* Tuesday, Pre-Noon, After the Storm *
Max still isn't sure if she's angry or not with Chloe. Part of her is furious Chloe would pull a stunt like that. Back-to-back stunts. First give me the picture. Then burn it up without even asking.
But part of her is relieved.
For once, in all this chaos, it wasn't up to me.
The same circular logic had been creeping up on her for the last half hour, the same train of thought that led her down this path to begin with. She should be feeling guilt about the relief. She should be angry at Chloe, controlling her like this. She should be depressed, at least, over everything going on.
Instead Max is relieved and curious if she's angry at Chloe.
Which means I'm not angry. I just think I should be.
A part of her is still... peeved at the older girl. Less about the actions that transpired. More about the implications. That Max couldn't have made her mind up. That she needed to be taken care of. That she even had that hesitation that prevented her from destroying the photo herself.
Max isn't sure if she's sane anymore.
I'm completely flipped. Nothing that happened before is... here. I don't even really... feel what I felt earlier.
She should be worried.
I know why I was upset. I remember what I felt. I just feel... purged of it. Like dealing with it absolved me of it.
She should be worried.
'Max! I said we're here.'
The first words said to her in nearly an hour.
'Get moving. I want to see how my mom's doing.'
Anger in those words.
Stepping out and closing the door behind her, Max regards the controlled chaos of the hospital. The de facto center of Arcadia Bay's relief effort. Home to over seven hundred beds, the movement outside shows just how taxed the hospital is. When a crisis produces nearly twice as many injured and sick individuals than can feasibly be treated, chaos reins. The outpatient buildings that litter around the central parking lot, the hearts specialist facility, Mental Health and Welfare, even what Max thought was a local WMCA, all showed nearly the same level of activity. Chloe had been directed away from the hospital for parking, led a quarter mile away to the local public high school (Not everyone has money or scholarships) and parked mid end-zone of the football field.
The walk back gives Max time to observe the efforts to save the Bay in full detail.
Multiple lines of traffic fed into and out of the hospital. One line seems the be reserved exclusively for emergency personnel. A never ending flow of private cars makes up the other line, people constantly climbing in and out of their vehicles as they queue at one of the four spots in front of the main entrance.
Not everyone looks hurt. But nearly all of them wear the same expression of worry.
Max observes all this with cool detachment, two steps behind Chloe.
Entering is simple, compared to the fancy footwork the girls need to stay out of harms way in the traffic. Chloe immediately heads for the nearest stairwell, knowing her way around better. Max... hesitates.
'Chlo!'
Pivoting, the bluenette just stares back.
'I'm- I'm going to find Vicky and Katie. See what we can do to help out around here.'
'Fine.'
'Chlo, wait.'
Approaching the taller girl, Max steps up, holding on to Chloe's hand with both her own.
This. This I feel guilty over. Because of what I said and did to her. I'm not even mad, not really, at what was directed to me. But my actions towards her make me feel ashamed.
'Chlo, I-' Small words fill their distance. 'I love you.'
A breath of hesitation before lips touch just above Max's closed eyes.
'I love you too.' Another peck. 'Dork.'
And vanishing up the stairs.
I needed that.
Now, to find her friends.
The main lobby is crowded, but not overly so. Most people are sitting or loitering in small conversations. Half the individuals are nurses and police officers, with a few official types with clipboards and paperwork directing the maelstrom of activity. A trio of said individuals speak in hushed tones next to Max, between the security station and gift shop.
'...lucky so many were lightly injured. Could have been worse...'
'...can't believe only twenty people missing now. The storm made Irene look like a tickle but still...'
'...new count is four hundred and sixty four. Don't know where we'll store them all. We need to bring in refrigerator trucks. Who knows what we'll do with the unclaimed...'
Max needed to leave.
Without fully seeing where she is going, nor with a clear destination in mind, she walks. Not too hurried, not at a crawl. Random turns on the first floor lead her through the maze of corridors and wards. Past the emergency rooms, surprisingly quiet. Past the first floor cafeteria. Up flights of stairs.
Pediatrics and maternity.
Max pauses outside the doors, staring at the left-hand wall. Across the whole expanse, thirty or more feet of wall, pictures hung. Not haphazardly, taped to the wall. No, orderly pinned to cork-board. Certain pieces are even framed, and Max understands why. Some were obviously created by adults, the techniques and mediums much more refined than what someone would expect from a child. In the lower right corner of the closest framed artwork is a small index card.
Adriana Stevens
Childhood Retinoblastoma, Age 14
Graduated University of Oregon School of Art and Design, 2011
It is a pencil sketch, portrait style. It looks likes nothing more than someones basic outline of a person, probably a woman if the hips and bust are any indication. As Max stare, though...
You can see movement. She's walking forward. And wearing something. A coat, I think? A doctor's coat! But... but there's something else there. So lightly done, you can barely see the marks on the paper. The coat has feathers? Wings? Around the shoulder, you can see how the artist gives the impression that it sprouts from her back as well as being worn.
The realization hits Max.
She drew her angel. Her guardian angel, the doctor who saved her.
Next to the sketch, a crayon drawing. Dinosaurs stand in a three-tree jungle. By Robby.
Further down, colored pencils depict a school bus shows a dozen smiling faces. Timothy Richards, Arcadia Bay Junior High, 6th Grade.
Another framed drawing, this one depicting a male doctor wielding that weird medial staff (a caduceus) like a magic staff, motes of light dropping onto a hospital crib. Dr. Shells, thank you for all the breaths I take. - Sophie S.
After that, Max lost the detains of the rest of the artwork.
Eventually, she meanders back down the hall, away from the doors she stopped at. She heads to the one other room she knows in the hospital.
Kate's room is empty. The flowers are beginning to wilt but the get-well-soon cards are as vibrant as ever. In the middle of the bed a piece of paper lays, a child's drawing of Kate with the words Thank You across the top, half a dozen or so children's names below it.
No one will know what I did.
The thought pops into her head.
No one will know that is was me that killed all these people.
...
No one will ever know I'm to blame.
She's answered.
Kate knows. Victoria knows.
I mean the world at large. All the thousands I hurt.
Chloe knows.
I'm like the Grim Reaper. Walking unseen among all the lives I took.
They still love you.
Kate does because she's a saint. Victoria most certainly does not.
Chloe does. Why?
Because I saved her and she's under the delusion that I'm still the girl she grew up with and she's almost as messed up as me-
Nope.
Fuck off.
No. That isn't why she loves you. She does because you have stared into hell and still have your humanity. She loves you because you are such a wreck and broken and destroyed by what happened. You made a choice and have taken the pain of that choice and you still want to carry on. You want to help.
Because I'm guilty. I need to atone.
Yes you do. Not because you killed people. But for your part in their deaths.
Wait, did I kill them or not?
No.
The Storm would have come anyway?
...
I asked you if the Storm would have come if Chloe died.
...
Answer me!
No. No it wouldn't.
Max grips the bed, tight, to keep from falling.
I did kill them.
No you didn't.
Yes-
NO YOU DIDN'T! You did not kill them. You made one conscious choice. To keep Nathan from killing Chloe.
Because I'm selfish. I knew people would be hurt.
It wasn't selfish. Or noble to let Chloe die. You were given a choice, in your mind, that Chloe's death caused the Storm. No proof. No evidence. You made your decision in ignorance of the true ramifications, even if you suspected.
Just stop.
You didn't know-
STOP!
The screamed word echos in her head. A sharp familiar spike of pain lances her temple. A few errant red drops splash to the floor.
escape
The only thought in her mind now.
The stairwell leads Max up, to the roof. The emergency door, the sort to let off a piercing klaxon when opened, is propped unlocked by a small brick. Slamming it open, Max basks in the bright solitude the sky offers, feeling the sun on her face for the first time today.
Brief solitude.
'You can't be up here.'
Turning in place, Max sees the origin of the voice. An older man, late fifties maybe, wearing the full doctor getup minus stethoscope.
'Young lady, you really shouldn't be up here.'
'I'm sorry, I just-'
'Look, just go back inside please.'
A hiccup in that last word gives Max a moment of pause before complying.
'Wuh- why are you up here then?'
A bit taken aback, a bit... shameful, the man replies. 'I, uh, I work here. I'm a department head. I don't need to explain to you...'
Max tunes out the rest of what he says, taking in the details. Red eyes. Was he crying? And a cigarette in his hand. He's sweaty. And those bags under his eyes look almost a bad a bruises.
'Sir, are you okay?'
Mid tirade is never an easy place to stop. A moment of confusion colors his features before anger takes over. 'Now look here, I'm fine. You should really-'
Max can't help it. 'Have you been crying? Are you okay?'
'I'm not going to-'
'I can listen.'
'Young lady, I really don't-'
'I'm Max.' She holds out her hand, right in front of his gaze.
'Doctor Shells. Henry Shells.'
That's from- 'Pediatrics?' Keep him on his toes
'No. OB-GYN, but I specialize in maternity. How..?'
'I saw one of the drawings dedicated to you.'
Relief, and a bit of embarrassment, flood his face. 'That would probably be Sophie's? She still calls me a wizard whenever she sees me.'
Cool. Making headway. Maybe if I focus on someone else... 'So, doctor Shells. You doing okay?'
'Max, correct? I really don't-'
'Because it seems like just about everybody these days is hurting one way or another. And all the people I know, friends and family, we talk. It doesn't make the pain hurt less. Just makes it easier to deal with.'
He hesitates.
'Just saying. When two people meet on a roof so they can get all emotional, usually means they have the same sort of problems.'
'And what's your problem, Max?'
That's a bit of a conversation.
'I, uh... I hurt people. People close to me, usually. I don't mean to. But it seems like every time I turn around, Fate's conspiring to keep me bouncing from one world-shattering decision to another.'
A mild laugh.
'Oh, I'm not laughing at you Max. Just that word. Fate. That word's the main reason I became a doctor.' He tries to take a pull from his forgotten cigarette, but seeing it has gone out, flicks it across the roof. 'Not that I think fate made me a doctor. No, I made a career out of defying fate.'
'What do you mean?'
'Decades ago, when a person got cancer, they were "fated" to die. Polio, diabetes, even glaucoma. People were fated to have poor and often short lives. It was their "fate". But medicine... Being a doctor lets me fight those fates.' Another laugh, inward again. 'That's at least what I thought to convince myself when I was a much younger man.'
'So, now, not so much?'
'Oh, no. I still believe it. But... but a person can only do battle with fate for so long. You see, my chosen fight can be... overwhelming, at times. My specialty is perinatology. I work with mothers undergoing difficult births or with high-risk pregnancies. If need be, I perform in utero surgery.' He looks up, fishing his pack of cigarettes out and lighting a new one. 'That's what brings me to this roof today.' The first inhalation causes a cough, quickly smothered by a second. Doctor Shells turns back to Max, a grimace playing under his eyes. 'We had a case today that...'
Did I- 'Was it from the storm?'
'Oh, no, nothing like that. No. Congenital diaphragmatic hernia. CDH is when the diaphragm has a hole in it, causing other organs to enter the chest cavity. A bit rare but something I've come across often enough. I convinced the parents to allow me to perform surgery in utero.' He stares at the glowing ember. 'Fuck.' Eyes turn back to Max. 'You sure you want to hear this? It's not exactly pleasant, especially for a young lady.'
I've seen some shit, doc. 'Please, go on.'
'Well, we caught it early enough. It was obvious the child would never live without the surgery. The lungs had already begun to deform. But this was a particularly difficult pregnancy. The mother had her own problems, from childhood onward. Something... something happened during surgery. Must have been a blood clot shaken loose. She stroked out on the table in front of me.'
Oh no.
'We were able to save the child. Way too early for delivery, of course, but he made it. He lived. For ten days, he lived.'
oh
oh no
'Passed away this morning. Infection, of all things. And, you know what? You know what happened?' Shells' eyes glaze over. 'This child's father. He came to me, after the news broke. Shook my hand and thanked me for trying. Trying.' The smoke is out again. 'I'm not supposed to try and save lives. I don't try and make people better. I just do it.'
He looks up again. Emotionless.
Unknowing what to say, Max tries anyway. 'I'm sorry, sir.'
'Thank you.'
'Is there anything... anything I can do?'
'I'm afraid not. But you were right. Talking helped.' Throwing the cigarette butt aside, he turns back to the door.
'Where are you going sir?'
'Back to work.' He smiles and laughs but, this time, it seems more positive. 'Fate decided to sweep my legs out from under me this time. Doesn't mean I give up.'
'Are you okay?'
'Of course not. In all likelihood, the mother would have survived going to full term. The fetus, not likely. But the mother should have. Would have. My interference cost that young woman her life.' His eyes are glazed again, but the smile remains. 'But it's my job to defy fate. A doctor who takes no risks has no chance of saving lives. Most times, I beat "fate". But...' He shrugged.
'But sometimes you don't.'
'Right.' He stops at the door, opening it to turn back one last time. 'You have a good day, Max. And don't worry about losing to fate. You'll have your victories too.'
Five minutes later and Max finally organizes her mind.
Amazing! This is-
'Utter bullshit.' She stamps a foot, like a petulant child. 'This is some low-blow bullshit you're pulling!'
No answer. Obviously.
'Come on, FM. I know you're there. You're here because I'm here. So fucking answer!'
hi
'What the hell was that?'
What do you mean?
'You understand exactly what I mean.'
Remembering being this pissed.
'What the hell does that mean?'
Means exactly what is said. The memory is now being made.
'W-wait. You mean, this conversation is... not something you remember? Like, you don't know what I'm doing?'
Of course not. We are quantum. We are and are not you. Before we talk, we are the same. We observe without changing. When we act, we change. The past changes, and so the future changes. We change.
'Holy... crap. When you talk, you are... whoa. No wonder you always seem so...'
Crazy/nuts/psychotic/mean/unbalanced/confusing?
'Um, yeah.'
Eh, you get used to it.
'Wait, if the past is all up in the air, what if..? What if I don't make it to you?'
Die?
'Yeah.'
Can't happen. Paradox. Firm paradox. If you die, we can't talk to you and cause you to die. Tell Warren that Gödel was right but didn't go far enough.
'W-warren is dead.'
Oh. Later, then.
Max couldn't understand how FM could...
No. Not crazy. Jumbled. All of it at the same time. Trying to talk to you while talking to you while talking to you...
'Fine. You're- I'm- not crazy.' Sure...
Be nice.
'Okay!' And the reason for the start of this conversation resurfaces. 'Wait, no! The bullshit with Shells. I know that was you!'
So?
'So? I know you only did it to try and make me feel better. You knew he was up here and drove me to meet him.'
Again, so?
'You're manipulating me!'
No. You're manipulating yourself. You are not trying to feel better. You want perspective.
'A fucking sob-story!'
No. You need to see that good people make mistakes. That good people do harm and fail and hurt others.
You are not a good person.
You are just a person. Small in the world. You can't do much to change anything but yourself. That is your power. All of it.
'No, I time travel...'
No. You control you. Only you. How people react, what they do, is still up to them. You can only do you. Just... with much more precision.
'Fine! Fine, the doctor is a hero, I'm just a poor emo-hipster with "self-control" powers.'
No, the doctor is not a hero. Or good. He is just a person. Like everyone else. He does, or tries, to do good. From his perspective. Means and intentions and ends. You tried to do good. From your perspective. Your actions were positives for people. Ask Kant.
'Like Gödel, I have no clue what you're saying.'
Were you touched by the doctor's story?
'Of course. It's tragic. He was only trying to help. And I know the parallels, of course. But he could have done better. He obviously missed something. Like me. He should have better factored in the woman's health problems. He's been a doctor for like thirty years? He should have known better.'
The same standards you hold yourself. But you miss one big point. The only virtue good to have is the will to do good. A good will is all that drives a person to do good. The doctor only intended to save a life. The cost of his failure does not change his being. He is still a moral person. He performed morally, true to himself. The act it what counts.
'I acted selfish! I chose for me!'
You meant to save a person. You chose to save people, through the evidence in front of you. One instead of hundreds.
'I gambled away hundreds of lives!'
You chose not to gamble away the one you could save.
The frustration boils over into a yell Max barely aborts as it starts. The shrillness of the scream still peaks through the hands clapped on her mouth.
'Max?'
Another fucking interrupt- 'Victoria?'
'Max! Are you hurt? Are you okay?'
'Uh, yeah.. Why would I-?'
The light hit on her shoulder. 'Where have you been? Chloe's been beside herself looking for you.'
'What? It's been...' Max stares at the watch she grabbed from Chloe's house last night. Two thirty? Did I zone out for, like, two hours?
'Yeah.' The wariness in her voice is a bit thick. 'So, um, are you okay? Like, you're all here?'
'Yes, Vicky, I'm all here. Just arguing with myself. You know, the usual.'
'Hey, we were worried. You aren't the most stable person right now and you disappeared without a trace.'
'So, now you want to babysit me?'
Hands on hips, chin high. Withering stare full of evaluation and contempt. The old Victoria is back. 'If I have to, Maxine.'
'Oh, you bi-'
Words drown out her response. 'I mean, you didn't just say you've been arguing with yourself all afternoon. Which, for you, means legitimately arguing with what we think is your future disembodied voice, which may or may not mean you are crazy, which may or may not be driving you there. It's not like you were talking about self-harming last night, after revealing how unbalanced you are, coupled with literally the ability to tear the fucking universe apart. It's not like you're acting about as emotionally balanced as a mental inmate playing Russian roulette with uppers and downers. You aren't rotating between laughter, tears, anger and numbness like the God-damn wheel of fortune.' Victoria had been stepping closer and closer with each sentence, make full use of her height advantage as she kept lowering her voice until the last sentence comes out at almost a whisper. 'So, since you are the perfect picture of mental health, what possible reason would we have to worry about you?'
Victoria leads, fifteen-love. You want to serve?
'S-sorry.'
Victoria isn't done. 'You have to stop with all the "sorry" bullshit. I already know you're sorry. Stop doing stuff you're sorry about.'
'sorry.'
The ridiculous of the apology, in spite of it's sincerity, starts cracking both their facades. As soon as one realizes the other is holding back a grin, they both break out with giggles.
Max calms first. 'How pissed is Chloe?'
'Worried, not pissed. She'll get angry when she sees you, maybe. I don't know. Your girlfriend is a lot different from when the Chloe I knew from school.'
'For the better.'
Victoria wobbles her hand back and forth. 'Meh.' And, being a bull in a china store- 'What were you and future you arguing about?'
'Morals. Means versus ends. Good intentions outweighing results.'
'Consequentialism, aretaic, or deontological ethics?'
'Bwuh?'
'Aretaic is all about virtues, not what you do or don't do. Consequentialism focuses on the consequences, duh. The net benefits should outweigh the cost of an action, and should be done to promote net gains in society. Deontological is the opposite, that people should strive always to do good, in spite of what the consequences are.'
'Um, the third one?'
'Okay. So, what's the conscious?' She heads back towards the door, prompting Max to follow.
'Um, FM says I'm good because my intentions are, in spite of...' All-encompassing gesture included.
'Classic Kant.'
Maybe this is how she- I- learn this?
'The best things in life are that which is both intrinsically good and without qualification. Basically, it needs to be a positive idea or trait, like intelligence or honor, but it has to able to always benefit a situation. Something like intelligence can easily be used for evil. Happiness can easily come from the expense of others. So Kant stated the only unqualified good is a good will. The sense to act because our morals compel us to act, not because of consequences or feelings involved.'
I haven't done any of this in an emotional vacuum.
'But he was full of shit. Some of his stuff is great, like never treating people as a means to an end, including yourself. But he also had some stupid ideas about stuff like "universal law", where doing something once, like lying or stealing, implies a person thinks it's always permissible.'
Okay, a little lost again.
'So I assume the Future Max was directly against whatever you were think.'
Duh.
'And I assume it's because all those people died.'
...
'You still think you're damned because of that. Or whatever.'
'Not whatever.'
'Max, a lot of what Kant said is stupid and unrealistic when compared to the fact people aren't robots. But he's right about good will. A good person only exists if they strive to do go at all times. Like Kate. Shit, this whole conversation...'
Max pauses at the door, noticing the floor they were stopping at. First? So, not Joyce's or Kate's rooms. She prompts the blonde to continue. 'This whole conversation what?'
'Well, I'm pretty much convincing myself not to hate you right now.' A pained smile crosses and leaves. 'I understand why a bit better. I also know why you want people to hate you.' She moves onward before Max can argue. 'You hate the outcome as much as the rest of us. You think we should hate you because of what happened.' She pushes through the large ER doors, trying to orientate herself. 'But all the reasons you gave were about saving someone's life. Not just because you love her. You really think she deserves to live. I think, if push came to shove, you would have done the same even for a stranger. You just would never want a m-murder on your conscious, even if you weren't the one at fault.'
Max is trying to wrap around the personality shift that seems to have overtaken Victoria. 'Vicky, has you gotten into the Valium or something?'
She turns briefly and flashes a honest-to-goodness childish smile. 'Nope. Got good news this morning. Didn't want to interrupt your melt-down until you were done.' She takes off at a brisk pace. 'Besides, it's still fun laying into you when you're doing something stupid.'
Good. The world isn't ending... yet. 'So..?'
Victoria opens a curtain partisan. Kate and Taylor sit next to the hospital bed, obviously carrying on a hushed conversation so as not to disturb the occupant. Considering said patient, a black-haired young woman who appears to be on some sort of ventilation, is obviously unconscious, the whispering is probably unnecessary.
Courtney is alive.