Terminally Ill Read online

  No sign of them.

  I craned my neck. They were too young to drive, so I might be able to catch them if they hadn’t hopped on a bus already. But what if they’d taken the métro? And would they have headed east or west on the blue line?

  Sucks.

  Dr. Levine had already packed up his briefcase when I returned, out of breath and miserable.

  He placed a heavy, slightly sweaty hand on my shoulder. “Don’t take it too hard, Hope. You did the right thing.”

  Hard to feel that way when a baby and two other girls might be at risk. I didn’t answer him.

  “You okay?” he asked, but I knew he really wanted to get to that opera.

  “Sure,” I said. “I’ve got to get down to the University College anyway for a fundraiser.”

  “I heard about that!” said Dr. Levine, cheering up. “So you’re all right?”

  “Righty-o,” I said. I was being sarcastic, but that was all he needed. He hoofed it out of the door pretty fast for a guy with a spare tire. I dialed the number for Frukshank.

  Chapter 27

  Frukshank had just taken my information and promised they’d look into it. So I was in a hideous mood by the time I drove down to UC for Elvis’s show, through rush hour traffic. Even after I gave up and paid for hospital parking, I circled around twice before I squeezed into the last spot on the roof at 6:35 p.m.

  My phone buzzed with a text from Ryan. Still in Ottawa. I’ll make it as soon as I can.

  I swore out loud. Some birthday weekend. Some detective I was.

  I texted Tucker as I cut through the crowd milling around the front entrance and coffee shop, and bit back another curse at the long line-up snaking into the auditorium. Minutes later, Tucker grabbed my wrist and pulled me inside, holding me a little closer than necessary. He smelled like soap and just the slightest tang of sweat, and I leaned into him before I realized what I was doing.

  “Next time, you should take the back entrance, Buffy,” he said, raising his voice above the music, which was the song “I’m Sexy and I Know It.”

  I yelled back, “I didn’t know there was a back entrance. You’re lucky I found the auditorium.” My sense of direction is like a five-year-old’s, so hospitals become a blur of white hallways unless they have good signs. But as Tucker led me through the masses that packed the auditorium, waiting to sit down, at least a third of them still in scrubs and lab coats, the rest dressed up like it was party time, I realized that the UC auditorium broke the mold. First of all, the chairs bolted to the floor were made of wood, as were the little desks that you could swing up to write on or leave hanging in between your seats, sort of like airline trays. The wood seemed like a humanizing touch compared to all the sterile white MDF look I was used to in Ontario. The stage was also made of wood, but it was dominated by a giant white cloth banner hung along the top, spray painted with neat black letters: ELVIS LIVES—FOR THE UNIVERSITY COLLEGE HOSPITAL!

  The music switched over to Flo Rida’s “Good Feeling,” and I couldn’t help laughing. I love that song. I sobered up when we thumped up the wooden stairs on the left side of the stage, and passed behind the red velvet curtain to see the coffin, suspended vertically by a cord attached to the rafters. If the show was going to start in fifteen minutes, there was no way I could check the equipment, except to glance at it. “How safe do you think the equipment is?”

  Tucker smiled. “Very. Archer kept the chains on him and stood guard over the coffin personally, all day, in Elvis’s room. Elvis did a dry run this morning in his room and here just an hour ago, after he checked the equipment himself and I stood guard. It should go smooth like buttah.”

  “Unless Archer’s the one who sabotaged it,” I said.

  “I really don’t think so,” said Tucker, but before he had time to explain, Archer signalled him from backstage. “Gotta go. Enjoy the show.”

  I wanted to follow him, but since Archer had only smiled at me without gesturing me over, I assumed that I was supposed to hang out in the blacked-out wings. They’d rehearsed without me. The last thing they needed was an extra person underfoot.

  Archer’s voice boomed from backstage, over the Flo Rida song, “The doors will be closing shortly. We’ve raised over seven thousand dollars for the University College Hospital!”

  The audience clapped, stomped, and screamed its approval. The clapping continued, until some of them got the idea to clap in time. They clapped faster and faster, more and more staccato, until they broke down into more cheers and applause. “El-VIS! El-VIS! El-VIS!”

  My heart slammed in my chest, but I refused to chant along. Actually, I felt like chewing my nails, even though I gave that up when I was ten. Kind of ridiculous when I make my living jumping into the fray to save people’s lives and limbs. You’d think I’d get used to adrenaline, but there’s no warning or warm-up in medicine. You just have to step up. Here, I knew Elvis was risking his brain and body, purely for our entertainment. It felt wrong.

  Archer passed by me, tipping an imaginary hat, but I barely had a chance to wave back before he stepped onto the stage, into the spotlight, and called out, “Hello, Montreal!”

  “Hello!” a few people yelled back, but mostly we clapped and cheered.

  “As you can see, death can’t stop the King of Escapes. Especially if the University College Hospital has anything to do with it.”

  More yelling. I smiled.

  “And with Dr. Hope Sze, Dr. John Tucker, and the paramedics Leonard Martin and Jane Rider on-scene.”

  I froze. I hadn’t expected a shout-out. We got a few hand-claps and half-hearted woo’s.

  “Elvis lives.”

  That got a better reception.

  “Elvis lives, thanks to the incredible care we got from the trauma team…” He went on to list every doctor, nurse, and clerk they’d encountered. I clapped steadily, keeping a fixed smile, since I didn’t know anyone except Fadi, the surgical resident we’d met in the ER. This wasn’t my hospital, or my city.

  Finally, Archer’s Academy Award-type speech wound down. “So this is our way of giving back. We’ve raised $7500 already for the UCH foundation.”

  Cheers.

  “Elvis lives. Elvis lives, thanks to you, and he wants a do-over.”

  We laughed.

  “Elvis narrowly escaped death. Elvis wants a rematch.”

  A skinny student shot both arms into the air with his hands forked into double heavy metal horns (pointed index and pinky fingers) before bringing both index fingers in to touch in a slow, visual finger kiss. I laughed.

  “I’m going to bring Elvis out here. We are going to chain him up, and he is going to bust out of those chains and this coffin like you have never seen before, or since, or any time in your life.”

  “Yeah, baby,” called a guy from the back, and a wave of laughter spread through the audience.

  “Do you want to see Elvis?”

  Everyone shouted yes.

  “I said, DO YOU WANT TO SEE ELVIS?”

  Even the white-coated old white guys yelled their lungs out.

  Horns blasted out of the speakers behind me, and suddenly Elvis Presley started singing a catchy, upbeat song that seemed to be called “C’mon Everybody.”

  And then, from the opposite set of wings, Elvis Serratore busted out of the wings, hopping on one foot in a rock and roll move that was almost eclipsed by his bright red jumpsuit. The V neck tracked down almost to his navel, Jennifer Lopez style, revealing his fully manscaped chest. My mouth fell open. I shut it with a click, torn between horror and admiration at his sheer chutzpah. Between the red fabric and the man cleavage, he could practically be used as a marker for a moon landing.

  Medical types aren’t the shriekiest people around, but a bunch of girls in blue scrubs, sitting in a clump, front and centre, burst into cheers. One of them leapt out of her seat while her friends yelled, “Serena!” and tried to drag her back.

  Elvis Serratore danced right up to the edge of the stage and beckoned to Serena
. She pointed to her chest and mouthed “Me?”, just like in a movie. Serena had a broad, pleasant face, a curvy figure, and an easy smile, so I figured she was usually the best friend type instead of the mean girl always orchestrating other people’s downfall, but still.

  I tensed. It was supposed to be just Elvis and Archer, with no audience participation. Then they’d added Tucker backstage—not that I didn’t trust Tucker, but c’mon. Either Elvis didn’t seriously think anyone was out to get him, or he had a death wish.

  Elvis mouthed, “Yes, you,” and vaulted off the stage.

  The audience howled their approval. Serena screamed and covered her mouth. For a second, I remembered Kaitlyn this afternoon, but the image dissipated as Serena threw her hands in the air and shook her hips.

  “Go Serena, go Serena, go Serena” chanted a few of her friends, while others mobbed Elvis and danced on either side of him. One danced behind him, turning her back to him so she could pretend to press her bum against his while she shimmied.

  “Rock and roll!” roared a man in the audience.

  I refused to rock and rolled my eyes only a little, since I wanted to keep track of any move on Elvis—not easy with the writhing bodies. They didn’t actually seem to make contact, so it was more PG-rated fun than sabotage-worthy moves, but still kind of disquieting.

  The song ended with more horns and some enthusiastic drums. Elvis Serratore bowed and kissed Serena’s hand, provoking another round of hoots, before he raced back up the right stage stairs. Serena and her friends rushed the stage. I figured they were nursing students, partly because they were all female, except for one rail-skinny guy bringing up the rear, but they might have been physiotherapy students, OT’s, respiratory therapists, or med students. More and more women were storming the physician castle and other fields. But let’s face it, nurses tend to have more fun.

  Serena shouted, “I’m lonely tonight!”

  The audience cheered.

  The song switched over to a twangier Elvis tune. I had to laugh when I realized that the song was about “Rubbernecking.” That was exactly what we were doing at this show, and arguably at life. I felt my cell phone vibrate against my thigh, but I didn’t want to check it now.

  Elvis made his way over to the coffin, swivelling his hips, while Archer explained that he was going to chain his brother up before chaining and nailing him in his coffin, in honour of Harry Houdini. “Many of you know Harry Houdini as the greatest magician who ever lived, but how many of you know that Houdini performed benefits for hospitals and orphanages?”

  “U-C, U-C, U-C!” some of the crowd shouted, punching their fists in the air with each letter.

  “Houdini!”

  “EL-VISSSSSSSSSSS!”

  Elvis ducked behind the coffin as a new, slow song started, drawing oohs from the crowd, but he thrust his head out from the side, mugging for the crowd, as the toe-tapping chorus started up: “The Devil in Disguise.” His hands, feet, and face popped out on different beats while the rest of his body hid behind the coffin.

  He was using the coffin as a prop, I thought, even before he pretended to dance with it like it was a particularly tall and wooden partner, bowing to it and offering it his arm before tap dancing in front of it and acting miffed when the coffin wouldn’t join in.

  Interesting. Elvis hadn’t shown his funny side before. I liked it. It made him seem more real. Although I couldn’t help wondering at his song choice. If someone really had betrayed Elvis, he or she would be a real devil in disguise.

  At the end of the song, Elvis leaped high enough that his calves hit his bum, like a Cossack dancer.

  And Archer whipped out the chains. Serena wailed, “Oh, no!” and everyone else tittered nervously.

  The music switched over to “Suspicious Minds” while Archer started chaining Elvis’s ankles. Then he wound them around his wrists and bound his neck before snapping the links shut with a little padlock. This time, they didn’t invite any audience members to check the chain, which improved my heart rate a little, but not much. The first time I saw Elvis perform, he was an escape artist from Winnipeg. This time, I knew him. He wasn’t one of my top ten people in the world—he was kind of self-centred and abrupt, although maybe that’s par for a head injury—but I didn’t want to lose him, either. Him “trying to cheat death” wasn’t a sheer lark to me anymore.

  Elvis snapped his fingers and the coffin slowly lowered to the ground, as if he’d commanded it. “Oooooh,” said the audience, and I had to admit, it looked pretty impressive, even though I assumed Tucker was backstage, lowering the cable to the stage.

  Elvis snapped his fingers again, and the coffin lid rose into the air, its long, lower side hovering just above and parallel to the coffin. I must’ve walked right by it without noticing it earlier.

  Elvis stepped into the now-terrestrial coffin. He pivoted his hips a few more times.

  “Don’t do it!” Serena screamed.

  Elvis blew her a kiss, which made her yell, “I LOVE YOU, EL-VISSSSSSSS” and dash for the stage stairs, but at least two friends pinned her arms and held her while she struggled.

  Elvis pretended to dance with the coffin lid still suspended behind him.

  “Elvis lives!” screeched a middle-aged woman from the middle of the crowd.

  “ELVIS!” hollered the sixty-ish guy beside her.

  Elvis saluted them. A new song started up, making the crowd cheer and dance along, since everyone except me seemed to recognize “Viva Las Vegas.” It kind of bugged me because we’re in Montreal, not Las Vegas. But the reckless spirit fit Elvis, anyway. He was gambling too, just like in the lyrics, only with his life and grey matter instead of his money.

  Elvis lowered himself carefully into the coffin on his back, making sure that he didn’t hit his head on a strut. His arm rose into the air, above the wood, to snap one more time.

  The coffin lid lowered one more inch, and Archer detached it from its two cables so he could shut the lid over Elvis. Then grabbed a hammer off his tool belt and began nailing him in the coffin.

  Even in the wings, I could hear the audience murmur.

  “Oh, I can’t look!”

  “The other guy could break him out any time.”

  “I still can’t look.”

  “Let’s paaaarty!”

  Someone’s pager went off. The poor guy rose to answer it—I guess his cell phone wasn’t working, or he couldn’t get good reception with all the noise—and everyone else in his row had to stand up or move their legs to one side to let him out, just before the show really began. I’d been in his boots dozens of times. It was like “The Price is Right,” only “The Page is Wrong.”

  After Archer planted the last nail, the music suddenly stopped. We all caught our breath.

  Archer turned to face us, serious. In the background, I heard cymbals rattling faster and faster, building the suspense. Archer said, “Ladies and gentlemen, the moment you’ve been waiting for. Elvis is chained and nailed inside a coffin. Can he do it? Can he escape death one more time?”

  Serena cried, “Elvis!”

  “Elvis lives!” shouted someone else.

  Archer said, “He needs your help. He needs to hear that you believe in him.”

  Like Tinker Bell? I thought, but I was probably the only one.

  “Elvis needs you, ladies and gentlemen. Doctors, nurses, therapists of all kinds…orderlies, security guards, cafeteria workers, cleaning staff, and every other hard-working person at this wonderful hospital. Let’s get him out of there!” He started the clapping, slow and steady.

  Even I joined in. The clapping sped up, a little at first, then faster and faster, until people were screaming, “El-vis, El-vis, El-vis” in time with the clapping, until they couldn’t even keep up with the beat, it was all too much, the clapping and the yelling were falling apart, we were rising on our feet, it was taking too long, I was screaming along with the rest of them, making no noise except fear—

  The coffin lid splintered at the
feet.

  We paused, caught in suspense.

  Elvis’s feet smashed through the wood. His two separate, unchained feet.

  Tears pricked my eyes, but I swiped them away so I could watch his hands bust free, and then Elvis’s shoulder popped out, and suddenly he was standing straight on the stage, unfettered, while the broken coffin lay at his feet.

  Serena screamed above the crowd, a sound that wasn’t even words, just pure joy. And people were stamping their feet, clapping their hands, whistling, waving, chanting, “El-VIS! El-VIS!”

  And then I realized something. Elvis was red in the face. And not just flushed from exertion, not from the way his chest struggled and the staring looking in his eyes.

  He was breathing too fast.

  Still, he raised his hands above his head in a V, showing that they were free.

  Archer bellowed, “Elvis lives. Elvis lives at the University College, thanks to all you wonderful people. Each and every one of you. ELVIS LIVES!”

  But maybe not for much longer, from the looks of him. I broke for the stage.

  Chapter 28

  Archer’s eyes widened when I bore down on him. No security guard stood on hand to stop me. But after a split second, he just held out one arm for me and called, “And here we have Dr. Hope Sze, the detective doctor who saved his life on the scene!”

  I ignored his open arm invitation and beelined for Elvis’s side.

  Up close, he looked worse. Sweat beaded his face, neck and torso, which I’d expect after the exertion of his escape act, but his chest heaved before it began the prolonged expiration that’s the hallmark of asthma, even if I could barely hear him wheezing over all the noise.

  He turned wild eyes on me. He reminded me of a frightened horse, somehow, an animal trapped in the wrong place and time. I reached out for him without conscious thought, but my hands grabbed the stretch material of his red jumpsuit-clad arm and I started dragging him off the stage

  Elvis strong-armed me for a minute, so he could wave and bow at the crowd, but I gave him an extra-hard jerk, and he came with me.