The Storm

It is raining outside; it’s been raining all night. The hospital has an eerie glow in the darkness. It has weathered many storms like this one and will weather many more. Sam’s car pulls into the lot. His headlights cut through the rain onto the entrance of the hospital. Inside, he sees people bustling around under the unnatural lights of the front desk. The rain slides off his neatly pressed jacket as he steps out of the car. The storm outside has no effect on him as he sees others walking briskly to and from their own cars under flimsy umbrellas.
The light of the front desk hurts his eyes, and the smell of the hospital burns his nostrils. It’s is quieter inside than out in the rain, but there is a much larger storm in here, a collision of storms. A maelstrom of everything from bruised eyes to broken arms collects on the first floor. On a small stole behind a large desk sits a small woman wielding enormous power. It is her duty to makes sure everyone is seen to in the proper order. She is the mistress of storms.
She does not look up as Sam approaches. He quietly bends down and asks for Ben Childs. “Who are you,” she bellows without looking up. Again he bends down and quietly replies that he is Ben’s son. She gives Sam a very long look and tells him the 10th floor is where to find his father. Sam smiles, thanks her, and begins the long walk to the elevator. She does not look up as he walks past. She has weathered more storms than the building ever will. She knows not to get attached.
There are a few open doors on the way to the elevator. In one sits a young boy with his arm in a sling. It looks like some sort of sports injury. Such incidents are easily forgotten by the young and eager but are a constant reminder of human frailty to the older and more cautious. His mother sits next to him with a disapproving look on her face. Not for the child who is only a child and is expected to be self-injuring, but for herself who, in her own opinion, should have known better.
The elevator is small, and two people get on with Sam. One is an old woman and the other is a doctor. The doctor is tall and has a full head of white hair. He is tan and there are few wrinkles on his face. He must get out a lot. He must not worry a lot. The storms must not affect him like it does some of his colleagues. They are seen shuffling from room to room with clipboard in hand. Their backs are hunched, and their brows are permanently furrowed from worry. Their eyes are distant, and their cheeks sag. This man’s cheeks do not sag. Maybe it’s Botox; maybe it’s nothing at all.
A bell rings and the 2nd floor light comes on. The good looking doctor gets off and greets the good looking nurse. The nurse answers with a smile and walks a way. The good looking doctor also greets the back of the nurse. Sam greets the back of the nurse and would have greeted the front too, but more pressing matters await on the 13th floor. The doors close, and Sam is left with the old woman.
The old woman is short and round. Even though she borders on portly, she looks frail. She stands in the elevator like someone standing in front of where there house used to be, before the sea decided to eat it for lunch. Their lips curve in a smile and say things like “Life goes on.” Their eyes, on the hand, shimmer in the sunlight and say things like “ My whole life was in that house.” They have eyes that cry on the inside; she is crying on the inside.
“My husband is on the next floor,” she says through a smile. “He has cancer.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” is Sam’s automated response.
“It will be alright,” is hers.
A bell rings and the 3rd floor light comes on and the old woman steps out. Sam steps out too. Ben Childs is not on this floor, but he steps out anyway. In the rooms are things on beds with machines that make noises. People sit next to the things and make jokes or talk about the good times. They smile and the things smile, but both know that it is already over. The storm is over and it took everything with it. The people have that look, you know the one in the National Geographic, of kids rummaging around destroyed homes, looking for something. There is nothing useful in the waste, but they look for something to remind them of the good times. They look for something to hold on to when the reality of it all finally hits them. It’s never going to be like it was. Sam gets back on the elevator. There is nothing on the 3rd floor for him.
A bell rings and the 4th floor light comes on:
Sammy, your father is leaving.
A bell rings and the 5th floor light comes on:
Sammy, I want you to meet Ben.
A bell rings and the 6th floor light comes on:
Sammy, Ben and I are getting married.
A bell rings and the 7th floor light comes on:
You handle it, he’s your son.
A bell rings and the 8th floor light comes on:
You’re pregnant? You mean I’m going to be a father?
A bell rings and the 9th floor light comes on:
Don’t tell me what to do; You are not my father!

A bell rings and the 10th floor light comes on. The door opens upon Armageddon. Sam’s mother rains fire and brimstone from Heaven. His brother makes the seas boil. Noone is saved from their path of destruction. All life is obliterated under their gaze. Their pairing is more dreadful than any quartet of horsemen. It has always been so, like two charged particles too close together. Their house was a nuclear war zone. Sam did not let it touch him then; he will not let it touch him now. No matter how much they beg him to side with them, he cannot be stopped from doing what he came to this place for. He is running out of time. The storm is gaining power.
Sam walks past the two heralds of the Apocalypse without glancing their way. They howl and scream at him. They point their fingers at him and curse him. They try to put their guilt upon, but it slides off. They summon all the storms in the world, but they are nothing compared to the storm that swells inside him, the one that has been growing in power for a very long time. It’s gusts threaten to blow Sam back down the elevators and into his car. He needs only to walk into that room, then it will be easy. The door across the room is across the ocean; It spans time and space. The storm is too powerful. It is always most powerful at-
Sam opens the door and all is calm. This is the eye. This is the birthplace of the storm. The room is white and bare. It hurts the eyes to look upon it too long. There are no flowers, pictures, or anything to comfort the eyes. The room feels as if it has been stripped down to it’s simplest form. Ben Childs lies alone in the room. He, too, seems to have been stripped down. He does not look like Sam remembers him, but it has been a while since Sam has really seen him. They have been in each other’s presence many times, but the mind has a way of creating it’s own images for the eyes.
Ben Childs is barely awake. He is emaciated and old. He is not the strong, stubborn man Sam remembers. He is not the man other men looked up to. He is not the man Sam hates. He is colorless and weak. He is so frail, he might break if he tried to get up. His hair is falling out, and the light in his eyes has gone out. Sam stands in the middle of the room staring at this strange creature. It can no longer be called a man, and soon it will not be called living. It is a pitiful sight. The wind is blowing.
Sam pulls up a chair and sits at the foot of the bed. He stares at the weathered, tired face of Ben until Ben’s eyes suddenly meet Sam’s. His eyes flicker. Ben is still in there; there is still time. It is raining. What do you say to someone you haven’t talked to in years, someone you really never talked to at all? You start with something easy.
“You’re going to die, Ben,” Sam says in the same tone he would use to talk about the weather. Ben says nothing; he can’t say anything. He is heavily medicated, and his lungs don’t feel like giving him enough air to talk. He can hear, and he understands. “ Your lungs are failing.” Ben smacks his lips and blinks. Sam isn’t telling him anything he doesn’t already know. He didn’t come here to give a diagnosis; Ben knows it, and Sam knows it. There is thunder in the distance.
“We never really talked. You never asked me how I was doing, never acknowledged my existence except to criticize what I was doing.” Sam unleashes the tempest on Ben. To anyone else, it would seem cruel. To Sam, it is necessary. He must get it out before it tears him apart. Sam’s sorry it took so long, sorry Ben is going to die, sorry they don’t have the time to have a relationship.
“ I didn’t ask much from you. You didn’t have to play catch or anything other dads did. I just wanted you to look at me. What the hell was so wrong with me that you couldn’t at least do that.” Sam’s tempest has spent the last of it’s energy. It has left him weak, and he falls to his knees. As he leans his head against Ben’s bed, weeping for countless missed opportunities, he feels a strong had on the back of his head. Ben has not reached out for strength from Sam but to give the last of his to Sam. He lets his hand say what his mouth cannot. He knows what was wrong and what is right. The storm dies.
Sam gets up. He is worn out, but he is happy. You cannot hide from everything, and when you confront these things, no matter the outcome, you are better for it. He wipes his eyes and heads for the door. There will be much cleaning up to do, and it will take a long time. The door opens, and the sun is shining.