Epilogue
Sometimes, Christine thinks that everything that happened that week was a bad dream, brought on by the hospital sale and the earthquakes and just the everyday stresses of working in a hospital. Peter Rickman was hit by a car and lapsed in and out of a coma before coming out of it completely, making a miraculous recovery -- because those did happen, rare though they were. Perfectly logical, if a little strange.
And then she'll hear a bell ring and jerk her head up, heart going ten miles a second, and realize that it wasn't a bad dream, so much.
The new chief of staff is a very nice woman named Gina Landon. No bad news there; Dr. James went on to St. Marianne's in Derry, taking his buttons with him, and the board brought Dr. Landon in.
Dr. Landon -- not Gina, never Gina; hospital administrators seem to uniformly hate being called by their first names -- is a stickler for rules, but only within reason. She stood up at the first staff meeting and made her position clear (and oh, did Elmer do his damnedest to crawl under the table when she mentioned that under no circumstances were any heads to go missing), but unless something goes horrifically wrong she seems content to let everyone go on their way. She either doesn't know or doesn't care that Hook's living under the hospital, and she likes Abel and Christa, and that's good enough for Christine.
Some things change. And some things don't.
Carrie, for instance, still gets nauseated at the sight of blood, but she doesn't faint anymore, so Christine supposes that's progress. The woman's a very good nurse, as long as no one's bleeding. She's been on a pedes rotation for the last couple of months, and seems to be doing pretty well up there.
Rolf is the same as he was -- quiet, good-natured, thickly-accented. His eyesight's still normal, and everyone remembers the terrible thing that happened to Reverend Jimmy, so that still happened. Bobby's on days now, and he's mentioned something about maybe going to med school. He has his nose in a book every time he has a free second, anyway.
Neither Rolf or Bobby ever talks about what happened that week, not that Christine ever asks. But sometimes she sees them looking around, like they're looking for someone. Or listening for something.
She knows that expression because she's caught herself doing it a few times, too.
Some things change. And some things don't.
Everyone pretends not to know about Elmer's little assignations with Dr. Massengale, but come on. If you can't find one, you page the other one; everyone knows that, too.
Dr. Massengale pretends to think the whole thing's beneath her, and every time someone mentions the word "head" around her she tracks Elmer down and kicks him in the shin, but she's been in a suspiciously good mood for the last few months. It's doing wonders for Elmer's (she can never remember to call him "Dr. Traff", though he finished his internship a month ago) attitude. He hasn't acted snotty or superior in -- well, days, but it's the thought that counts. They sit too close at staff meetings and "accidentally" bump into each other in the hallway. All it's done, other than make them both more agreeable, is up the ante on the Where's the Weirdest Place You've Ever Heard Them Have Sex betting pool.
Besides, it's worth it to see Lona flush scarlet when Hook passes and murmurs "oh, Dr. Traff" in the filthiest voice he can muster. It's her own fault if she can't keep her voice down during sex, especially since they'd been in the sleep lab at the time. But at long as they're happy.
The last relationship Christine was in ended about seven months ago, with a banker from Lewiston named Edward. He was a nice man, well-educated, and they got along well enough. But Edward had veryÖwell, in polite society you could call them "Victorian" ideas about women in the workplace, but when you boiled it down to the bone, he liked that Christine was a doctor now. Were they to marry, naturally, she would immediately give up four years of college, four years of medical school, her internship, her practice, her entire life and become a banker's wife. And mother to his children, of course.
Good work, if you can get it. But Christine already had a career, so she said no thank you and left. Last she heard, he was engaged to a woman who went to Cornell.
Now she's dating (and that's a strange word to still be using, at the age of thirty-three) a man who lives under the hospital, who has a mini-graveyard full of the mistakes people have made, herself included. He's well-educated, brilliant, blackly funny -- and he doesn't have an actual apartment, let alone a mailing address. She cannot bring herself to use his first name, which is fine, because calling him anything other than "Hook" would beÖweird.
It's the strangest relationship she's ever been in. And, oddly still, the best.
He doesn't blink when she tells him she wants to be alone, and he doesn't expect favors from her because they're involved -- unless it involves making the vein stand out in Dr. Stegman's forehead, in which case she'll play Rock, Paper, Scissors with him for it. He's harder on himself than anyone else could ever be, and he has absolutely no way to hide how he feels from anyone except patients, and he's one of the best doctors she's ever seen. He's also more than a little egotistical, infrequently arrogant, and, every once in a great while, morally superior. And he snores. A lot.
But that's to be expected. No one's perfect, after all. And all the arrogance in the world is worth listening to Dr. Morganstern from radiology drone on while a sock-clad foot slides up her leg and she tries to keep the hickey on the side of her throat from showing, because this hospital already has one Dr. Massengale, thank you. And it means Hook's staying awake in staff meetings now, so bonus.
Maybe she'd be more settled as Edward the banker's wife, more normal. But she wouldn't be as happy.
Peter's show was last weekend, in New York. Most of the networks were there, covering it -- his first show since the accident and miraculous recovery. Hook was invited, but he was on call, so he passed his invitation on to Dr. James (late of Derry) instead. Christine watched the coverage on Fox News.
There weren't a lot of paintings; miraculous recoveries might happen overnight, but they need to allow lag time for your brain to catch up. Most of the show consisted of pieces he'd had finished before the accident, sometimes months in advance. There were a couple she recognized, though.
There was Mary, pale and stark against a dark background; that one, Peter said, wasn't for sale, no matter how much Dr. Landon cajoled and made noises about how lovely it would look in the lobby next to the other picture at St. Mary's.
There was Antubis -- the anteater, not the Goth kid -- done in earth tones, all oranges and reds; that one had sold before the cameras even got there, for a sum of money that made Christine choke on her water. There was Mary, pale and stark against a dark background; that one, Peter said, wasn't for sale, no matter how much Dr. Landon cajoled and made noises about how lovely it would look in the lobby next to the other picture at St. Mary's. Instead, Dr. Landon wound up with the last of the lot, a strangely organic melding of a modern hospital with what looked like a mill from the 1930s.
"They're inspired by dreams I had during my recovery period," Peter said, when one of the reporters asked him. Natalie was by his side, a little pale but otherwise glowing in Marc Jacobs. "Modern medicine has some great drugs, I can tell you that much," he added, and smiled, and the reporter laughed; and if no one commented on the odd uniformity of the pieces, how they all seemed less like paintings and more like portraits, that was probably for the best.
Dr. Abelson took a break the day after the earthquake, or, as the papers liked to call it, The Fall of the Kingdom (which wasn't strictly true, because the hospital only suffered minor cosmetic damage, not even enough to leave stress fractures in the paint, but it was close enough that everyone who had been there that day had what Bobby called "the heebie-jeebies" for the rest of the week). Rumor had it that she spent a few months at a private clinic in Castle Rock, all the better to get over crazy Dr. Stegman.
Rumors were nasty, spurious things. It was Bangor, not Castle Rock, and it was more like two weeks.
After that, Brenda was back at Kingdom long enough to clean out her office and make a few apologies before taking off. She didn't say word one to Christine, though she did stop by Hook's office one afternoon, and, strangely enough, spent the better part of a night in the kitchens with Abel and Christa.
Last anyone heard, she was teaching at a small and well-accredited medical school in Lewiston, and dating an anesthesiologist. That last part made Dr. Gupta laugh so hard during a staff meeting he snorted coffee out his nose.
Dr. Stegman's hearing went about as well as could be expected. Dr. Dooling, the anesthesiologist, flew in from Vancouver and gave scathing testimony about how Stegman had botched the operation and then summarily ordered him out. In his expert opinion, Dr. Dooling said, he was frankly shocked that Mona Klingerman had even survived the hack-and-slash Stegman had performed on her, let alone that a hospital with a reputation like St. Mary's had taken him on in the first place.
"But he's a Keeper," Hook said one night as they were doing the dishes -- he washed, she dried -- "so don't get your hopes up. I mean, you can a little, but I wouldn't put any money bets that he'll actually be fired."
He wasn't. A notice was placed in his file, and he quietly paid the Klingermans a sum of money that made Christine's eyes water, and he agreed to work in an advisory capacity until further notice. No surgeries for Dr. Stegman, no sir. Which was fine with him, or so he said; gave him more time to work on his research. That last was accompanied with a superior little smirk Christine wouldn't have guessed he still had in him, and she'd actually had to ask Hook to please not do anything to his car.
"Besides, he's been quiet lately," she said. "The revised paper's coming out next month. I've learned my lesson about working with that horse's ass."
And Stegman has been quiet lately, which is frankly a little worrying. But he carries on as if nothing bad had ever happened, as if there weren't a half-dozen people who'd seen his hand get bitten off while he ranted like a madman.
Christine's keeping an eye on him. Just in case.
Christine has never been much of a talker about her personal life, or lack thereof. She's not standoffish, not intentionally; she's just quiet, prefers to listen instead of speak.
So she doesn't have anyone to tell about the fact that she's just finding out now, at the age of thirty-three, that she's a biter, or that she has a disturbing penchant for the burn of Hook's stubble against the inside of her thighs. Or about the time that Elmer knocked on Hook's office door and came in without being invited, and found her bent over his desk, hair mostly covering her face but leaving one eye clear enough to see Elmer go dead white and yell "Sorry!" at the top of his lungs before slamming the door behind him. He hadn't been able to meet Hook's eyes for a week, hers for almost two.
Mrs. Druse was released the day after the earthquake, a little shaken from what had happened in the Old Kingdom but beaming. "She's all right," she murmured, half-awake; of all of them, the only one who'd been more tired was Elmer, and Dr. Massengale had grumbled and offered to drive him home. ("Ten bucks says we have to call his apartment to get her tomorrow," Rolf had muttered to Bobby, who'd been pale but not so startled he couldn't mutter back, "No bet.") "Can't you feel it?"
"No," Hook had told her, taking her hand and smiling at her. It was an exhausted, on-for-50-hours-with-12-left-to-go smile, but he could manage facial expressions, so he was about three steps ahead of Christine. "But I couldn't see her, either, so you probably shouldn't trust my judgment on this kind of thing."
"Don't be silly," she'd said, still beaming. "I couldn't have done it without you."
"No, you couldn't have done it without Elmer, or Peter, or Abel and..."
"Don't argue with me, Doctor," she'd said, mock-sternly, and he'd stopped. "Things are going to be different around here now. You know that." It hadn't been a question.
Hook had nodded. "No more black noise."
That had earned him a very mild look. "Men," she'd said, turning to look at Christine, who just blinked. She'd just been leaning against the wall, trying very hard not to fall asleep on her feet; she'd just figured theyëd both forgotten she was there. "You can tell them the most important thing in the world, and they just won't listen."
"Sometimes," she'd heard herself say, and Hook had glared at her. But he'd been smiling while he did it.
"The dead aren't gone," Mrs. Druse had said, letting out a little huff of a breath. She looked even more exhausted than she had a minute ago, but she was still awake. Christine didn't know how she did it. "They're never gone. But they're settled now, Mary most of all. She went on to the rest of her life, the way she was supposed to. They won't bother you again, Doctor."
"And Antubis?" she heard herself ask. Not Anubis. She was pretty certain, though, that the corporeal manifestation of a principle wouldn't care if she mispronounced his name.
"Oh, no, he's still here. This is still a hospital, after all." Mrs. Druse had smiled, suddenly and broadly. "But she's sleeping now," she murmured, and closed her eyes. "That sounds good. Sleep."
And she'd drifted off right there, in the wheelchair in the parking garage, with Hook still holding her hand.
Christine asks after her every couple of weeks. According to Bobby, she hasn't been sick a day since, not so much as a headache.
"Hey, did anyone else just see that?" one of the nurses asks, blinking. Christine doesn't look up from what she's doing, just points and barks, "Light!"
"See what?" one of the other nurses.
"There's this -- you're gonna think I'm crazy," the first nurse says, laughing a little self-consciously, "but I think I just saw an anteater."
Christine flicks her eyes up, but doesn't move her head. She doesn't see anything, but that's no proof.
Even so, she's very careful for the rest of the surgery, and keeps listening for the sound of a bell.
The nurses are still the nurses -- quiet, dependable, and the last people you want to cross. They see everything, hear everything, and will lie straight to your face if you ask them about it. If, for example, she was to ask Liz or Denise if there was a Where's the Weirdest Place You've Ever Heard Them Have Sex betting pool for her and Hook, they would blink at her and ask what she meant. Denise would even stare at her, wide-eyed and shocked. Of course, that's all undermined by one late night when Bobby walks Christine out to her car and confidentially tells her that it's not much of a pool anyway, not like Elmer and Lona, but last he heard Carrie was still winning with her One Time, They Were in the Elevator story.
Which is fine with Christine, because if she knew about it, she'd have to report it. And anyway, the elevator was months ago. At least no one knows about that time in the back of the ambulance.
She doesn't think so, anyway.
Christine's dreamed about her only once since it happened.
In the dream, she was in the parking lot in the middle of the morning -- but at the same time, she was in the burned-out remains of the old mill, the one that used to stand there. She could see Jaguars and Saturns parked in the ashes and wreckage. She supposed it should have been strange, but it wasn't.
Mary was standing next to her, smiling. Christine turned to look at her. The girl was still pale, she noticed, but the pallor was gone from her skin, and she didn't look dead. Sickly, maybe, but not dead. The bloody marks were gone from above her eyes, and that was probably the best of all.
"Mary," she'd said, hearing her voice. It didn't echo, the way it sometimes did in dreams. "What are we doing here?"
"I wanted to say thank you," Mary said, smiling. She was still holding her doll, and her dress wasn't as sooty anymore. "It's rude if you don't thank people when they do things for you."
"That's right," Christine said, crouching down so she could look Mary in the eye. Reflexively, she'd looked for it.
Mary had noticed and shaken her head. "I don't need it anymore," she'd said, smiling even more widely, if that were possible. Then she'd leaned forward and hugged Christine as hard as she could, which was very strongly for a little girl. A little dead girl, no less.
"Thank you," Mary had whispered into her hair, and Christine had whispered back, "You're welcome."
They'd stayed like that for a minute. And then Mary had let go, which meant Christine had to.
"I have to go," Mary said, nodding a few feet ahead, and standing there was Anubis, who looked like a club kid and an anteater all at once. If she squinted, Christine thought there might be something else in there, something with the head of a jackal and golden eyes, but she didn't squint. Better for everyone. "He's waiting for me."
And even though she knew he wasn't evil, or even necessarily bad, Christine had caught the girl's sleeve. "Mary," she'd said, "you don't -- if you don't want to, you don't have to..."
"But she does, Christine," Anubis said, suddenly standing next to Mary. He reached out his hand. Mary took it, still smiling. "I've kept her here longer than I should have, even now. But she's lived out her span, and it's time she went on ahead." He looked at Mary. "Right?"
Mary nodded.
"You know my name," Christine said. She'd felt cold, suddenly, though it was a dream, and in the dream it was eleven in the morning and sunny.
"I know everyone's name, Doc," Anubis said, smiling at her. And suddenly he wasn't sinister at all, just a kid doing his job. "I'll see you around, okay?"
She stood there and watched them walk off into the distance, past the limit of her vision, past the limit of her sight. She thought she saw Mary wave one last time, but she couldn't be sure.
And then she woke up.
She was in Hook's kingdom (not his apartment, never his apartment; his kingdom. It fits him), his left arm curled around her waist, his face pressed into her hair. He wasn't snoring tonight, and his feet were cold.
"What's wrong?" he murmurs, not opening his eyes. She can tell that by the sound of his voice, now. He always sounds more awake when his eyes are open.
"Nothing," she says quietly, pressing back against him. "Weird dream. I'll tell you about in the morning."
"'kay," he says, and goes back to sleep.
Christine stays awake for a few more minutes, staring at the grow light Hook has on his plants. She doesn't know what to think about the dream. She doesn't know what to think about the whole thing, period, except to know in her bones that it happened.
And maybe that's enough. Maybe it's enough, that some things be remembered. That people know things happened, once, even if it's only a few of them.
And, mollified, if only for now, she goes back to sleep, too.