires having no traction, the engine began to race.

I should have been surprised—shocked—at finding myself rising into the sky in my car, but for some reason it seemed perfectly natural to me. Looking through the windshield into the dark sky above, I felt calm and utterly at peace. When I looked out the side window to the ground below, I saw only a few dim street lights; but above me, the stars became brighter and brighter as I climbed higher.

“Dad?” I was startled to hear my daughter’s voice. “Dad, what are you doing?”

“Denise, where are you?” Her voice sounded as if she were right next to me, but I was alone in the car.

“I’m right here.”

“Where?”

“In the radio. I mean, I’m not IN the radio, I’m talking to you THROUGH the radio. I’m sitting next to Winchester in the den. He told me you left a few minutes ago. Where are you going?  And why is the car five thousand feet in the air?”

“How do you know that, Denise? And how are you able to talk to me through the radio?”

“C’mon! Think about it, Dad.”

“Okay, you’re saying I’m having one of my weird dreams, right?”

“Bingo!”

And that’s where it ended. I don’t know where I was going, but it was obvious Denise didn’t want me to go there.