Digger - The Doctor Will See You Now by Clifford Beck - HTML preview

Chapter 3

It was on one particular afternoon in early July when Ryan found himself wandering through downtown Portland. His family had lived there for at least three generations and, like most well-established families in Portland, had become part of the demographic landscape. He walked into and out of some small stores and boutiques -- just looking. It wasn’t that he was shopping for anything, he simply felt the need to get out of the house, putting as much distance between him and his father as possible. But this day would be unlike any other and would come to represent a major turning point in his life.

On an impulse, he decided to go to the library. He walked up the hill on Exchange Street and, turning left, started toward the intersection of Elm and Congress streets. The downtown area always seemed to be busy, with nearly constant traffic. Continuing up the brick walkway, Ryan approached Monument Square. Stopping at one of Portland’s few hot dog vendors, he found himself well within sight of the library. Occasionally, he went there for a quiet place to sit, far from earshot of his father’s yelling and threats. And of course, he would read. He loved to learn and read anything of the sciences he could get his hands on.

He bought a hot dog loaded with everything, walked over to a nearby bench, and sat. He absorbed the sun’s warming light and could smell a hint of the sea wafting in on the summer breeze. Finishing the hot dog, he chased it down with a cold bottle of spring water, wiping a palm-full of it across his forehead. So, with his stomach full and his thirst quenched, Ryan sat back on the bench. And just for five or ten minutes, all seemed right with the world. But this was an illusion and far from the reality that always seemed to be waiting for him at home. It hid like a snake, coiled in a dark corner, waiting to strike but never letting on as to when.

Life at home was unbearably unpredictable. His father’s temper always seems to be on a hair-trigger, and his consumption of alcohol only made things worse. He thought about, perhaps, running away. He didn’t think his father would have a problem with that. But his mother, who seemed to be trying to prevent him from growing up, would never be able to deal with her ‘little boy’ escaping into the cold, cruel world. One night, Ryan was out late with a girl he was seeing. Upon arriving home, he discovered that his mother had called an ambulance and given the EMTs his picture, as though he had become the subject of a manhunt, the victim of some deranged, psychotic killer.

He got up from the bench and started toward the intersection, taking only taken a few steps when the shriek of tires biting against the pavement tore through the air. It was a sound that Ryan had never heard before, and it startled him into a momentary mental lapse. Time slowed to a crawl as he watched a young woman being launched through the windshield of a yellow Mustang. The police report would later say that not only was the driver exceeding the speed limit but also ran a red light. The young woman, according to the many witnesses, reported that she’d flown roughly thirty to forty feet before sliding face first down another ten feet of pavement. Before the crowds had a chance to gather and the gawkers had a chance to circle, Ryan ran to the woman’s side. Without moving her, he noticed a blood-tinged fluid dripping from her ears. Her nose had been all but torn from her face, and her bottom lip appeared to have been ripped down almost over her chin. He announced to the crowd that someone should call 911.

One at a time, Ryan carefully opened her eyes. The first thing he noticed was the absence of any reaction. Together with the rest of her injuries, he quickly surmised that she was indeed unconscious. The second thing he noticed was that her pupils were different in size. Ryan didn’t have to be a doctor to know that this was a symptom of something very serious.

Now, only moments later, the gawkers came out. These were people who seemed to feed off the misfortune of others. They loved the sight of blood, mangled tissue and pain. They filled the emptiness of their souls with it, nursing from it like a baby at its mother’s breast. As he attempted to fend off the crowd, he heard two sirens quickly approaching, one from each direction of Congress Street. Soon, an officer was bent over Ryan’s shoulder, asking him if he had any medical training. Not wanting to waste time with explanations, he simply answered ‘yes’. The officer, being satisfied with this response, stepped away and began the job of crowd control. An ambulance arrived only moments later, and Ryan described the accident in as much detail as he could. The paramedics took over from there, moving the young woman onto a backboard and whisking her off to Maine Medical Center. Later in the week, however, she would appear in the Portland Press obituary section.

The young woman died of her injuries. But if any good came from her untimely demise, it was an inspiration. And while ‘inspiration’ may not be exactly the correct word, it is true that as the ambulance screamed up the hill toward Maine Medical Center, Ryan reached an epiphany of sorts. It was a realization that emerged from deep beyond the adrenaline rush of the moment—the discovery of what he would do with his life. It was no longer just a matter of helping people. He would help piece back together the shattered lives of those who, for one reason or another, found themselves victimized by illness, circumstances or those without mercy or consideration for the lives of others.

That evening, as Ryan and his family sat in the living room, he spoke to his parents about the event that had pointed his life in a new direction. Immediately sent into a fit of rage, his father asked him, “What did you do that for?!” while his mother, caught up in her anxiety over his father’s reaction, told him he was not to go downtown again. “Why not?” he asked.

Ryan was both perplexed and angry. “Don’t talk back!” his father yelled. It seemed that Ryan’s father was always a bit too willing to remove his belt in the event that he should speak out about anything.

“I just don’t want you going there anymore,” his mother answered.

“But why?” he asked.

His father chimed in again.

“Shut your goddamn mouth!”

He looked at his mother, desperate for an explanation that made sense.

“I just don’t,” she answered.

His anger bubbled over as he spoke without thinking. “You can’t protect me forever, you know!” His father flew into a rage as his mother dropped her head into her hands. Getting up from the couch, his father mindlessly charged across the room at him. “I said shut your Goddamn mouth!” Ryan quickly got to his feet. He never thought he would have to defend himself from his own father, but he didn’t find the idea especially shocking either.

His father pulled a fist back as his mother sat cowering on the couch. Backing Ryan up against the wall, he let his fist fly straight at Ryan’s face. Out of instinct, Ryan dodged to the outside of his father’s swing, causing him to plant his fist into the side of the nearby door frame. Within a fraction of a second, Ryan heard the bones in his father’s hand crackle under the resulting impact as he howled in pain and dropped to his knees. Suddenly, Ryan was overtaken with revenge, anger, and a deep need for personal satisfaction. Taking a small step back from his father, he began screaming at him.

“How’s that feel, asshole?!”

He walked around behind him, circling like a hungry vulture. His mother, still sitting on the couch, had begun wiping tears from her face. She was also living the nightmare of his father’s abuse, but the one thing she feared happening was now playing out in front of her, and she was too terrified to intervene.

“So, what do we do now, huh?”

Ryan continued walking until he stood face-to-face with a man who had, for so long, used his family as his own personal toilet. He stood in front of his father, who remained on his knees, cradling a painful and rapidly swelling hand. Without a word, Ryan’s anger broke free as his foot sprang from the floor and found its way to the middle of his father’s face. He collapsed to the floor in agony and the fear of what Ryan might do next. “Yeah! Now you’re afraid, aren’t you?!” Ryan yelled. Now, with a complete loss of self-control, Ryan kicked him in the side of the head.

“What do you think of that, bitch?!” With a look of rage on his face, he continued kicking and stomping until his father lay on the floor, unconscious. By the time an ambulance arrived, his father was unresponsive and pronounced dead on arrival. The Portland police pulled up to their house shortly after the ambulance arrived, and Ryan and his mother were both taken in for questioning. Ryan was quick to reveal everything he could remember about his father’s treatment of their family. However, his mother, for some reason, was not so willing to speak up. Perhaps she was still under the influence of his father’s abuse and manipulation. But when presented with the possibility of being charged with hindering an investigation, she began answering their questions without hesitation.

An autopsy is always part of what the police assume to be a homicide. It was during this phase of the investigation that the medical examiner discovered Ryan’s father had several broken bones in his right hand. The police saw this as being consistent with Ryan’s story as well as his mother’s statement. Although the father’s cause of death was listed as heavy bleeding into his left lung, eventually the entire incident was ruled an act of self-defense, and no charges were filed.

The funeral was two days later. Ryan refused to attend. He’d seen two deaths that day, and he was responsible for one of them. Given the hatred he still felt, Ryan couldn’t bring himself to see his father, even though it was the last time he would do so. Aside from his decision, Ryan also knew that his father’s family would be in attendance, and there was no doubt that some would see him as a murderer. He also wanted to avoid their suspicious, angry stares. But instead of staying home and becoming fixated on what they might be saying about him, he decided to go back downtown. Acting against his mother’s wishes, he again found himself sitting in the library. He discovered himself craving its quiet atmosphere and found that it soothed the monster in his head.