Eternal Youth

By Richard Blackmer

Businesswoman Vivian VanArp is the CEO and sole heir of VanArp Enterprises, a giant healthcare conglomerate. She is under consideration as the vice president in the next presidential election. Most importantly, she funds world-leading research on ageing. Everything in her life is perfect, until the night she receives a call from the hospital.

An old woman who is nearing death claims to be Vivian’s housekeeper, but Vivian knows this is not possible. Her housekeeper is twenty-five years old, and the woman in the hospital bed is at least ninety. The invalid makes a request of her that Vivian doesn’t understand. It frightens the heiress and she rushes away from the hospital, the old woman’s key clenched in her fist. With mysterious words in her head and the antique key, Vivian races to secure one of the greatest discoveries in the world for herself. Unknown to the businesswoman, she has stumbled upon a centuries old secret—a mystical substance that at least one person is willing to kill for, again and again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: ManitowenPressPublishing
• Release date: Dec 31, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370843374

Richard Blackmer

Richard "Ted" Blackmer was a long time resident of Grand Haven, Michigan. He was dearly devoted to Rachel, his wife of 46 years. He served in the army, wrote for the Senior Perspectives, volunteered at Dispute Resolution Services, and was a Big Brother. In addition, he loved his Savior greatly and served as he could. Blackmer was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ Latter-day Saints and a Patriarch. Blackmer was a beloved father and grandfather. He died September 2013. His book "Eternal Youth" (2013) is a posthumous publication. Please refer to Manitowen Press Publishing for more information.

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Introduction

I first met Richard Ted Blackmer and his lovely wife Rachel in 2009. He was a Patriarch in my church, a man devoted to his beliefs and so willing to share his knowledge of writing and love for books. Many times I was invited to the Blackmer home. One special memory I have is when Rachel hosted a book club meeting that featured the first printing of my paperback Lizzie’s Blue Ridge Memories.

Sometimes the elderly couple would invite my daughter and me to literary group breakfasts where all involved would share their latest articles or a chapter from a book they were working on. We’d critique each other and learn something new at each monthly meeting. One of those individuals that participated was Ted’s first editor, Al Schneider, who contributed greatly to Ted’s composition.

Years later, I was sad to hear that Ted was losing his battle with leukemia. He was furiously working on a manuscript for a book and wanted it published before his death. Between treatments and severe bouts of illness fighting the cruel disease, he would go to church, then go home to rest or work on his story some more. Rachel, devoted as ever, stayed by his side and encouraged him to keep writing, just a little more.

Ted met Rachel, a widow with children, in the 1960s. She was fifteen years his senior, but their marriage was the beginning of a fairytale love. Ted adored his bride and he always saw her for the true beauty she was, inside and out. To him, Rachel was as young as springtime, refreshing as a cool stream and as beautiful as a sunrise.

As the work continued on Ted’s book, his health quickly declined. He knew that for him, there was no Fountain of Youth. Ted did his best with the short time allotted to him and finished his story, dying September 26, 2013. His book was completed, but not submitted for publishing. Instead, it went to print at a local copy shop and pages were set into spiral binders for our local book club. If there are some inconsistencies and awkward scenarios, this is due to Patriarch Blackmer writing with what little time was left to him. Please, forgive the imperfections. The staff at Manitowen Press corrected minor spelling errors and other inaccuracies, but this is solely Ted’s intellectual property.

Rachel, ill herself, was also being called home to Heaven. Now that her beloved Ted had gone on to prepare a mansion for her, she allowed herself the permission to rest as well. I promised her that somehow I would get the book published so that many more people could read Ted’s magnum opus and enjoy its exciting and adventurous story of hope.

A little more than two years after Ted’s death, Rachel joined him, January 19, 2016. I imagine the two have found their Fountain of Youth. Miss you.

—Liesa Swejkoski

Eternal Youth

Richard Blackmer

Author’s Acknowledgments

It is with great appreciation that I acknowledge the contribution of many who have made it possible for this work to be completed.

First and foremost my wonderful wife Rachel who offered undying encouragement over the years to bring this work to fruition.

My good friend and colleague Al Schneider who gently prodded and who carefully proofed and edited the manuscript.

My brother Tony, who never gave up hope during the many years of effort and who provided a tangible reminder (an hourglass) that time was passing and I needed to apply diligence to the work.

Our good friend Donna Phelps who contributed in so many encouraging ways to assist the effort.

And finally to the woman who was the first to provide recognition that I was capable of writing anything that someone other than my mother would be interested in reading: my tenth grade literature teacher, Ms. Nancy Gale.

Part 1

Chapter 1

Maria Flores

Vivian Kaye VanArp stepped hastily from the rear seat of the limo into the swirling snow of a cold mid-January night. The vehicle had barely come to a stop when she threw open the door and made her exit. Two paramedics, standing near the curb, stepped back in startled disbelief as she forcibly pushed her way between them. With measured strides she made her way toward the emergency room doors. Oblivious to all around her, and with purpose etched indelibly on her face, she marched through the parted automatic doors and entered the building.

Once inside, she paused momentarily to locate the receptionist station, then made her way forward past the half-dozen people waiting in line.

Where is Maria Flores? The words were spoken more as a command than as a question.

The receptionist, engaged in the completion of an admittance form, responded without looking up from her desk. I am sorry, you must wait your turn. Please step to the rear of the line.

Vivian could feel the blood slowly coloring her neck and face as the receptionist’s response intensified the anger within her. Her evening so far had been ruined. She had been attending the annual dinner meeting with the Board of Directors of VanArp Enterprises, when she had been summoned to the hospital by some idiot doctor who claimed that one of her housekeepers, Maria Flores, was dying. Dying of old age. How could a twenty-something-year-old women die of old age?

Now this impertinent young ingrate had the audacity to tell her she should go to the end of the line. Vivian fumed inwardly. Were it not for the generosity of the VanArp Family there would not even be a hospital in which to form a line. Before his death, her father had invested millions in the hospital. Since his death, she, Vivian, had doubled the family’s financial support for the hospital’s research efforts. She even sponsored an annual week-long conference on ageing. At her own personal expense she financed the attendance of the world’s leading geriatrics experts at the conference. Due solely to her efforts and support, the hospital was rapidly becoming the most respected institution in the world with regards to the ageing process.

She could no longer contain her anger. She exploded with a torrent of words that caused all color to drain from the receptionist’s face. I am Vivian VanArp and I demand to know where you are keeping Maria Flores. I want to see her immediately, and I want to see that idiot of a doctor who telephoned me.

Yes, Ms. VanArp, I’m terribly sorry, I didn’t know it was you. Dr. Mason is on duty tonight. I’ll summon him immediately. Ms. Flores is in Room Twenty-one. It is down the hall and to your right. I’m most sorry for the inconvenience.

Vivian turned on her heel and stormed down the hallway, dismissing the receptionist with one of her patented scathing looks.

Dr. John Mason had arrived at the hospital at 7:47 that evening and went to work immediately in the emergency room. For the most part it had been an uneventful night until the ambulance drivers brought in an elderly woman in obvious distress. She appeared to be in her late seventies. She was experiencing extreme difficulty with breathing. Her vital signs were falling.

Throughout the next hour, in spite of Mason’s best efforts, her vitals continued to plummet. Her physical deterioration was occurring at an incredible rate. It was as if the woman was actually ageing before his eyes. When questioned as to her identity and address, the woman would only respond with a barely audible request for water. However, when offered water she only turned her head away and refused. At approximately 9:15 when it appeared that death was inevitable, the woman, speaking in a voice so low that Mason could only hear with his ear pressed to her mouth, informed him that her name was Maria Flores. She said she was a housekeeper for Vivian VanArp.

Mason was familiar with the VanArp name. Who wasn’t? Vivian’s father, William, had hired Mason to work in the Emergency Department at the hospital, despite a history that had kept other reputable medical institutions from hiring him. He had never met Vivian, although he had seen her on occasion at the hospital. She was always accompanied by the Hospital Administrator and the Board Chairman. She had contributed millions to the hospital. The majority of her contributions were earmarked for the geriatrics department. It was rumored that she was obsessed with slowing down or preventing the ageing process.

Mason estimated that VanArp was in her mid to late fifties. She was slender, well-proportioned and obviously spent much time in her exercise regimen. A tall woman, striking in appearance, yet not overly attractive, VanArp was at the age that most individuals planned their impending retirements. Her blonde hair was shoulder length, perhaps a little too long for her age, but nonetheless becoming. Her reputation was well known throughout the hospital. She was a calculating and successful businesswoman as well as a demanding executive. Upon her father’s death, she had taken control of VanArp Enterprises and tripled net profits the first year. Mason did not know the value of her holdings, but estimates placed it in the hundreds of billions of dollars. She was no pauper. Mason was puzzled that Vivian VanArp would employ such an elderly woman as a housekeeper. Yet he was certain the name given to him by Flores was none other than that of Vivian VanArp. In spite of the certainty, Mason was reluctant to call the VanArp residence for fear that the woman had misled him. He certainly did not want to incur Ms. VanArp’s wrath. Careers had ended for less. On the other hand, if the woman was telling the truth, and he did not notify VanArp, well, he could imagine the results of that ill-advised decision.

In spite of his concerns, Mason placed a call to the VanArp residence. The attendant at the home informed Mason that Ms. VanArp was out for the evening. She was attending a board meeting. Mason found a relief from his concerns when the attendant verified that Maria Flores was in fact one of the housekeepers. Mason was given the number of an exclusive restaurant where Ms. VanArp could be reached.

Mason’s second call did not go as well as the first. It was evident that from the initial exchange of information between Mason and Ms. VanArp that VanArp was not happy about the interruption. Yes, she did have a housekeeper named Maria. She had been in the employment of the VanArp Family for approximately three months. No, Ms. VanArp did not know her last name. Vivian informed Mason that learning the surnames of domestics was not on her list of priorities.

Mason remained calm while Ms. VanArp leveled a verbal barrage, attacking everything from the interruption to Mason’s competency as a physician. Mason bided his time and at VanArp’s first pause for breath he immediately interjected, She’s dying.

There was a brief moment of silence, then the voice on the other end of the telephone inquired, with a tinge of consternation and a noticeable lack of compassion, Dying of what? Before Mason could answer, VanArp regained her mental acuity and launched another broadside, She’s not on drugs is she? You can’t trust these foreigners to—

Mason interrupted, She’s dying of natural causes—she must be near eighty years of age. For what seemed an eternity to Mason there was an icy silence on the line. Then Ms. VanArp’s voice—low, deliberate, measured and alarmingly controlled—shook Mason to the very core.

If this is your idea of a joke, Doctor, I give you my personal guarantee you will never practice medicine in this state again.

Mason mentally chastised himself for his stupidity; he had succeeded in doing just what he had wanted to avoid. He had ignited the wrath of the hospital’s major benefactor. His mind, trained to make quick decisions, immediately formulated a withdrawal from the situation. He heard his voice answer into the telephone as if it were someone else’s.

Perhaps you should come to the hospital and straighten out this matter, Ms. VanArp. Thank you for your time. I must attend to my patient.

Without waiting for a response, his trembling hand replaced the telephone handset in the cradle.

*****

Vivian groped along the wall of Room 21, feeling for the light switch. The faint illumination emanating from the night light above the bed bathed the room in a surrealistic pallor. In the dim light she could vaguely see the form of a person lying on the bed. A faint beeping from a monitor was the only sound in the room. Her fingers located the wall switch and she immediately flooded the room with light, the brilliance of which should have aroused the patient. There was no noticeable movement under the sheets.

Vivian crossed the room and cautiously approached the figure lying on the bed. Her caution was not out of sensitivity for someone near death but rather from a sense of personal wellbeing. Vivian had no intention of exposing herself to a potentially contagious condition. She felt it wise to take appropriate precautions.

As she drew near the bed, Vivian allowed her eyes to trace the outline of the body lying under the sheet until her focus rested on the face. It was the face of a very old woman. Perhaps ninety years of age. Vivian stood within a foot of the bed, staring at the woman’s face. Her eyes were closed. Her skin was wrinkled with furrow upon furrow. There was no place on her neck or face which was not deeply etched with the lines of extreme age. Her cheeks were sunken and her teeth, protruding from drawn lips, were yellow and chipped. The only sign of life about the body was a slight quivering of the nostrils as she drew each shallow breath.

During her sixty-three years of life, Vivian VanArp had learned to trust her intuition. Many a potentially disastrous business pitfall, though extremely attractive on paper, had been avoided because Vivian stood firm. Her intuition, to date, had never failed her. Vivian now stood with eyes fixed on the face of a woman who appeared to be four times the age of Maria. Yet her much-vaunted intuition seemed to support the doctor’s unrealistic assertion that this was in fact Maria Flores. Her mind argued the impossibility of such, while her nagging intuition continued its affirmation as to the identity of this ancient body.

This was one of those rare occasions when Vivian’s mind held sway over her intuition. Vivian’s eyes searched the aged face, seeking for some fact of truth to refute what her intuition told her. As she puzzled about this uncharacteristic bent toward the impossible, she lowered her gaze to the woman’s neck. There she noticed for the first time a thin, delicate golden chain. The chain circled the woman’s neck and then disappeared beneath the sheets which covered her body.

Vivian remembered Maria Flores wearing a thin gold chain. She had noticed it on the domestic as the woman performed her chores around the VanArp residence. Vivian had taken particular note of the necklace as to size and quality. She suspected that Maria intended to wear a cheap imitation chain for others to see as to establish a presence. Then when all had seen and could bear record that Maria owned a chain, Vivian suspected that Maria intended to steal one of Vivian’s solid gold chains, and substitute it for her own. A clever ploy.

Vivian recalled one recent afternoon, as Maria bent over to retrieve a dropped dust cloth, a heavy object attached to the necklace had pulled the chain through the top of Maria’s blouse. Maria hastened to return the object to the security of her clothing but was unable to do so before the article had attracted the attention of Vivian. It was an old key. The kind of key one would expect to unlock an antique chest. Perhaps an antique seaman’s chest. Vivian questioned Maria concerning the key. Maria however was deliberately vague in her answers. She even appeared to be concerned that Vivian had gained knowledge of the key.

Vivian’s mind, snapping back to the present, challenged her to disprove the insanity of believing that this shrunken shell of a body was Maria Flores. Vivian crossed the room to a table containing medical supplies, enclosed her hands in a pair of protective gloves and returned to the bedside. She grasped the sheet, and with a rough jerk, pulled it away from the woman’s neck, exposing the hidden portion of the golden chain.

Vivian stood frozen, staring at the exposed chain. Attached to the chain was a key. The same key Vivian had seen around Maria’s neck. Vivian momentarily lost her composure. Her mind blurred. How could this be? Could the doctor be right? Could this be Maria? The bewilderment was transitory. Her mind quickly snapped back to logical reasoning. Her sense of reality countered any possibility that this could be Maria Flores. The old woman must have stolen the chain and key from Maria.

Concern etched Vivian’s face. Could security have been breached at the VanArp residence? Could this old woman have entered the house and stolen the chain and key? Concern turned to anger at the thought of the possibility. Subconsciously Vivian reached for the key as her mind considered the possible security lapse. Her left arm extended across the body and her fingers wrapped around the key, lifting it in a firm grasp from the chest of the old woman.

Vivian cradled the key in the palm of her hand and lowered her head to allow for a closer examination. Her interest taken entirely by the key, Vivian forgot the old woman. It was at this precise moment, when Vivian was so engrossed, the woman jerked her body to a sitting position. Her right hand grasped Vivian’s left arm, pulling her aged body beyond the perpendicular and positioning her lips within two inches of Vivian’s left ear.

My chest, the water, hurry, hurry, she whispered. Exhausted by the effort, the woman’s grasp relaxed on Vivian’s arm and she fell back on the bed, breaking the gold chain as she did so.

The entire incident occurred so quickly that the elderly woman was once again lying flat on the bed before Vivian could react. The initial stupefying effects drained from Vivian’s consciousness, compelling her reflexes to propel her away from the bed. Her legs continued to take rapids steps backward until her retreat was brought to a jarring halt by the wall on which she had searched for the light switch only minutes before. Her collision with the wall tripped the light switch, once again darkening the room and further adding to the panic she felt. With her back pressed against the wall and her gaze riveted on the figure of the old woman, her right hand found the door opening. Without conscious thought, her primal instincts turned her body to the gap and catapulted her into the hallway.

With her mind a blur and her thoughts driven by panic, she pushed past a white-coated figure at the door and made her way down the hall as rapidly as she could. Fighting to regain control of her thoughts, she passed the receptionist’s desk and was vaguely aware of someone addressing her in a hurried manner.

Ms. VanArp, I paged Dr. Mason. He is on his way to Room Twenty-one. . . Ms. VanArp? Ms. VanArp! The final two requests for her attention were spoken to Vivian’s back as she exited the emergency room doors.

Dr. Mason stared in astonishment at the back of the retreating woman. Were it not for the puzzled look on the receptionist’s face, he would have doubted that the entire incident had even occurred. Mason had approached Room 21 from the hallway opposite the receptionist’s station only to see a woman, Ms. VanArp, burst from the doorway. She’d pushed Mason aside and then hastily made her way down the hall and out of the ER doors, ignoring the calls of the receptionist.

Mason remained in the hallway for another minute, pondering VanArp’s strange behavior. Finally he turned and entered Room 21.

Mason approached the bed upon which Maria Flores was resting. His instincts told him something was wrong. He hurried the last three steps to the bed and quickly lifted Maria’s wrist, searching for a pulse. There was none. Maria Flores was dead.

Mason slowly lowered her hand and moved his eyes to her face. As his focus sharpened in the dim light, he gasped in stunned disbelief. The woman had aged incredibly. She appeared to be well over one hundred years of age.

Chapter 2

The Chest

Vivian exited the emergency room doors and fought for control of her emotions. She could still feel the grip of the old woman’s hand on her arm. She could still hear the rasping voice in her ear and feel the woman’s stagnant breath on her face. Vivian’s body gave an involuntary shudder. She felt dirty, contaminated, violated.

Her heels crushed the icy crystals along the snow-covered sidewalk as she made her way toward the waiting limousine. Each step brought a rebirth of rational thinking. Self-control returned, accompanied by anger. She felt rage at her childish inability to deal with a stupid old woman who chose an inopportune time to sit up in bed.

She reached the waiting limo, slid into the back seat and vented some of that anger with a snapped order to her chauffeur as he closed the door behind her. Home. Immediately.

Vivian reclined in the luxurious comfort of the leather upholstery, laid her head back and closed her eyes. Her mind began at once to rehearse the events of the evening. She reviewed each word, each thought and each activity. None of it made sense. Who was the old woman? How did she know to use Vivian’s name? What was her motivation?

As she recalled the events in the hospital room, the awareness of something in her hand caused Vivian’s eyes to snap open. She looked down at her left hand still encased in the protective glove. Her fingers were closed tightly around a hard object. She slowly peeled back her fingers and exposed, in the palm of her hand, the key and chain which had been around the old woman’s neck.

She shuddered. She was beset with a compulsion to bathe, to cleanse herself of the nearness of the old woman. In spite of her revulsion, she forced herself to examine the key. It was an antique, the age of which was not evident without some research. However, Vivian estimated the key to be well over 100 years of age, perhaps even several hundred years. It was definitely cast for an old-fashion lock.

As Vivian contemplated the proper application of the key, she recalled for the first time the words of the old woman. My chest, the water, hurry, hurry. It still made no sense. Why would the old woman claim to be Maria Flores? Why would she expect Vivian to understand her request? How did she get the key from Maria?

The limo turned into the large circular drive of Vivian’s estate. The chauffeur slowed the vehicle momentarily to allow the gate guard time to recognize the occupants. The security gate opened. The limo sped up the driveway and halted in front of the huge three-story mansion. Once again, Vivian exited the limo before the chauffeur could alight and open her door. She hurriedly ascended the steps and was met at the door by the evening attendant.

I want to see Maria Flores in my study immediately. Get her. Now.

I’m sorry, Ms. VanArp, today is Maria’s free day. She has been gone since early morning.

The attendant inwardly cowered under Vivian’s withering look. It was obvious to the attendant that her answer was not the one Vivian wanted.

When is she due back?

Several hours ago. She has not called in. I do not know what is detaining her. However, I did receive a strange telephone call from the hospital this evening. A Dr. Mason attempting to reach you. He had a question about Maria.

I am well aware of that, snapped Vivian. I don’t need a rehash of yesterday’s news. When Flores returns, tell her I want to see her in my study first thing tomorrow morning. Do you understand?

Apparently the question was rhetorical, for before the attendant could respond, Vivian continued, I am going to retire for the evening. I am not to be disturbed for any reason. Do you understand that as well?

Without waiting for a response, Vivian turned abruptly and ascended the stairs to her bedroom suite.

Vivian showered for a full thirty minutes, attempting to cleanse the lingering feeling of contamination resultant of the old woman’s nearness. Vivian still shuddered when she thought of the experience. After showering, she retired to her king-sized bed and slept fitfully, awakening several times during the night with the evening’s events still playing on her mind. The bedsheets tangled in her legs and she kicked them free between snatches of sleep.

Vivian arose early the next morning, showered again, dressed and went downstairs to her study. She took the key