Read an excerpt from HOUSE CALL

HOUSE CALL by DARDEN NORTH, MD

PROLOGUE

Its metal casing rusted by years of moisture, the glass doorknob creaked as it turned slowly to the right. Steaming water pouring from the nearby faucet masked this sound as well as that of the approaching footsteps, soft as they crossed the damp tile floor.

Taylor firmly squeezed the plastic bottle, releasing salon conditioner in streaks over her freshly shampooed hair. Leaning forward to rinse, she felt a firm hand grab the highlighted strands.With her head angled severely backwards, screaming was impossible, particularly as the conditioner rolled down onto her face and mouth. Now almost entirely submerged in the slippery bathtub, Taylor Richards could not struggle but only gag and cough.

Moments later her chest exploded, tearing and burning, as the thrusts between her ribs were swift and repeated. Blood pouring from the punctures mixed with the soapy water, forming a red scum on the sides of the porcelain tub.

Glancing hopelessly at the bathroom ceiling through a ruddy mist, Taylor lost consciousness as her face was submerged. She was not aware of the final snap and slash to her neck that severed the carotid arteries and trachea. A few bubbles of air escaped from this artificial opening, rising quickly to the surface of the tub water. Satisfied, the departing visitor hurriedly rinsed the instrument under the faucet, leaving the water to flow at a mere stream.

As the soapy, crimson liquid eventually topped the brim of the bathtub, it spilled onto the tile floor as Taylor’s body rocked to stillness.


Chapter 1...

THE LAST DAY


“OK, Shugga, keep your legs back. That’s nice. Wide apart. Let me get a good feel. Yes, that feels exactly right. No, not too tight.Remember what we talked about. There, that’s it! Get ready. One’s coming now. It’s coming. It’s coming. Can’t you feel the rhythm? Ohhh!”

“This place never closes, just like Wal-Mart,” Taylor grumbled as she slid her employee badge through the check-in slot by the time clock. 06:42.

“Push…Pushh…Pushhh…Push,Push,Push,Push,Push…Pushhhh …Pushhhhh……Wait now! Don’t Push, DON’T PUSH. I see the head crowning. Lots of dark hair. Great job! I’ll get the techs to set up for delivery, and we need to call the doctor. STAT.”

These vehement coaching efforts of a fellow labor and delivery nurse easily penetrated the wall from the adjacent room. Despitethe huffing and puffing of the parturient patient, there was no wayto miss the cheerleading augmented by the bedside family members. Hearing the nurse’s urgent call for the obstetrician, Taylor could envision the sweat forming on her comrade’s brow, adding to that already pouring from the patient.

The day was Friday, and unlike most professional work situations, the week was not over for this registered nurse, nor forthe others like her. As Taylor re-clipped her employee badge to herscrub suit, she tried to look past the monotony she felt.

Pulling a hospital-nursing shift on any day had grown almost unbearable for Taylor Richards. Having more combined practical experience than most of the newer hospital nurses, the thirty-three year old was nearing burnout. Besides, her volunteer time spent taking blood pressures and treating colds at the homeless shelter had almost become more rewarding to her.

“Why do I stay here? Stay in this? I ought to just walk back out the front door,” she groaned loudly and carelessly enough to be heard by the young physician approaching from behind. Knox Chamblee was not purposefully following Taylor but was enjoying the walk nonetheless.

“Hey, I heard that,” he retorted playfully. “A bad attitude like that won’t win many Brownie points with the nursing supervisor, you know.”

Despite the fact that the route to the nurses’ locker room ledalong the hall directly in front of the doctors’ lounge, Taylor hadfailed to notice the door opening as Dr. Knox Chamblee exited from his complimentary breakfast. Conversely, as the nurse stomped down the corridor, Chamblee could not miss the blonde hair tossed side-to-side almost in rhythm with her steps.

“Oh, hi. I’m just having a bad day, I guess,” Taylor responded, exaggerating her embarrassment over being overheard.Believing himself to be only slightly younger than Taylor Richards, Dr. Chamblee had on several occasions entertained the idea of asking this girl out. However, despite her great looks and the tight butt walking in front of him, Knox had been steered away by his office secretary. She warned him that Taylor carried tons of emotional garbage, heaped on by her ex.

“Stupid.”

“Excuse me?” Knox called to her, pretending to be indignant as he stopped in the middle of the hall, still watching Taylor hike toward the nurses’ locker room.

“Wasn’t talking to you, Doc. Don’t be paranoid. I was berating myself,” Taylor explained rather flippantly, while slowing her pace a bit and turning her head back toward Knox. “You’re kinda cute, you know.”

“So are y……,” Knox responded to the vanishing spectacle as he stood in the walkway watching Taylor disappear down the next corridor. “I need to ask my secretary some more questions about that girl. That shape could overrule most emotional problems,” he mumbled to himself.

Disappointed that his only surgery case for the day had cancelled at the last minute, Knox decided to drive over to the office to digest his doctors’ lounge breakfast. Not until this morning’s arrival at the hospital did he learn of the patient’s messagereceived the preceding night by the answering service: “Tell the doctor that I just can’t go through with it. I’m afraid of being put to sleep.”

Blindly turning around, he almost knocked over the thick, yellow-and-black plastic Wet Floor sign that had materialized behind him. Trying not to appear annoyed, Knox nodded at the custodian who was tackling the corridor’s flooring with a mop and bucket.

“Sorry, Doc,” the janitor seemed to force an apology without looking up at Knox, as though the Grace Community Hospital employee had expected to be in the doctor’s way.

“When I had the chance, I should have accepted that pharmaceutical rep job,” Taylor blurted out when she reached the nurses’ lounge alone; but the slamming of her locker door muffled her aggravation. “After all, he is good-looking.” Taylor stopped for a minute to check her makeup in the long mirror mounted over the sinks.

Read an excerpt from POINTS OF ORIGIN

POINTS of ORIGIN

by DARDEN NORTH, MD


Prologue

The newspaper obituary was poorly written. Even my tenth grade education picked up the grammatical flaws, not to mention the rambling content and elementary sentence structure: at least two run-ons and way too many commas. Although there was a subject-verb disagreement toward the close of the piece, misspelling was not an issue; I guess the Larkspur Ledger mercifully ran it through spell-check. No doubt the bereaved, overwhelmed author could have benefited from such a book as Obituaries for Idiots or perhaps a Google search for tips on writing death announcements. Unfortunately, that long column, an eruption of gut-wrenching sadness and bitterness, would be just the first of two the writer would ultimately pen.

Running alongside several others that day in the newspaper, the obituary mentioned the immediate family as survivors as though merely a single group was devastated. By anyone’s standards, the lives of at least four families (maybe just two families, depending on how you define family) were affected by the death – certainly more than four if one counts the physicians who eventually had to leave town over it. The funny thing about that hastily drafted, redundant memorial was that the paper did not bother to mention those other families, who in a liberal sense were just as immediate as the blood relatives of the deceased. Their existence, too, was twisted, no, tormented by one act, one day, one death.

The two years that followed found me as a high school senior in Larkspur, Mississippi. Normally that period of a teenager’s life would be a joyous relief, a climactic ritual to the great American educational experience. But for me, remembrance of that phase still evokes a sadness that has never found resolution. Sometimes the grief reaches a degree that is more than intolerable, depending upon how I remember my parents and how I believe others judge their final circumstances.

Many times the anguish of such regret causes mere existence to become marginal at best, especially when regret becomes a way of life.

And that existence was consumed by more calamity. Sometimes I have referred to those other sordid catastrophes as the rest of the stuff: the misfortune of stooped-over Mrs. Architzel and her dog; my police arrest with sexy Kaylee; the bloody mess in that serene neighborhood rose garden; and the other tripped-up actions that led to my wearing the proud uniform – the uniform of the Larkspur City Fire Department.

Nonetheless, during that coveted night spent on the hill with society’s upper crust, the distinguished uniform was left hanging in my closet, along with its spare.



Chapter 1 THE DESERVING

Anyone in the squirming audience who was forced to listen could have written the annual address.

“I challenge you to a sacrifice that is more than financial, a true spiritual, emotional sacrifice. Many of you have already made the ultimate commitment to the youth of Larkspur and the surrounding community. Through your tuition dollars and tax-deductible donations, your children have received the highest quality high school education available anywhere. After enrolling your sons and daughters at Larkspur Christian Academy, you immersed them in a secondary curriculum that will ultimately prepare them, actually over-prepare them, for any college or university in this country.” The headmaster pressed on for the kill. “And all the while during this high school experience, a true sense of integrity and honesty has been molded into our students as they have made their walk with God at Larkspur Christian Academy.”

His custom was to pause at this moment for prayer, an intriguing habit for someone who had not seen the inside of a church or touched a Bible in at least twenty years. However, that night Mr. Gregory Whitestone was running short on time and omitted a direct appeal for God’s blessing. “In its constant march to provide superior higher education, year after year our faculty has stimulated graduates to reach for diversity, moving toward challenging careers. Those choices have pushed them well beyond the borders of Mississippi.

“For that reason the board of directors has voted to change the name of our facility to Larkspur Institute for Education.” There would have been a hush of surprise at the announcement except that the audience members, as well as those of us sitting on stage, were nearly asleep. “This modern moniker will reflect not only the kindness and compassion that composes the moral fiber of our teachers and administrators, but will also clarify our quest to maintain academic excellence.”

Gregory Whitestone concluded the commencement address, calling for the audience’s greater commitment to God, democracy, family, and intellect – a loyalty automatically endorsed by school support. Whether it was a high school graduation exercise like mine, a football game, an annual honors day program, senior dance recital, or local civic club, Mr. Gregory Whitestone remained steadfast. To the listener he stressed no greater goal for mankind than prayerful, financial support of the newly-renamed private school.

I recall sitting there in the number one chair, hoping that I was listening to Whitestone for the last time and thinking about the financial cost of my senior year: seventy-five hundred dollars plus. While my grandfather would more likely have enjoyed spending that chunk on something else – like an investment or another memorial for my parents – he certainly did not begrudge the expense to educate me at Larkspur Christian – I mean Larkspur Institute for Education. In a happier time during the years before my senior year, when Mom and Dad had no real financial concerns and they paid the tuition, my parents could have spent the money on a getaway vacation or a piece of jewelry.

Those of us stiffly propped on that auditorium stage, in a hall which also doubled as a basketball court, were forced to attention during Whitestone’s oration. In addition to being on display in front of a proud, anticipatory crowd, the scratchy graduation gowns were a perpetual stimulant, fortunately enough as to keep each wearer from dozing off and sliding out of his or her chair.

His seat was well below the thin stage, toward the back of the area roped off for the rest of the seniors, the ones whose class rank was significantly lower. Although his gown was just as uncomfortable as those of the honor students, it was garnished only with nondescript tassels. The scarcity of gold tassels like those flowing from the smart kids was not a concern. The nobility, or lack of it, was lost on him.

He thought about the fire burning in the middle of the science lab. It had been thin and colorful and although hot, he wanted to touch it – to see how scorching it really was. The flame from that erupting combustion had quickly spread upward, but, as it should, moved more slowly outward. The gas feeding the flame was pure and flowed unabated in a mesmerizing plume that fascinated him. Even though the clean, precious fuel pumped continuously and furiously through the supply tube, the flame remained steady – slicing the invading spring from the opened windows nearby.

Watching Whitestone move his lips as though he were talking, he remembered one of the last days of class before senior holidays leading to graduation. That afternoon in science class, where Whitestone served in his other capacity as chemistry teacher, a gentle breeze entered through the open windows of the brick building, permeating the room with subtle air currents. It was just enough ventilation, not strong enough to bend the flame, but sufficient to prevent stagnation. Stagnant air was never good, never right. He had learned that.

As he ignored Gregory Whitestone that afternoon just as he was doing now, the stream of air from the high school grounds outside whirled around him, preventing the flame from heating the surrounding space to any significant degree. Characteristic of any freely burning blaze, the uninhibited one at his own science lab station had created a rising column of hot, multicolored gases – the beauty of the fire’s commanding control paralyzing him just as did every other flame in the room.

Now, sitting in a stuffy auditorium confined in a bulky graduation uniform, an outfit he found meaningless, he thought about that column of beauty in the brick science building – that beautifully mesmerizing burst of fire – and imagined what it could do if not confined to a lab table. Toward the last of the class period, he had reached for the gas handle and turned it slowly, watching the column push higher and become even more alluring.

Had he been able to run his fingers up and down inside the brilliant column, he would have found the fire hottest where the gas erupted from the nozzle to feed it. He knew that. He had already been taught that.


Points of Origin
ISBN-10 0-9771126-1-6
ISBN-13 9780977112616
Author: Darden North, MD
Publisher: Ponder House Press (10/2006)
Fiction, Suspense, Mystery

380 pages, hardcover, imprinted spine, color foil jacket with raised embossed lettering.

Recent Book Review - POINTS OF ORIGIN

Reprinted from The Rankin Ledger April 19, 2008

North spins a gripping tale in second novel

By Cyrus Webb
Guest Columnist

Darden North is not your typical author. In his day job, he's an obstetrician/ gynecologist at Jackson Healthcare for Women in Jackson and has delivered more babies than most people can count. But it's his work as a writer, and his second novel Points of Origin that is gaining cheers all across the country.

The book, set in Mississippi, takes us into a world that seems so unlike any that many of us know with its glitz and glamour and high-priced facades. But a second look reveals that nothing is ever as it seems, and in that view, we begin to see more of the world in which all of us live.

Take the main characters, the Foxworths. Dr. Dan Foxworth is a man who has amassed quite a name and fortune for himself and his wife and son, Sher. But like everything else in fictional Larkspur, Mississippi, things are never what they appear to be. After experiencing unimaginable tragedy and heartache, Sher Foxworth learns all too soon that the search for what is real and true begins not in what you have, but who you are.

Plastic surgery is an important factor in the story for several reasons.
Of course there is the outward appearance that is being changed, something for which Dr. Foxworth has become well-known. But it is the inner person - that which is beyond any place a scalpel can reach - that is the most distorted and in need of repair.

This is something several characters acknowledge, if only to themselves, but that becomes a brutal factor in the life of Sher Foxworth. What Sher wants is at times lost in what is expected of him. He, like so many, goes with the flow of others' hopes, becoming oblivious to the desires of his heart until he is cornered and must confront them. He has to make decisions that might displease others but will ultimately free him from the dreams of others to a world in which he finds himself most fulfilled.

The flames that grace the cover of the novel bring to mind the intentions of one antagonist in the book, but it also reminds me of the refining of the characters that we meet. Some are able to come through their trials bloodied yet stronger, while others are consumed.

North's book ultimately shows that there is not always just one action that begets a troublesome reaction. Sometimes retribution is days in the making.
It is up to us to be ready when the cost of our facade is to be paid in full.
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Cyrus Webb of Brandon is president of Conversations Book Club and the Rankin County Arts Alliance. He may be reached at cawebb4@juno.com.