“The Parker Express”

This is your captain speaking. I’ve just turned on the seat belt sign. We’re expecting a fair amount of turbulence coming up, so we ask that you please remain seated until the sign is turned off. We’re on pace to land at Newark International Airport at 3:30 a.m., where the temperature is now a mild sixty-five degrees. Thank you for choosing American Airlines and have a nice night.

Norman Parker drained the watery dregs of his whiskey rocks and let the pebble-shaped remains of the ice cubes melt on his tongue. He checked that the man sitting next to him was still sleeping, then held out his hand to examine its steadiness. The Valium he’d taken just refused to kick in; he should’ve prescribed himself a few more for the trip. He could have, of course, but he knew himself, so he hadn’t. That’s alright. There was always whiskey. A few more whiskeys and the stubborn pill would have no choice but to dissolve, wherever the hell it was hiding in there.

“Miss?” he whispered, lifting a hand. He thought he was the only one awake on the plane by now. Through the dark approached the baggy-eyed stewardess.

“Yes, sir?” She yawned.

“Another whiskey rocks, please.”

“Just a minute.” And she walked off into the darkness.

He took a long breath and exhaled through his nose. Then he took out a pack of Lucky Strikes and lit one and dropped the match in the ashtray. The ads said nine out of ten doctors chose Camel cigarettes. He wondered how many other doctors went through medical school only to find themselves on a plane every other day. Would’ve been an easier life if he’d dropped out of that surgical program like he’d wanted to so many times. He’d have drank a lot less too.

“Here you are, Doctor.” The stewardess handed him his drink. He reached out to accept it, willing his hand steady. Still, the ice cubes rattled as he set it on his armrest.

“There’s no reward in any of it honey,” he said. “In the end, this drink is all there is.”

She smiled politely and went back to her seat, Parker examining her posterior as she went. Maybe the Valium had started to kick in after all.

As promised, the turbulence began. The man sitting next to Parker stirred and snorted, but never woke up. Parker envied the guy. The wave of relaxation had started coming over him, but he was nowhere close to sleep. And no sooner did he lay back and close his eyes than a hideous, skull-shattering shriek shook him back to his senses.

Parker jerked upright and turned to look over his shoulder, noticing others do the same. Murmurs of confusion filled the cabin. Then the shriek came again.

Parker’s instincts took over; the sense of immediacy instilled by years in the ER. The adrenaline burning away all residue of drug and drink as he got to his feet.

“Oh my god. Is there a doctor on board? Please, is there a doctor? Oh my god.”

But he was already on his way. The dimness revealed a figure sprawled over the armrest of an aisle seat, people standing around with their hands to their faces. The cabin lights illuminated, triggering gasps of horror and bringing Parker to a halt.

Beneath the woman’s dangling dark hair lay a widening pool of dark, wherein lay two gory lumps he identified immediately. Dangling their viscera, two eyeballs stared sightlessly down the aisle.

“Clear out!” shouted Parker. “I’m a doctor, give me space!”

The passengers spread out, shaking and whimpering. The man sitting next to the woman was backed against the window with his hands against his chest.

Parker kneeled next to the woman and took hold of her wrist.

“Ma’am, can you hear me?”

No answer. He felt a pulse; weak, but detectable. “Ma’am?” he repeated. Nothing.

“Is she dead?” sobbed a woman. “I was just talking to her…”

“What happened?” said Parker.

“I was sleeping… I heard her scream.”

He looked at the man in the window seat. His eyes were wide and terrified.

“Sir?”

“I was asleep… I… I don’t know…”

Parker looked down at the sagging mound of dark hair. Slowly, supporting her neck, he pushed the woman upright into her seat. Two dark hollows staring back. Eyelids lacerated and hanging loose. Parker’s brain seemed to short-circuit; decades of experience reduced to worthless fragments. But this wasn’t a patient. This was a horror.

“Help her, Doctor,” the woman sobbed. “Please, do something!”

Parker bit his lip, shook himself out of it. He was a surgeon, dammit, he’d seen worse.

“Bring me all the medical supplies on board, and land this plane!”

Whatever passengers weren’t frozen with horror cleared away; rustling through bins for first aid supplies or running to the cockpit to spread the word. Parker gathered the woman into an embrace, and ignoring the blood and eyeballs, lowered her onto the floor and lifted her legs onto a pile of carry-on bags. From nearby seats, he grabbed blankets and piled them on top of her. Then he straddled the woman, gently tilted her head back and felt for a pulse in her carotid artery. Her heart was still beating, but weakly. Again, his eyes landed on her face. Again, his brain seemed to freeze. How could this have happened?

The man in the seat next to her hadn’t moved, only sat stunned with eyes like two hard-boiled eggs.

“Tell me!” Parker hissed.

The man didn’t answer; only continued to stare dumbfounded at the bloody mess on the floor. Unable to think; unable to help himself; Parker followed the man’s gaze. The eyes were moving. Turning in their pool of gore, the optic nerves winding around like little feet in a puddle of mud. Then the eyes were looking at him.

Uncommonly strong hands rose up from below and seized his shirt.

Parker shrieked. He stared down into the eyeless face. “I’m a doctor. I’m trying to—”

“Shut up, Parker,” she said. The voice wasn’t one of a woman, but some bloodsoaked tone from Oblivion. “You call yourself a surgeon? You couldn’t hold a scalpel steady if your life depended on it, Parker. You drunken sot!”

Parker’s mouth quivered. “I’m trying to help…”

“You can’t even help yourself, Parker.”

“Please let go of me. Let…let go!”

“Let go of yourself, Parker.”

The woman’s fingers found his belly. Caressing at first, then winding and grinding like the blades of a food processor. The fingernails bit into the flesh, tore skin from muscle, muscle from viscera, so fast, he couldn’t react. The hands were inside of him. Unplugging his bowels. Making balloon animals from his guts. He pushed against the woman’s chest, but she was up to her elbows in him. Gore cascading down her elbows, falling in clumps onto her sundress. His intestines emptied out like pig slop. The eyes turned away. The plane was empty.

“It won’t be long, Parker…”

* * * * * *

Norman Parker woke with a gasp. His shirt was soaked with sweat.

“Are you alright, sir?” The flight attendant was pushing by a garbage cart and had stopped to look at him.

“Yes. Yes, I’m fine.”

“Do you need anything?”

“Maybe a club soda. Thank you.”

She nodded and walked by. Parker took a napkin and wiped his forehead.

It wasn’t unusual to have dreams of drinking; he’d had plenty over the last decade since he’d quit. But never a dream like this.

“Bad dream, doc?” asked the man next to him.

“Must be nerves,” Parker said. The napkin he’d used to wipe his forehead was already soaked. He put it in the empty plastic cup on his tray. “I never sleep well on planes.”

“Me neither. Hope you can rest up before the big surgery.”

Parker checked his watch. “The surgery is scheduled for Friday morning, so I’ll have another night to rest up. Anyway, being tired is no obstacle. I’ve been tired since medical school. Come to think of it, I don’t remember working any way but tired.”

“Well, I’ll try not to think about that the next time I have to have surgery.”

“Nah, don’t worry. We can do it in our sleep. Hell, during residency, that’s mostly what we’re doing.”

“Now, there’s a comforting thought,” the man said.

* * * * * *

At the hotel, Parker lay stretched out on top of the comforter with his shoes on. The dream still fairly fresh in his mind. It hadn’t faded away like they usually do; instead, it stood in his mind like some fog that refused to dissipate.

I don’t think I’ve had a dream so vivid since quitting the drink, he thought. And even those had been fleeting enough. This one felt more like an actual experience.

He lifted his arm and checked his watch. He extended his fingers and let his hand hang there a minute. Steady as a rock. Sixty years old, dry for ten. Good for maybe ten more years if he kept his business in order. Or, more importantly, kept his hands steady.

By sunrise, it was obvious he wasn’t getting any more sleep. He made coffee and had a bowl of cereal for breakfast and went down to the lobby to get a newspaper. He sat reading, having his second cup of coffee, when snapshots of the dream filtered into his consciousness. He set down his cup and folded the paper. After a few minutes, he got up and headed back to his room. He sat at the desk and opened his laptop and brought up the chart from the hospital’s database.

Rose Marie Friday, thirty-seven years of age, odd-shaped growth on the pineal region of the brain. Deemed by most to be inoperable. Need a rush-job? Deemed inoperable? Call Dr. “Second Opinion” Parker. If you can afford the surgery, first-class airfare, and have the strength to sign a lengthy waiver, you just might have a shot after all.

Ms. Friday, he read, suffered persistent headaches. Sought medical treatment for sleep-related particularities. Particularities. The pineal gland is responsible for melatonin; maybe the tumor was affecting production of the hormone. Only speculation. Hardly mattered at this juncture.

On a whim, Parker put the pineal gland in his search engine and brought up the surgical database he frequented. A little refresher never hurt, even for a brain surgeon. And it had been a long time since he’d been that deep into a brain. Or into his own, for that matter.

The pineal gland. The theological “third eye” to the new-age nuts of the world. Parker clicked casually between whatever articles seemed pertinent, but little more seemed known about the pineal gland since Parker’s school days. From its secluded alcove in the center of the brain, the full scope of its purpose remained a mystery. Plenty of doohickey about it; he’d heard a fair amount of it in college himself. Some was from an old professor of his, Dr. Van Nessen. As far back as the ancient Greeks, he’d explained, the pineal gland was thought to be a mystical eye to see the unseen. A portal to some hidden dimension where higher awareness is accessible to those in the know.

Van Nessen had explained the gland is thought to generate a powerful chemical that may be responsible for the phenomenon of one’s life passing before one’s eyes. He spoke the terms “may be,” and “could be,” quite a bit for a brain sciences course, earning him the nickname “Van Maybe” among the students.

A wave of exhaustion came over Parker. He closed his computer and lay back on the bed. What sort of perverted dance was his own pineal gland doing while he had that awful dream on the plane. He’d been drinking. And smoking. There were ashtrays on the plane. What year was it anyway? Somehow, he knew it was 1976.

* * * * * *

1976, a medical student, performing well, but wild as any young guy. Parker and his classmates, sneaking into the medical lab, lifting samples of pharmaceutical-grade cocaine. Drinking in the resident quarters at Holy Cross Hospital. Parker and the others arguing at 3:00 a.m. over who’s the least drunk to take the call for the patient with a headache. What a way to ruin a Friday night. As usual, Parker took the call, drunk as anyone, only the best of the group at concealing it.

He composed himself and knocked gently before opening the door. Inside, a woman sat on the edge of the examination table, bare legs and feet dangling from a paper robe. Long, black hair. Dark eyes.

“I’m Dr. Parker,” he said. “What seems to be the problem?”

“I’m Amy,” the woman said. “It’s a headache. I’ve had it for days. It’s so bad, I can’t even sleep. Do you think it’s something serious?”

“Any history of headaches? Migraines?” Parker felt a pang of annoyance at the woman for disturbing his evening. A headache? She should try a goddamn medical residency. Parker’s whole life was a headache at this point.

“I’ve had migraines in the past. At least that’s what I think they were. Never anything like this though.”

Parker sat on the stool and took the clipboard from the counter. The nurse had measured the woman’s blood pressure at 130/75. No problem there. He shined his pen-light into the woman’s eyes and watched her pupils shrink against the light, dilate again once he shut it off. A little slower than usual, perhaps, but nothing to cause alarm.

“I think I smell alcohol,” the woman said.

“Disinfectant,” Parker assured her, trying his best to conceal his annoyance. “It’s a migraine. Have you been taking painkillers? Aspirin?”

“I tried a couple aspirin, but they didn’t help.”

“Try a couple more,” he said, “with caffeine. A cup of coffee or tea will do it. The combination makes the aspirin work better. You don’t need much. A little dab’ll do ya.”

The Brylcreem slogan was usually good for a chuckle, but the girl was too nervous to laugh.

“You don’t think it’s anything serious?”

“Nah. Don’t worry, Amy. You have a good night, alright? Feel better.”

“Um… okay,” the woman said.

Parker hurried back to the residents’ quarters to rejoin his friends. He didn’t give the woman another thought; not until a couple months later, when he recognized her name on a clipboard hung outside a door on the Oncology ward. When he saw the diagnosis on the chart, a black hole suddenly formed in his stomach.

He snatched the clipboard from the hook and flipped through the pages. A vicious, amorphous tumor had wormed its way through the woman’s brains, consuming her optic nerves in the process. Inoperable for certain; there wasn’t a surgeon alive who’d be willing to attempt to remove this one; to scrape the sprawling, intricate mass away from the delicate nerves and blood vessels it had woven its way through. You might loosen the grip of those cancerous tendrils with repeated doses of radiation, but Parker knew it was far too late to beat it completely into submission. The woman was doomed. There was just no way around it.

“She was doomed,” Parker muttered to himself. She had already been doomed when he’d seen her two months earlier. It had already been too late to help her. Hadn’t it?

Parker checked the file to see if there was any indication she’d come to see him that drunken Friday night. There wasn’t. Parker hadn’t charted it; he’d been too drunk to bother. The girl hadn’t bothered spilling the beans either. At this point, she was probably too sick to remember.

Parker hung the clipboard back where he had found it and checked the hall to make sure no one had seen him reading it. He took a deep breath and composed himself, brushing aside a pang of guilt. There was no way he could’ve known the headache was anything serious.

Still, he couldn’t help looking through the little window on the door as he started to walk away. There she was. Same dark hair, same dark eyes. Sightless eyes, he knew; there was no way she could see him with her optic nerves devoured by cancer. Still, the eyes were open, and they were staring right at him.

He’d never forgotten those eyes; not completely anyway. He’d managed to push them pretty far back in his mind, but obviously, they were still there somewhere. It didn’t take a psychologist to make the connection between the memory and the horrible dream he’d had on the plane. But why now? And how had it been so incredibly…real?

* * * * * *

Parker lay in bed at 12:30 p.m. watching trashy afternoon TV. Still exhausted, but no sleep was forthcoming; not until tonight. His mind kept wandering back to college; that nutty professor, Dr. Van Nessen. He wondered if he might still be around. Still living in the area.

He typed his name into the computer and the search turned up two results.

Unsure exactly why he was doing it, Parker picked up the phone and dialed. After several rings, a man answered.

“Hello?”

Parker was silent for a moment. “Dr. Van Nessen?”

“Speaking. Who is this?”

“Norman Parker. I doubt you remember me. I used to be a student of yours. Thirty-some years ago.”

“Norman Parker… Do you happen to remember the subject of your final paper?”

Parker thought about it for a moment. “No, I’m sorry. Drawing a blank.”

“Really, Norman? I thought your analysis of the dopamine/serotonin feedback loop was rather well done.”

“Wow,” Parker said. “Your memory is uncanny, Dr. Van Nessen.”

“Call me Harold, Norman. If a man can’t take his ego to the Great Beyond, he sure as hell can’t bring his doctorate. And believe me, I’m checked in and waiting at the gate.”

“That sounds grim,” chuckled Parker.

“Nah,” said Van Nessen. “Just a little senior-humor. So how have you fared since taking my magnificent class?”

“I’m a neurosurgeon. Just flew in to perform a surgery at Saint Pete’s.”

“That’s phenomenal, Parker. I’m so glad to hear you fulfilled your potential.”

He sounded genuinely pleased for him. And that incredible memory. Parker wasn’t sure why he’d called the guy, but he was glad that he did.

“So, to what do I owe the pleasure of your call?” Van Nessen asked.

“It’s a pinealectomy,” Parker said. “I was looking over the charts, thought of your class. Wanted to see how you were doing.”

“I’m so happy you remembered me,” Van Nessen said. “Maybe we could get together while you’re in town. Dinner, perhaps?”

Parker had been wondering about dinner. “I’m free tonight,” he said. “Any place in mind?”

“There’s a great Italian place nearby. Just tell the cab driver to take you to Salitati’s. He’ll know just where it is.”

“Sounds good to me. How’s about… seven?”

“Perfect. It’ll be good to have some company. Marie passed on near ten years ago. It’s been pretty quiet since then.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“That’s alright, Norman, I’m off to meet her soon. So I’ll see you at seven?”

“Salitati’s at seven. I’ll see you there, Harold.”