Wonders Never Cease (12 page)

Leah turned away without a word. Natalie and Emmet watched as Leah sulked all the way down the hall.

“Delightful young lady,” Emmet said.

“I'm sorry if she was bothering you,” Natalie said.

“Not at all. I was the one who spoke first.”

“What was she doing out here?”

“Just stretching her legs, I imagine. Young legs just have to move—remember?”

“Just barely. Mine are always looking for a place to sit down.”

“Mine too. How old is your daughter?”

“Six.”

“Wonderful age—an age full of wonder.”

“Do you have children, Emmet?”

“Never had that privilege.”

“Would you like one?”

Emmet didn't reply, and there was a brief but awkward pause.

“Sorry,” Natalie said. “That was a bad joke. I love Leah to death; she's just having some problems at school right now.”

“A bright girl like that?”

“It isn't her grades,” Natalie said. “It's—something else.”

“I suppose it's always something.”

“I suppose.” She looked at Emmet sheepishly. “Emmet, I'd like to apologize.”

“For what?”

“For the other night. For Kemp. He can be so . . .”

“There's something about being young,” Emmet said. “Sometimes a young man gets to thinkin' he's all that and a bag o' chips, but age has a way of changing things. I knew a lot of things when I was younger; I know a lot less these days. One thing I do know, though: That's a wonderful little girl you've got there.”

Natalie smiled appreciatively. “Thanks, Emmet—I needed to hear that. We're a little worried about Leah right now. She's been . . . imagining things. We're hoping it's just a phase she's going through.”

“I wouldn't worry about it,” Emmet said. “Things have a way of workin' together for good—you wait and see.”

13

W
es Kalamar lugged two boxes of office supplies over from Vision Press that included legal pads, sticky notes, multicolored pushpins, paper clips, correction tape, and fluorescent scented accent markers in six fruit colors. He also brought a telescoping aluminum tripod with a 30 x 40 inch easel pad to facilitate group participation. The suite had a western exposure overlooking 200 Avenue of the Stars and the Century Plaza Towers beyond. Wes set up the tripod and angled it so it would catch the afternoon sun. There was a table in the center of the room; in front of each chair he placed a crisp new legal pad and a ballpoint pen that wrote in four colors. He noticed that the top sheet on one of the legal pads was crimped at the bottom-right corner. He carefully removed the sheet and left a fresh one showing on top.

Mort Biederman concentrated on the refreshments. From the Starbucks in the lobby he bought a Coffee Traveler of Café Estima and was careful to include a variety of flavored creamers, sweeteners, insulated cups, and tiny wooden stirring sticks. From the room service menu he ordered a deli tray and a seasonal fruit sampler, though Kemp and Wes both voted for the Spicy Wings Fiesta with assorted dipping sauces. Biederman vetoed both of them: “We've got thinking to do,” he said. “You need blood circulating for that.” He also ordered an entire case of bottled Agua springwater, in the event that sudden dehydration threatened any of them.

Kemp's contribution was to stretch out on a sofa with his feet propped up on a pillow and do his best to look pensive until he began to doze off.

Biederman stood over him and said, “Hey, Angel, are we keeping you up? How 'bout you get with the program?”

“You guys work days,” he mumbled. “I work nights—I should be sleeping right now.”

“You are.”

Kemp sat up and rubbed his face. “All right, let's get to work. Where do we begin?”

“The beginning is a good place,” Biederman said.

“Okay, what's the first thing our angel says? Liv Hayden is coming out of her coma; her mind begins to clear; she sees someone standing over her—a man bathed in blinding white light—an angel! The angel opens his mouth, and he says to her—what?”

“‘How's the head?'” Biederman suggested.

Kemp looked at him. “
How's the head
? Is that the best you can come up with?”

“I didn't hear anything from you.”

“Biederman, this is supposed to be an angel. Would an angel travel halfway across the cosmos just to tell her to take a couple Tylenol?”

“How would I know? I never met an angel.”

“Well, use your imagination.”

“I'm trying. What have you got?”

“Kemp's right,” Wes said. “This is a majestic being and he needs to lead off with something majestic. His first words should be extraordinary, unexpected, inspirational—”

“Who's arguing?” Biederman said. “So what's the opening line?”

“What we need is something big—something visionary—something almost poetic. The angel opens his mouth and he says to her . . .”

Two hours later the deli tray had been completely demolished, though both the fruit sampler and the crisp legal pads had been left untouched. The coffee was making all three of them irritable—a side effect of caffeine commonly mistaken for productivity. Biederman, the oldest of the men, had to excuse himself to use the bathroom every fifteen minutes.

“What's with you?” Kemp complained. “You must have a bladder the size of a peanut.”

“Call me when you're fifty and we'll compare notes,” Biederman said.

“How are we supposed to get a train of thought going when you keep taking bathroom breaks? Tomorrow I'm bringing a catheter.”

“While you're at it, bring a brain. My bladder is larger.”

“Guys,” Wes said. “Let's try to focus here. What have we got so far? Somebody read it back to me.”

“Read what?” Biederman said. “We got nothing.”

Kemp shook his head in disgust. “Do I have to do everything? I thought you two would be creative geniuses—all I'd have to do was polish the dialogue a little.”

Wes picked up a felt-tip pen and stepped up to the easel. “Why don't we try a little ‘word association' to get our creative juices flowing. When I say the word ‘angel,' what's the first thing that comes to your mind? Go ahead—call out anything.”

“Harp,” Kemp offered. “Clouds. Wings. Halo.”

“Boxing,” Biederman said.

Both men stared at him.

Biederman shrugged. “Olivia was at Kate Mantilini's before the accident. Kate Mantilini was the first female boxing promoter. There's a boxer named Angel Rivera.”

Kemp slumped back on the sofa. “And they think Liv Hayden is in a coma. This isn't
Six Degrees of Separation
, Biederman, we're trying to write a book here.”

“What did you come up with, McAvoy? Harp, clouds, halo—what are we supposed to do with that? Chubby baby, chicken wings, bow and arrow—is that any better?”

“Forget word association,” Wes said. “Let's try role-playing instead. Let's put ourselves into the part and see what we come up with. Kemp, lie down on the sofa again.”

“What for?”

“It's what you do best,” Biederman grumbled.

“You're Liv Hayden,” Wes explained. “Biederman, I want you to come here and stand over him—you're the angel.”

They both did as instructed.

“Now think like an angel,” Wes said to Biederman. “This woman is dangling by a thread between life and death. You have only a few moments with her, and there's something you must tell her—something she needs to hear. What is it? What is that message?”

Biederman looked down at Kemp. “Sweetheart, look at you—you've really let yourself go.”

“Get out of the way, Biederman.” Wes shoved him aside and took his place. He looked down at Kemp. “I have a message for you,” he said, “a message from the Creator of the universe. This is the most important message you will ever receive, and I want you to go back and share it with the whole world. I want you to talk about it, and write about it, and after you write it down I want you to publish it. This is the most important message in the world, and everyone, everywhere, needs to hear it.”

He stopped and stared off into space.

“Well?” Kemp said. “What's the message?”

Wes sank down in a chair. “I have absolutely no idea.”

“We're getting nowhere,” Kemp grumbled. “We've been at this for hours and we don't even have an opening line yet—we'll be here forever at this rate. Maybe I should just write it myself.”

“Not a chance,” Wes said. “I have to publish this thing.”

“And I have to sell the film rights,” Biederman said. “Sorry, boys, we're stuck with each other.”

Another hour passed . . .

“Forget the opening line,” Wes said suddenly. “It's bogging us down. Any author will tell you the opening line of a book is the hardest one to write. What we need is a basic story line—we can go back and write the opening later.”

“Okay,” Kemp said. “Then what's the story?”

“We need a story with conflict—tension—something to hook the audience and draw them in.”

“I like it,” Biederman said. “Keep going.”

“How about this? The angel tells Hayden there's a cosmic conflict brewing somewhere in the universe, a conflict to determine which path people will follow—the old way or the new way. You know, sort of a
Star Wars
thing: ‘A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away . . .'”

Biederman frowned. “I thought it was ‘A long, long time ago in a galaxy far away.'”

“No, it's far, far.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Look it up if you don't believe me.”

“Hey,” Kemp said. “If you two Jedi knights don't mind, I'd like to get some sleep. Keep going, Wes.”

“Anyway, the angel says this conflict has been going on for centuries—maybe millennia. And what is this conflict about?”

Kemp shrugged.

“Truth—deep knowledge—
this message
. Will people learn the truth and be set free to live lives of freedom and joy, or will they remain slaves to the old way of thinking? This is an ancient message, the angel tells her, one that people have known about for centuries, but it's been forgotten, buried, suppressed.”

“‘Suppressed' is good,” Biederman said. “People like ‘suppressed.'”

“Who suppressed it?”

“Beats me. The church—Republicans—sub-prime mortgage lenders. We can just leave a blank there and fill it in later. Of course, some people have always known about this deep knowledge—smart people, successful people, rich people.”

“And only smart people
can
know it,” Biederman added.

“That's a nice touch—a little snob appeal never hurts.”

“This is good,” Wes said. “I think we're on to something here.” “This is just an outline,” Kemp said. “I have to meet with Hayden tonight—I need something to
say
. ‘There's a cosmic conflict brewing in the universe.' Terrific—that'll take me, what, five seconds? Then what do I say? What's the actual message?”

Wes shook his head. “I don't know yet.”

Kemp swung his legs around and sat up. “Guys, we've got to do a whole lot better than this. Liv Hayden's only going to be in that coma for the next few days. Every night we miss means one less installment in our ‘message,' and that means one less chapter in our book. We can't afford to get writer's block on our first day—we need to come up with some material.” He stood up and began to collect his things.

“Where are you going?” Biederman asked.

“I work nights, remember? I need a couple hours of sleep before my shift begins.”

“Maybe he's right,” Wes said. “We could all use some sleep.”

“Oh, no you don't—you two aren't going anywhere. You geniuses are going to stay right here until you come up with something, even if it takes you all night. By this time tomorrow we need a full-blown message.”

“But what about tonight? What are you going to tell Hayden?”

“I'll just give her the ‘cosmic conflict' bit—after that I'll just have to wing it.”

“Can you remember it all?”

“Let's see . . . cosmic conflict, ancient knowledge, suppressed by Republicans, only snobs get it. Wow—an astonishing feat of memory.”

“Don't write us into a corner,” Wes said. “Don't give her any specifics yet—keep it vague.”

“I don't have much choice, do I? Look, I get off at seven in the morning—I'll be back after that. Try to have something for me by then, will you?” He glared at Biederman. “Something
coherent
.”

At the door he turned back and looked at them. “The clock is ticking, guys—I'm counting on you. Remember: No message, no money.”

14

N
atalie took the laminated number from the glove compartment and placed it on the dashboard where the carpool monitor could see it.
Two hundred and
twelve
—that was the number St. Stephen's had randomly assigned to Leah, and that was the number the monitor would call out to find Leah among the beehive of children swarming in front of the school.

The line of cars inched forward again and Natalie moved along with them. Just six more cars to go and she could grab Leah and get out of there—back home for a quick dinner before they headed out to UCLA again. Natalie hated the idea of her daughter spending another night camped out in the nurses' break room, but she had no choice. Between work and sleep and the annoying teacher-counselor meetings here at St. Stephen's, she hadn't had a minute to search for a replacement for Mrs. Rodriguez. UCLA would just have to do for now—but she hoped it wouldn't be for long.

It could go a lot faster if Kemp would pitch in
, she thought.
If he won't attend the teacher-counselor meetings, he could at
least help search for a new caregiver
. But Kemp wasn't much good at certain things—like thinking of someone else besides himself. Right now she hoped that's all he was thinking of. He didn't come straight home after work this morning; he didn't stumble into bed until several hours later, and he offered no apology or explanation when he did. When Natalie left to pick up Leah from school Kemp was still sound asleep. She wondered where he had been all day and why he seemed so tired; the thought made her feel a little uneasy.