World's Greatest Dad: Backstory Part 1

Five minutes until close. My eyes follow the second hand of the clock as it slowly twists in a circle around the numbers, and I slip the stethoscope from my neck. The white lab coat slides from my shoulders as if taking with it all the exhaustion of a particularly stressful day, and I drape it over my forearm in preparation to finally go home. One by one, my staff complete their final duties until every unit is cleared and every surface is disinfected. They collect their coats and, with a short farewell, disperse into the night. I lock the door behind the last of them and walk, as I am accustomed, through the halls of my clinic one more time before I too hang my lab coat from the hook in my office and depart into the darkness. This is my routine, formed by diligence and habit, and sometimes I wonder if it is in avoidance of the empty rooms that await me at home. Do I watch the clock with the hope that time will somehow slow for me? But it does not. I can no longer linger. Empty rooms now surround me here as well, and it is time to leave.

I switch off the open sign that glows from the window and open the door only to come face to face with a stern-looking man. His teeth are clenched in a way that draws attention to the squareness of his jaw and the wrath in his expression. His eyes display a complex and almost contradictory combination of anger and concern. A moment passes as we stare at each other, neither speaking although I can tell that he is struggling to form words. His eyes shoot down to a child, bundled in what must be his own coat, and he barely manages to whisper, "Are you still open?"

The honest answer would be no. Half an hour has passed since the clinic closed, and I have no good reason not to turn the man away. There is a hospital on the far side of town that is far larger than my small clinic, but it's staff is not to scale with its size. They would wait for a generous amount of time as busy doctors rush through long lists of patients, but I am here now. No one is waiting for me if I do not return home, and something in the child's stillness as he stands in the doorway calls for me to help him.

My decision made, I step aside to allow the man entry. Relief flashs over his face, but it is quickly replaced by the concerned glower from before. The tension in his shoulders diminishes slightly as he steps in and whispers a silent thank you.

"Second room on the right," I describe the way while I close the door behind us.

The boy turns left, but the man gently places a hand on his back and guides him toward the correct destination. I remain behind to turn on the overhead lights and collect my coat and stethoscope from the office. After a few seconds, I join them in the room, and the boy is already sitting on the examination table. The size of the coat makes him seem even smaller than his already slight frame truthfully is. His dark hair is almost as long a a girl's. It spills down his shoulders and hides his face, except for two—I could almost swear they are red—eyes. The intensity in them holds mine with an uneasy gaze. No emotion marks his face, and I begin to realize that the uneasiness is mine, not his. Almost to no one, I ask, "Who is he?"

"Don't know." The man replies with a quickness that he had lacked before. "We.. we just… I found him. It was like something you wouldn't believe." He shakes his head and touches his fingers to the badge that is pinned to his shirt. "Fifteen years on the job, and I've never seen something like this. That kid… there's… there's something about him. He was just in that house all alone, staring out the window. Just like it was the most natural thing in the world. No one around. Just standing there, watching, when he's nothing but skin and bones."

I can see the truth in his words as I remove the jacket from the child's slim shoulders. He is even frailer than he first appeared. My eyes shortly glance up to the detective as if looking for a confirmation that what I see is real, but I redirect them again to the boy before the man can respond. Only black trousers cover his legs with a once dark material that now appears gray, and a dull white shirt, too thin for the weather outside, rests over his shoulders. The buttons are undone until halfway down his chest, and no shoes cover his feet. He hasn't spoken a single word, and if not for his eyes, far too observant for a child, I would have called him apathetic. This unnatural calmness is something I have never seen in any of my patients before.

I attempt to match his calmness by easing a smile to my face, and I ask with a soothing tone, "Does anything hurt?"

Those eyes, eerily wise, regard me as if in evaluation of my question, of my character. Seconds tick by with no reaction, and I silently look to the detective once again.

He stands a few feet to the side, also watching me but without the same weight that haunts the child's expression. The man only shakes his head, unable to explain more than saying, "He doesn't react to anything. Doesn't talk. It's one of the reasons we don't know—" The detective stops abruptly, shocked into silence, and I follow his gaze just in time to see the boy shake his head no.

"I am going to check your heartbeat," I say, quickly taking advantage of this small interaction.

I place the end of my stethoscope against his chest. With this closeness, I can see how his thin skin clings to his bones and dips into the grooves between his ribs as if conforming to their shape, and I can feel the same anger and concern that the detective had shown earlier rise within me. I fight back the questions of who had done this to him and how and why and try, as much as I am able, to appear kind for his sake. I can hardly count the heartbeats in my anger, but I hold it back until I can hear the weak pulse that pushes blood through his veins.

My smile remains in place, as forced as it is, as I withdraw. I take off the stethoscope and set it on the counter with greater care than required, but I need a moment before I can turn to face him again. My eyes squeeze shut, and my brow contorts with fury that someone would do this to a child. I take a deep breath, slow and silent and hidden so that they will not take notice of it, and I scour the countertop for a reason to explain my delay. A container of suckers catches my eye, and I immediately twist off the lid and pull one from the jar. I hold out this offering to him and ask, as obvious as it is, "Are you hungry?"

The child looks up to me, then to the lollipop, and back to me again. There is no recognition, no anticipation in his eyes—not the greedy hunger you would expect from a starved child—and it is almost as though he doesn't know what to do with the lollipop. A few more seconds pass by before I realize that maybe he doesn't know how to open it, as unlikely as that is, but considering how thin this boy is, he might not have had candy before.

"Here, let me help you." I unwrap the hard, cherry-flavored candy ball and hold it out to the child again. "Try it, it is sweet."

His hand reaches out with an unexpectedly dainty motion as his fingers curl around the stick, and he brings it to his lips. His eyelids slide closed as if nothing else in the world is as important as savoring the taste, and I have never seen a child eat with such grace. This same gesture seems to have struck a chord with the detective, but then his cell phone rings, disrupting the moment. Without a word, he runs out the door and leaves me watching the empty passage before concluding that he will not immediately return.

The child appears indifferent that we are now alone. He slides from the table and walks to the window. I follow him and raise the blinds that are normally closed for privacy. At first I think that he is looking for the detective, but his sight is not searching the street. It is—I can hardly describe it—it is not looking for something as much as it is absorbing everything. I can only stand back and observe him as he beholds the world. I want to ask what he sees, but I am afraid that speaking now will somehow break the spell that he is creating. But then the moment is shattered on its own as he brings his hand to his mouth, and a cough rips through his lungs.

He doubles over with the force of it until his forehead nearly collides with the pane of glass, and I clasp my hand around his shoulder to pull him back before it does. He looks at me, startled. I kneel down next to him, ready to help in any way that I can, and my expression must show more fear than I should have disclosed. His eyes are open wide. He's surprised to have been touched, I think, so I remove my hand, but his hand stays in place over his mouth.

"Are you okay?" My voice is more even than I thought possible at the moment. He doesn't respond, so I add, "It's okay if you just want to nod." For a long time, he doesn't move, but then his head slowly dips in confirmation. His hand follows the motion, and the longer it remains in place, the more uncomfortable he seems. "Is there something wrong?"

His gaze falls to the floor where the broken pieces of his sucker lie.

"I'll get you a new one," I announce and bring the jar to him. I hand him the lid after I unscrew it, and instead of selecting the candy for him as I had done before, I tilt the jar toward him. "Take your pick." This simple offer troubles him greatly, and we stand like this for several minutes before I finally grab one for him, saying that he may try the others later. I hold it out, the stick pinched between my fingers, and still he doesn't accept it. "If you don't want it, I'll put it back." His eyes flash with disappointment and desire. "Do you want it?" I ask again. "Nod if you do."

He nods immediately this time.

"Then why don't you take it?"

He stretches out the hand that is holding the lid.

"No, use your other hand. That one's full."

Finally, after a long moment of thought, he lowers his hand from his mouth to reveal the red smear on his lips. My heart skips a beat at the sight of blood, but my mind instantly reassures me that it is only from his lollipop. His cheeks flush in embarrassment, and I finally understand. I dampen a paper towel and set it in his hand, trading it for the lid, and he turns from me as he wipes the mess away. I grab another paper towel and clean up the candy he had dropped while coughing. When I finish, he is watching me. One hand still contains the paper towel while the other holds the wrapped lollipop. Once again the child seems perplexed by the simple task.

"Allow me to take that." I hold out my hand, and he drops the stained paper towel into my palm. He doesn't move a centimeter while I dispose of it. I can scarcely tell if he even breathes, but I can feel his eyes tracking my every movement. "Yes?" I ask, turning to face him, but his gaze immediately falls to the candy in his hand. After a long pause, he finally looks up and locks eyes with me. With half a smile, I kneel next to him again. "Should I open it for you?"

His head lowers with a silent nod, and even though he has not yet said a word, I am pleased by his progress. His replies come more readily than before.

I take the lollipop and peel away the wrapper. With the same slow and deliberate motions, he takes it from my hand and slides it into his mouth. I know that this small treat will do nothing to erase the marks of neglect. His body shows signs of malnutrition and dehydration, and only a thorough examination will reveal the amount that he has suffered, the damage that has been done. My fingers angrily curl into fists, and I know I will not forgive those that abandoned him. There is something about this child that calls me to protect him. An abandoned child… He needs someone in this world.

"I have forgotten my manners." I crouch down until the level of my eyes are even with his. "I apologize for the late introduction. I am Dr. Frankenstein, and I will be taking care of you. Will you tell me your name?"

He doesn't move away as his eyes read mine, accessing the question and, I suspect, the one that had asked it. His lips begin to move, but then he looks away from me and toward the door just as the detective returns. Whether he was avoiding my eyes or whether he had sensed the detective's arrival, I don't know, but the moment is lost. The question goes unanswered.

The detective is full of nervous energy that he did not previously possess, and he once again flops his coat over the boy's shoulders. "Just got a call from my partner. He has an ambulance waiting outside. We're heading to the hospital across town." His words are rushed and embarrassed, and I wonder if he has been criticised for the way he has handled the incident. As if to prove this, he slides his card into my palm and offers me a brief apology. "I'm sorry for keeping you late. Contact me with any charges. We'll cover the cost once we get things sorted out."

He is already walking out the door, and I am following as he speaks. The boy's shoeless feet pad across the tile floors. He glances back at me with an expression that I can't read. His eyes look crimson in the flashing lights of the ambulance. They load him into the back. I want to say something, but it's too late. The child is leaving so suddenly that I, like him, find myself silent. Instinctively, I grab a stack of business cards from the secretary's desk. "Wait!" I call out just before the doors shut. I thrust my hand into the ambulance and hold up the cards. "In case you need me," I say, but the child just stares at me. I feel foolish.

The detective misunderstands and accepts them, more cards than he needs, with a nod. "I'll be sure to contact you with any information you may need for the bill." The doors close, and I stand back as the ambulance drives away. The detective climbs into his own car, leaving me alone on the sidewalk.

I don't think I can go home tonight. I turn back to the empty clinic and lock myself inside. The detective's card turns over and over in my hand. Nothing else connects me to the child. He is gone. I walk through the empty halls and stop in front of the examination room. The blinds are still raised, but I leave them. I want to retain a trace of that child's presence. I don't know what has come over me, why I am so deeply impacted by this. The sun will rise tomorrow, but for tonight, let me live in these dreams.

Three days have passed since the child first appeared at the door, but my thoughts still wander to him. There had been something in his behaviour, in his eyes. His silence. Something about him calls out to me. I want to know how he is, whom he is. Over and over, my fingers move to the breast pocket of my lab coat where I keep the detective's card. I had held it in my hands so often that the paper is already worn from my touch. I want to call him, the detective, but there is no real reason to do so.

A knock sounds behind me. I quickly put the card back in my pocket and look up as the door opens.

"Dr. Frankenstein?"

The nurse hesitates at the threshold, uncertain whether to enter. I smile and wave her inside.

"Someone is here who wants to see you."

She opens the door fully and steps aside. A small figure appears behind her, and my smile brightens as I regard the child. I rise from my desk and rush to meet him. I don't know what to say, and he won't say anything. Instead, I unwrap a sucker and hand it to him as I finally find my voice. "I'm glad you're here."

He nods as he takes it from me and walks towards the window.

I wait a moment, expecting the detective to follow, but when he doesn't, my short-lived joy fades with understanding. "Did you come here alone?"

He doesn't look at me, but his head dipped with a nod.

"You… how did you get here?"

He holds up his palm, revealing my business card.

"How did you get that?" I am almost breathless. I immediately reach for the card in my own pocket. "I'm going to call Detective Kim. Does he even know where you are?"

"You said…" The sound of his voice freezes me in place. I cannot move even the words come slowly. "...you would take care of me."

His eyes meet mine, and his cheeks blush with the vulnerability of what he had asked.

I nod, unable to say anything.

Whatever it may take, this child's life must be tied to mine.