Bothersome Exceptions
"Life is pleasant. Death is peaceful. It's the transition that's troublesome."
- Isaac Asimov
Within the course of every life, a turning point will arrive. Repeatedly. They are as unavoidable as sneezing and similarly unscheduled. Most people can name specific moments when a transition occurred; some shift, change of direction, or even an epiphany. Though often slow forming until sufficient momentum is gained, on occasion there is a colossal tick of the clock that springs immediate alteration to the intended route. And more frequently than not, turning points are bad.
As a toddler, they called him Little Stevie. The youngest of the Connor family, Stephen Patrick was a curious boy, generally well-behaved in public and smart as a whip. So declared his mother to anyone within shouting distance. The type of child to consider deeply before asking the inevitable 'why,' Little Stevie made friends quickly and bickered with his sister regularly. But on the path to a normal suburban childhood, there were certain aspects of life that were misunderstood by the inquisitive youth. In particular, death.
At age five, Little Stevie met death for the first time when his dog went to the vet and didn't come back. According to his sweet-voiced parents, Nickel had been invited to dog heaven. A few days later, a small box was delivered, which was promptly buried in the backyard. Little Stevie didn't know what the word 'remains' meant, but he was pretty sure the black Labrador couldn't have fit in that tiny container. And when a new dog arrived the next day, Little Stevie learned the first lesson about death; replacements. He insisted they call the puppy Dollar, figuring if he was worth more, he'd live longer.
Following the first few growth spurts and numerous protests, the prefix 'Little' was dropped. Meanwhile responsibilities piled up, much to the eight year old's dismay. The cactus Stevie been appointed to water was asking for a new caretaker. Its needles dropped into the parched soil at an alarming rate, but neighborhood baseball games couldn't be delayed for the task. He was busy and the plant would surely bounce back without him. One Saturday afternoon, a healthy cactus materialized in the bay window ledge and his father reassigned watering duties to a disgruntled sister.
Stevie stood next to his sister as Aunt Dorothy was lowered into the ground. Having been mildly fond of her throughout the first decade of his existence, he was adequately saddened. Therese took it much harder, evidenced by the shaking shoulders as she clung to her mother. Stevie considered comforting her by explaining his opinion on death, but she'd ratted on him that morning so he kept silent on the matter. Eleven months later his uncle remarried, choosing a nice young lady who always brought gifts for the Connor children. And Stevie's theory of death was thus further supported; when someone or something dies, you get a new one.
School taught him the 'I before E' rule. The exceptions were bothersome. The exemptions to his death rule were equally inconvenient. When his grandfather's car died, a new one was purchased. But when the elderly man himself died, no one was sent to fill in the missing family member. This took some long nights of puzzling to work out. But in the end, Stevie decided that age was a factor that would mend the gap in his theory. The dog had been run over in the prime of life. The Aunt had been sickly from birth. The cactus had been neglected. The car was crushed by a storm-tossed tree limb. But none were old. Grandfathers who lived a very long time didn't get replaced because they had done everything that needed doing. Only the young left things unfinished, hence the substitutions.
The death rule held up under many more attacks until Stevie turned thirteen. Just after his birthday, Therese got sick. Chalking it up to an attention-grabbing scheme of a teenaged drama queen, Stevie shrugged through the first few days of updates. He didn't go to see her, by his parents wish as much as his own. The siblings could argue absolutely anywhere about positively anything and the grown-ups seemed to think it wouldn't be helpful. The first trip to the hospital was also the last. Therese died in the hours meant for innocent sleeping. She always was a closet rule-breaker, only this time she got caught. And he resolved to hold that against her. Because she didn't get replaced.
To commence the first day of being an only child, Stevie slashed the 'I' from his name. The change was accepted without question or dispute. But things were different now, since there were less people in the house to fight with. It took several months for Steve to miss his sister. At first it was like vacation, the kind where everyone's extra nice, clamping down on rude comments and smiling for the camera. Therese's room was a ghost in the family home; suspected but unproven by sight. Though unlocked, there was something of a force field that seemed to repel anyone's ability to turn the knob. Dinner chat was no longer a teasing, mocking affair, but like every formal event he'd ever seen on television. All they needed was a ten foot table to complete the image of distance and reticence. Rather than asking for the salt, Steve would get up to get it himself in order to maintain the polite silence between the chewing and swallowing. Therese would have been bored.
Steve entered high school, a transition that brought with it a blessedly hectic schedule. He'd made every team sport he tried out for, effectively filling the after-school hours. The football, baseball and hockey, coupled with homework and social gatherings, made the Connor household seem entirely childless. The better for all involved, he thought. As graduation loomed, Steve quietly announced his medical aspirations. To help others, he explained, which was a piece of the reason. If he could stop people from dying, there would be no need for replacements. Especially considering the replacement rule didn't always work.
The end of high school arrived with yet another name change. Seventeen year old Stephen was accepted to the Boston University School of Medicine, which called for a more mature, professional name. Though the university was close to home, Stephen opted to rent a studio apartment twelve blocks from campus. Trips home were sporadic at best and unusually required a special occasion to prompt them. He loved his parents, but not the atmosphere Therese left behind. The family used to talk, sometimes for hours as a compatible unit of bonded kin. As the college years progressed, Stephen believed only the unrelenting fact of shared genes kept them related.
The start of his twenty-second year found the dedicated student to the new gravesite of his mother. The woman died alone, his father's whereabouts unclear when the heart attack struck. Her heart had finally rebelled after years of continuous breaking while mourning for her angel. After the burial, Stephen returned to his family home. What compelled him to enter Therese's room would remain a mystery. That day, he ceased to be twenty-two. Standing in the dust-caked explosion of pinks and white, he relived Little Stevie again. Every typical sibling fight flashed through his mind; nonsensical squabbles and absurd tattletales were the staples of his youth. As was her presence. The full effect of her passing settled on shoulders previously unequipped to handle the load. Overwhelmed by the emotions hidden behind well-rehearsed excuses, the only barrier to tears was his father discovering his location and pitching an impressive fit. Once Stephen was ushered from the room, he continued the leaving right back to the university. The sanctuary of knowledge became a fortress between him and his last immediate relative. Only the men were left in the Connor brood. Without the glue of the women, there was nothing strong enough to bind them back together.
Adult life saw the creation of a great many rules, all meant to be unbreakable and without exception. Death had become a constant in his work, a necessity that now had the power to teach. Replacements came in the form of new patients, regardless of the outcome of the old ones. With the departure of his wife, Stephen decided that he didn't need to get a new one. Because like his grandfather, she had done everything that needed doing; she successfully showed him all the reasons he should be alone. The eventual substitution was hard to accept, but persistence tended to poke holes in rules. It was bothersome that she expected an exemption and yet…
Like his sister, Natalie was a closet rule-breaker, only this time he got caught. Caught not holding it against her. Because she couldn't be replaced. She called him Stephen, but he'd answer to anything as long as he didn't meet death again through her.
Finally, life was pleasant for Stephen Patrick Connor.