The Living Dead

By Swailem Hennein

She was five-six, slim, with nonconspicuous well-formed breasts, artistically curving into a long neck, bearing delicate features. She was endowed with soft skin, delicately shaped cheekbones, and slightly pouting healthy lips with a perpetual pleasant smile. Her beautiful chin was accentuated with a tiny birth mark above the right jaw beneath a pleasant forehead. Beautifully slanted wide hazel-gray eyes with naturally thick black eyelashes displayed sparkles of hope and light.

Topping her head were soft dark brown waves of hair, which, on the job, she wore in two big braids arranged together into a crown-like bow that made her look taller. She looked her best though when she arranged her hair in a wide strand of shiny waves, resembling a mix of light and dark-shaded gold flowing on the left-hand side of her chest. Occasionally, she let her hair naturally spread to medium length over her back, covering her shoulder blades. Kathy seemed never to forget that she was an attractive woman and took pride in that fact. She was invariably confident, low-keyed, and gentle.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 24, 2017
• ISBN: 9781524580636

Book preview

Copyright © 2017 by Swailem Hennein.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2017901747

ISBN:      Hardcover                978-1-5245-8062-9

                Softcover                 978-1-5245-8061-2

                eBook                      978-1-5245-8063-6

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 02/01/2017

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Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

CHAPTER ONE

Kathy Martell, a witty, charming, petite woman, worked for the last four years as physical therapist in a rehabilitation center located in one of the more prestigious communities west of Boston. Prior to her return to school for training in physical rehabilitation—as they often call the profession—which led to her present occupation, she had been in a variety of clerical and semiadministrative and educational positions in North America and later in the United Kingdom.

Endowed with a pleasing disposition, a deep sense of caring, and a finesse that was fully her own, she enjoyed the high regard of fellow workers, employers, and clients of the rehabilitation center. Kathy provides a distinguished model of the capability of the human soul to soar much higher above adverse and negative influences of childhood and youth into a colorful well-rounded personality, cultured temperament, and tongue of the mature grown-up.

She was five six, slim, with nonconspicuous well-formed breasts, artistically curving into a long neck bearing delicate features. She was endowed with soft skin, delicately shaped cheekbones, and slightly pouting healthy lips with a perpetual pleasant smile. Her beautiful chin was accentuated with a tiny birthmark above the right jaw beneath a pleasant forehead. Beautifully slanted wide hazel-grey eyes with naturally thick black eyelashes displayed sparkles of hope and light.

Topping her head was soft, dark brown waves of hair, which, on the job, she wore in two big braids arranged together into a crownlike bow that made her look taller. She looked her best, though, when she arranged her hair in a wide strand of shiny waves resembling a mix of light and dark gold flowing on the left-hand side of her chest. Occasionally, she let her hair naturally spread to medium length over her back, covering her shoulder blades. Kathy seemed never to forget that she was an attractive woman and took pride in that fact; she was invariably confident, low-key, and gentle.

As early as two years old, Kathy had been aware that she was beautiful and found pleasure in it. As she grew up, she made up her mind that she will not allow this fact to be a matter of inconvenience, nor would it be a cause of crowding her life with undesirable suitors, no matter how much they tried. This does not say that she had not been encroached upon even in her very early adolescent years. Yet she managed very well to give off the vibe that she was special and private. Many have enjoyed looking at her but never building the courage to get too close because she mastered the art of conveying that she was not available. She had built her defenses so very well that in her mature years she could afford being most gentle, most considerate while being in command of her own person. She was never mistaken for a woman looking for male attention and company. This fact was well expressed by Joane Sinclair, a senior staff of the center and a close friend whose admiration of Kathy started the very day she had interviewed her for the job. No, she is neither arrogant nor proud. Don’t mistake me, high standards invite high standards, said Joane, responding to an inquirer. Kathy gave the impression that she was always comfortable with herself and by herself, and that she enjoyed being alone when she wanted to. She indeed had no fun in being hurried or crowded, being too busy, or too overwhelmed, but she found time for everything. She was leisurely and efficient according to her colleagues at work—but hated to be impinged upon. Receiving too much special attention did not sit well with her either. She had too little patience with pretense and superfluous pursuits especially in grown-ups. A chronic complainer could never win her sympathy, nor did manipulators of vulnerable humans. And she greatly despised idle pursuits and self-centered appraisals such as asking, How do I look? How do I feel? How should I respond? What do they think? She was simply efficient, sincere, sensitive to others, independent, self-possessed, and attractive.

Many of her friends felt that she deserved to have moved up to one of the more power-based positions such as an administrative executive, or a manager of that chain of rehab services. They felt she had the aptitude and skill to handle such positions. When she heard it, she shrugged off the idea; she was not keen on climbing any ladders because she loved to care for people—the one-on-one relationship—far more than pushing paper and sitting on managerial meetings. Joane was always eager to match her with good dates to no avail. In frustration with Kathy, she once burst out, You belong to a different world.

What a compliment, responded Kathy. Who knows, perhaps I do, a world I am still searching out for, she added with a heartfelt sincere chuckle.

On the job and away from it, Kathy seemed to be magnetically attracted to trouble—other people’s troubles. That was what she was doing as a physical therapist—helping people in distress, feeling with them their pain and suffering—as Joan jokingly observed, a disaster magnet. That was not completely true, however. While indeed she could savor challenges and seemed to enjoy seeing results, she was always levelheaded, cheerful, and courteous with people.

The side which Kathy managed to keep to herself was that, in fact, a portion of her private moments told a different story. While she prevailed over self-pity and making excuses built around the never fully forgotten unfair, negligent, and abusive treatment she suffered during the innocent years of her life, the memory of her childhood and youth continued to frequently assail her, especially whenever she was excessively tired or felt weak. That long stretch of painful years was like a shadow over her head—a cloud of disappointment, confusion, and puzzlement, which never truly ended, especially that she had no one in particular to call family. You would have never known it when interacting with her that she too was susceptible to moments of being down, lonely, and unhappy.

Whether or not this had anything to do with the fact that she was supersensitive to other people’s pain and to an unbending commitment to her duty, no one could tell for sure. In her initial psychological profile for this job, she was described as a type E person: unfailingly willing to expend her life and energy on others—she never was able to say no to a situation calling for help, giving off herself freely until the point of near collapse. While this was never easily noticeable, occasionally she felt to be physically and emotionally exhausted, drained of energy, and on the verge of collapse.

This young lady was gifted in being able to recover quickly, willing to try new tastes, new sports, and new skills. When in England, she took polo to the amazement and admiration of her hosts. She had never mounted a horse before, yet she won twice the women’s league. While she played the piano a little, she had never had a violin over her arm. She tried violin, and, in no time at all, she could play complex pieces for Chopin whose music she loved. She never subscribed to the mirage of keeping busy for the sake of keeping busy. She enjoyed whatever she set her heart on doing—whether savoring a good performance at the opera or orchestra hall or reading avidly, selectively, and with interest. Since her years in England, she had built a respectable library of her own: bound volumes of great authors, both old and contemporary, and tried her hand at writing, although she never sent anything out for publication, yet she had the keen insight into meaning and purpose that went far beyond the superficialities of a clamorous unjust world.

Like many others of her profession, there were welcome job-related dividends: occasionally, a grateful, appreciative person sends a card, or returns in person to say thanks. Although it is difficult to say for sure how many persons had in fact been literally restored to enjoy a high level of quality life, the knowledge that a few have indeed made it gave the service its sense of purpose. That alone, for Kathy Martell, made the effort worth it.

Physical therapy, or rehabilitation therapy, shares with all other health professions a philosophy, a set of ethics, and its own particular typifying of human beings. To be instructed and trained in specialty schools was one thing; to meet the real world was something else. Not that practitioners ever totally abandon deciding things by the book with all its categorical types and the predetermined biases, ideas, and images about patients. They do not, but surprises in real life are often more interesting than textbook stuff. Kathy Martell was a born philosopher, it seems. To her, the drama of a lived experience is certainly more colorful, more comic, and far more ridiculous than fiction. Because there is so much of it, she used to contend, it has become common. Its absurdity is lost to us. Or have we, she would ask, lost as humans our ability to laugh, because the global joke is serious, that is, our Creator’s practical joke in creating humans. And he has not stopped laughing ever since. Laughing? Not crying? Probably laughing and crying all at once. She expected the great Joker to laugh and cry until the day when he wraps it all up, folding it and disintegrating it all into smoke. The puzzlement of it was not lost on Kathy, who, early in her career as therapist, realized that by-the-book stuff and patient reality were utterly two different matters, rarely coinciding.

Situated in an affluent community, this rehab center did not cater to many whom you would describe as being in bad shape. Other centers may indeed serve the in-bad-shape type: older women on their way to, or actually already on, wheelchairs, or older senior men suffering some bone, muscle, nerve, or memory aberration. On the whole, contrary to the public image of rehab services, the majority of the clients, better categorized as patients of both sexes, are youthful, in their thirties and forties, quite attractive, retaining an appreciable measure of appeal, intelligent, and interesting. For instance, in one session, inside that large therapy hall, over the treadmills and weight-lifting, muscle-building, stomach-shrinking, and hip-diminishing machines, you might see a parade of well-formed breasts, bulging muscles, well-built torsos, chests that either resemble rose-pigmented marble or covered with jungles of hair, as the case may be, and tattoos of elaborate design and color. There was that beautiful young woman who took fancy to a penguin tattoo she had seen in a magazine. She had it engraved on her belly. A week later, she was unhappy that it was not situated in a more visible spot of her body. She then had a second enlarged tattoo between her breasts, never bashful to show. With young men, each tattoo-bearing fellow claims a corresponding story, the telling of which is an excuse for further tattling in the presence of female staff. Many of those youths may pass as sexy, even glamorous in one way or another.

Certain client occupations gained the reputation of masculinity and endurance: truckers, excavation workers, industrial decorators, construction craftsmen, and the occasional college or professional football or baseball player. They included mostly men, occasionally a woman. Almost all the men in this group had their own heroic performances each, such as single-handedly taking on three armed bandits or falling off scaffolds 102 feet down into a sandpit hurting nothing more the foreman’s lunch bag, they being unhurt. Those fellows certainly get a great deal of attention from therapists. For one thing, it was relatively easy to get insurance dollars for their rehabilitation. For another which was more appealing, a physical parade of naked muscles and conspicuous genitalia.

Many others, however, were the authoritative, bold-spoken financiers and executives who had developed the taste for some periodic physical reprieve after a quarter of travel and long hours. It is relaxing and normalcy-restoring to have the attention of the likes of Diane, Joan, and, no doubt, Kathy. The busy, productive, highly paid life of an executive or CEO warrants time off and delicate care for all those aching muscles and nerves.

Younger women among physical therapy patients usually had a story to tell. Rarely there because of an accident—such as having slipped on thin ice, skidded on polished hardwood floor, or submerged under the weight of fallen objects after an earthquake—the majority of cases were usually of a single mind, namely, for the sole purpose of achieving the ideal balance of bodily fat, muscle, and bone, a tune-up of sorts, if you prefer, taken in the eternal quest for that perfect physique. Remove a few ounces from here only to deposit over there even when the bottom line remains the same. These women, many of whom divorcees, are often viewed as symbols of privilege and big money and of the entitlement to being taken care of. Where youth and beauty are at a prime, pretty young girls should be forgiven their indulging the passion of being doted upon by other women, the therapists, or so it seems—for a price, mind you. But who is to say whether the complex package of health, fitness, and glamour is not the most precious commodity in life!

Once in a long while, you will see in the center teenagers, mostly male, unfortunately the early wrecks of life—the sorry proof that negatives do attract: poor school performance, severely damaged manners, entrapment by alcohol, drugs, risk-taking sex, or some other unsavory habit. Many belonged to well-reputed families. This is the most difficult of all patient groups to handle. No sooner they shed off their outer layer of clothes than they flirt around assuming that they are irresistible.

Work schedules in a center are usually reviewed the evening before. Kathy’s first patient the following morning was to be a Joseph Onan, a fifty-five-year-old who, because of his work, wanted the earliest possible opening of the day, and that was Kathy’s turn to be on duty. She had to take him although she would have preferred one or another of her returning patients. Seven-thirty in the morning was not too early for him to have to go through the lengthy routine of an interview, diagnostic examination, followed by a full explanation of the treatment protocol. He had been referred to the center by his primary care doctor.

That particular morning, Kathy was not feeling quite up to it. She was deeply upset because the night before she had an angry, ugly, one-sided verbal exchange with Bob, her fiancé, a steady four- or five-year boyfriend. Though difficult to believe it, he was her very first intimate relationship, and she was confident that they were in love, that he was to be her future husband. His angry words carried nothing but accusations and harsh sentiment, sounded extremely vexing especially that they were made over the telephone and not face-to-face. Though it was strictly personal, private, having to do with an unplanned pregnancy, she had never anticipated that his anger over the matter would go that far. She was not given to loss of temper, but she had to hang on him; he did not call back. That side of him was shocking to her, and she was exceedingly perturbed most of the night and into the early morning and through her third or fourth cup of black coffee; she had not been counting.

To prepare herself for the work ahead she kept repeating to herself, Think positive, Things are never as bad as they seem and so forth of the slick, cheap, verbal trash sold by populist psychologists. The young woman had always been professionally above reproach; besides, whether that boyfriend of hers liked it or not, she could never get herself to the point where she would even consider aborting a living being as an option, the way Bob wanted it. Then, even more importantly, now that she has a baby inside her, she wanted it. She was growing older, and her chances of pregnancy were becoming slimmer every period.

If she had desired to stay home that day, she could have called Joan, or Diane, to fill in for her or take that client. But some other urge, something she was unable to comprehend, was prodding her to go. Indeed, there is something therapeutic about work. Work, far more than being a healthy diversion, often provides the opportunity to pass time in a productive way, forget for a while one’s own troubles … But, no, that did not quite explain the inner force stirring her into action—one more of those inexplicable mind-sets, when you think you know while you know that in fact you do not. In previous similar experiences, she never regretted it when she listened to that inner quiet voice. Was she alone in having that sort of personal faculty? She never asked, and nobody ever volunteered to help shed light on it. Her mind was made by now: to the center she will go to take care of that new patient.

The patient was Joseph Onan; Joe was his given name. Some of his closest friends called him Jos when teasing him, and he did not care for that nickname that much; in fact, he preferred the full thing—Joseph. It is a mouthful, he always reminded his friends. He arrived a quarter of an hour too early as he had been instructed that there were forms to be filled prior to treatment sessions. He hated forms. Not today, at least not today, he had hoped. He was in no mood to answer questions, on account of the severe pain in the middle of his spine. But knowing this culture so well, he could not envisage this setup to be any different. There seemed to be no end to them, forms, wherever you turned.

Everybody has forms for you to fill: in the bank whether you make a deposit or withdraw money, the gas station, the car dealership, the pharmacy, even the restaurant. Oh yes! Forms to be filled, filed, and lost, that is, if the information is not sold to those who specialize in marketing, eager to get every bit of knowledge about what you eat, what you drink, what you read, the music you enjoy, whom you have dinner with, where you live, the love life of your dog, the brand of food your cat eats, everything, anything. He resented forms. That morning, he was in no mood for forms, especially that he had not taken his painkiller pills, avoiding the risk of becoming drowsy while driving himself to the center.

At the front desk of the center, the receptionist, a shapeless blonde, handed him the forms after saying something he could not quite understand as if she were still napping. He felt impatient for the evident impersonality of it, not used to being treated that way. He looked at her and at the four-page-long questionnaire with disgust and was about to throw it away. Sensing his discomfort, and sensing that he did not move away from the counter, the short, very young receptionist smiled amiably. Please fill the forms, sir (he hated the word). You may sit in that comfortable chair by the table over there. Would you care for a cup of coffee? And without waiting for an answer, she pushed the pad with the forms and a pen right to his edge of the counter, turned around, and faced her computer and telephone receiver. As a rule of thumb, thought Joe, the older you get, the grayer you become, especially if you were balding, and the more weight you amass around waist and belly, the less respect you receive from these young shorties. He did not exactly fit that picture, but he could not help being a little anxious about what years bring. Used to being respected in his own circle, he found it difficult to figure out what that semipygmy of a woman took him to be. But he decided to be his usual disciplined self and accept the discipline of adhering to rules.

Grudgingly, he started. Forms are irritating, to say the least. This one was designed in such a confusing way that you could not tell whether you were supposed to write your responses opposite or below or above each item. Why can’t they produce better organized forms? he questioned in silence.

Name: J. Onan

Age: Fifty-five years, twelve days, information unavailable for how many hours and minutes

Sex: Lost

Race: (Several choices were listed, from White, White of Hispanic origin to Afro-American). He placed an x in front of all categories; raceless, he wrote.

Marital Status: (Again several choices from Single to Widowed); he wrote none.

The remainder of the form was no less annoying to a patient in pain. The next set of questions included work, medical history (Have you ever had … ?) followed by four columns listing every ominous physical and mental disorder. Under the list utilizing very fine script, he responded: At one time or another I must have had something, you bet, and am at risk of contracting some more sooner or later just by completing the rest of this Form.

The next item outraged him: Rate your pain from zero to ten. How could you rate a very subjective thing like that? If it were ten, you would be actually in a coma; a zero or no pain at all, is a lie—no human being is painless unless dead! Without pain, you must be sadistically kidding. To the question Whom to inform in case of an emergency?—by now he had it—he wrote, Strictly nobody, although he considered writing In such a case, bury me alive. At the very end was a pledge to pay charges, cost of the treatment if insurance did not pay. He wrote in bold capital letters, having been burnt before, "Only if I am informed ahead of time."

Joe was in fact hurt and had been for two days. He didn’t sleep a wink the night before—should have taken a sedative. He gave the form to the receptionist, who did not even look at it. He waited; because of the severity of the pain, the waiting felt like hours. Meanwhile, he took out of his pocket a pad of paper—that innovation with the brand name Stick-it, or is it Post-it?—and wrote a note to the receptionist, Please call my doctor and ask if I could get some painkiller. He took the note to her. When she saw him approaching with the note in his hand, she went pale and trembled. We keep no money at all, she assured him pleading for her life. This was Boston after all, and he was the only one in the reception room that early morning. The irony of it was overwhelming. He could not contain the humor of it and laughed himself hysterically to the point that he completely forgot his pain, and his eyes filled with tears. Surprised, the receptionist looked at the note and felt embarrassed; she too started to laugh. Other staff came around hearing the roar of laughter; the good-hearted receptionist told them what had happened, and they all were truly amused.

No charge for the entertainment, Joe said. It is on me.

At his age, Joe could ill-afford a bad back. He had recently had a series of ill-fated happenings, none of which was unavoidable; none of which was in fact his own doing. And now this. His medical colleagues at work didn’t give him one comfortable word about back troubles. He was apprehensive and expecting no miracles. In general, he had no faith at all in physical therapy. Cure to him, although he should have known better, was either surgery, medicines, or powerful will, but to waste time on this? He, however, grudgingly had accepted to try it on the recommendation of his doctor whom he trusted. Then, it might prove helpful anyhow—time out once in a while from his office, and the dividend of being exposed to a new environment about which he hardly knew anything.

Before calling Joe in, having become aware of the little drama in the reception hall, Kathy quickly reviewed the chart which had been sent ahead by his primary physician, making a mental profile of him. Age-wise, she thought, typically this is the time when back injury strikes. Older people are not known to comply well, more difficult to convince, complain a lot, could present you with a difficult case. Most likely, he is set in his own ways, will not exercise. The worst of it, he could make you look foolish or would not cooperate. But make no presuppositions, she thought, this guy seems different. He is sort of funny.

Although she was not ready at all to go the second mile that morning, she would try to be her true self—kind, firm, and understanding—she assured herself. Think positive, she reminded herself once more.

Kathy viewed her client, quickly forming some image of his face, clothes, stature. I am Kathy, your therapist, she said, leading him into the treatment area. And that was just what it was: a large area with machines and movable partitions. The initial interview with him was rather impersonal, as it should be; she looked at her papers and wrote her notes, while he looked at her sideways and at the contents of the large room. He noticed she was exceedingly attractive. Somehow, he thought, she was preoccupied, absorbed with something on her mind—she was in there physically, but mentally and emotionally, she was not there at all. She amused him as she absentmindedly read questions in her own protocol notebook and recorded the answers. He responded as pleasantly as he could. Surprisingly, his pain was being relieved for the moment. To the question, Why did you choose this Center in particular for treatment? he simply stated that he knew of nowhere else to go. She was jolted, temporarily puzzled with his answer, realized what was happening, and she smiled, apologizing for being not quite herself that morning. She, in fact, felt as if she herself needed to share her own troubles with someone. But of course, she did not tell him that. Thanks for choosing to come here, she responded as if she had not heard a word he had said. Then before asking him details about his back pain, she left him for a moment and came back with a tablet and a glass of water. Take this. Your doctor gave permission. It will not cause drowsiness. You will be able to drive. She then added with a grin, But nothing alcoholic for the next two or three hours. She had a sense of humor, he observed.

Concerning his back pain, he was utterly imprecise: it was in the middle back, sometimes the lower back, and below the ribs on both sides of his body. He did not seem to know definitely where it hurt. If he were faking something, she thought, if he were the type, he was certainly doing a very poor job of it.

Kathy was just beginning to become alert to the occasion and was skilled in probing. He noted the fact. So he told her of a car accident that had happened two months earlier and of being hospitalized for a few days two or three weeks after because of a sudden attack of pain, breathlessness, and sweating. He made no link, as far as he was concerned, between the car accident and that current sudden attack of back pain. She mentally pictured him as an unusually honest man, because certainly he did not seem to be considering a possibility of claiming damages—a tendency among so many litigation-loving people involved in accidents. Lawyers love it. Yes, he stated