The Last Day in the Park

SOCIAL MEDIA ARTISTRY

Have you seen the amazing social media posts our talented designer, Brandon O’Neill, has created, often featuring evocative, original photography of NYC by Joy Whitehurst? Check it out and please consider following us @messengerthenovel on Facebook and Instagram and @messenger_novel on Twitter.

 

CALLING ALL BOOK CLUBS

Want to discuss MESSENGER with your friends? Consider choosing MESSENGER: A Novel in 16 Episodes as one of your book club selections. Liz Keller Whitehurst would be happy to join your book club gathering as a virtual guest to discuss all things MESSENGER, to ponder some of the questions included in each episode description and to answer any questions you may have. Schedule your meeting by emailing Liz at [email protected]. It’s free!

 

ALL GOOD THINGS MUST COME TO AN END

Believe it or not, we are coming to the end of MESSENGER, with just a few episodes to go. But don’t worry. The podcast will remain up and available to catch up on any episodes you missed, to re-listen to episodes, and to share with friends. 

THIS ISN’T GOODBYE! 

Thank you so much for listening to MESSENGER. If you’d like to keep up with MESSENGER news and with Liz Keller Whitehurst’s future projects drop us a line at: [email protected]. This information will only be used for these updates. 

 

Credits/Contacts

Author: Liz Keller Whitehurst: [email protected]For inquiries about MESSENGER or rights queries, 
contact April Eberhardt: [email protected]Book editor: Annie Tucker: [email protected]Podcast design/social media: Brandon O’Neill: oneillcreativeco.comPhotography: Joy Whitehurst: Instagram: @turquoisekoiAudio production and voice artist: Rachel Pater: richmondstoryhouse.orgOriginal music and sound direction: Wells Hanley: [email protected]Recording and audio editing: Lance Koehler: minimumwagerecording.comSpecial thanks to Wilson, Joy, Audrey and April

 

Find Us Online 

Website: messengerthenovel.comFacebook: facebook.com/messengerthenovelInstagram: instagram.com/messengerthenovelTwitter: twitter.com/messenger_novel

 

Questions to Ponder

This episode explores unintended consequences that Alana must face and accept responsibility for. Have you ever had to suffer unintended consequences because of a decision you made? How did you cope?Alana must now face many losses, much bigger than just the writing project. What are they?Where is Messenger now?

 

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Episode 14 Complete Text  📖 
(Click here to access the PDF)

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THE LAST DAY IN THE PARK

 

Alana noticed the difference immediately when she and Messenger walked through the south gate to the park that morning. Police were everywhere. Granted, a few were always scattered around, keeping an eye on things. Normally, Alana would have been happy to see them. “Police officers are our friends!” she and her classmates had chanted three times each Friday morning, when Officer Stanley visited her elementary school with the D.A.R.E. dog, McGruff. But today she remembered the strange woman’s warning about the police and felt their eyes watching Messenger and her. “The police are our friends,” Alana whispered to herself, but the back of her neck tingled. Things are getting really weird around here, she thought. Or is my guilty conscience just making me paranoid?

            She and Messenger had agreed to meet at the park to see if the fountain had been turned back on, now that spring was almost here. They walked past the Garibaldi statue, the green and blue public recycling cans rusted out at the bottoms, the old, half-dead tree, strange growths morphing in every direction. Just a few small smudges of chartreuse dotted its ancient branches. When they got farther in, Alana realized why the police were here. So many more people than usual were present and milling around.

            “Do you have any idea why there’s such a crowd? Is it some holiday?” Messenger asked her.

“I don’t think so.” It couldn’t be the website, she reasoned. She walked along the path, arm in arm with Messenger. Don’t make eye contact with any of them, she cautioned herself. But she couldn’t shake the notion that she and Messenger were being watched from all sides. 

            Alana turned back to Messenger. Her eyes bored into Alana’s, intense and strong. Alana had never seen her look so sad or so old. 

            “Are you sure you don’t know what’s going on?” Messenger asked her.

            Was this one of Messenger’s games? Did she know what Alana had posted? How? Alana struggled to read Messenger’s face while she walked and talked, pretended nothing was different, everything was fine. Normal. Even though every cell in her body knew it wasn’t.

            The fountain was not on, but a swarm of people had formed around it—some sitting along the edge, some milling around the concrete pavement. Buzzing, waiting. Anticipation crackled in the air. Alana and Messenger approached the crowd.

            “Hey! There she is!” a thin, drugged-out girl called from the side of the fountain. The crowd surged towards Alana and Messenger like a colony of ants. They were soon surrounded. 

            “Aren’t you that Messenger woman?”

            Oh, no! A wave of dread almost knocked Alana down. It was the website!

            “I want a message!”

            “Give me a message!”

            “Lady, please. You gotta help me!”

            “Does the church know what you’re doing?”

            “Do the police know what you’re doing?”

            “Who are you anyway?”

            Shock shook Alana to her core. She spun towards Messenger to find her staring right at her. Her eyes met Messenger’s amber ones and Alana realized without a shadow of a doubt that Messenger knew everything. Everything.

            Alana couldn’t face her. She took her arm. “We’ve got to get out of here,” she muttered.

            Messenger wouldn’t move. She turned to Alana, “What have you done?”

            “Nothing!” she whispered. 

            Men and women, moms and dads, old and young people, babies, kids, beggars, street people of all ages closed in on them. Not menacing, exactly. Calling and crying and demanding, growing louder every minute. 

            At first, Alana was relieved to watch four police officers elbow through the crowd and push it back, away from her and Messenger. They’ll help us, she thought. We can get away. But when she looked into their eyes, she wasn’t so sure.

            The last voice Alana remembered hearing screamed, “Old Bitch! You think you’re a Voice from God?” More hate lodged in those few words than Alana had ever heard in her life. The man’s voice sounded tinny, like he was talking underwater. 

            He was tall, about six feet, bent forward, a man on a mission, resolute, with a steady gaze. Big and chubby, rather than muscular. His eyes, his nose and mouth looked too small for his large head and face. His dark hair was curly and chopped unevenly. He followed behind them, mumbled, blathered, yelled about Satan and hell. Lots about hell. 

            They tried to ignore him and hurried to get away. The hairs on Alana’s arms stood up and the terrible energy charging the air around them filled her whole body with fear and dread. 

            Then everything fell into slow motion.

            “Don’t think you can get away from me. Oh, no you don’t! I’ve got the power here.”

            He charged. Using all his might, the man slammed into Messenger, butting her with his right shoulder. Made his hit. Alana would never forget the flat sound of contact as his body rammed Messenger’s. She flew forward from the force and hung there a moment. Alana reached out with both arms, somehow believing she could catch her. 

            But instead Messenger catapulted forward, out of Alana’s grasp, and landed face first on the concrete pavement. She slid before coming to a stop and seemed to shrink before Alana’s eyes. Her red cap had flown off, now crumpled by her side. Her completely bald head shocked Alana to the core. One shoe had fallen off, and a swollen, exposed foot hung twisted on the end of her ankle like a misshapen animal. A pool of blood stained the concrete around her head. 

            The man panted from his exertions, spun around towards the gathered crowd and snarled, “Run!” It seemed to take forever for him to finish saying that word. “Run!” he yelled again. Many people did. 

            Then everything sped up. Still screaming about Liberals and God and judgement and Satan, he charged towards Messenger’s body, now curled in a fetal position. “You are nothing. Nothing!” he cried, his scruffy face contorted, crazed.

            “Stop it!” Alana pleaded, trying to shield her. “Leave us alone.”

            But he was too fast. He drew back and kicked Messenger’s prone form with as much force as his push. He grunted, kicked her in the back, then again in the head. Her poor body offered no resistance. Alana could almost feel the kicks in her own body, delivered via his tan work boot, steel-reinforced toe, with rawhide shoestrings double-tied. 

            Before he landed the third kick, two big men from the crowd grabbed him, and within a moment the police were on him, too. They pushed him down, arms pinned behind him, his face slammed on the same pavement as Messenger’s.

            Alana dropped beside Messenger, not knowing what to do, afraid to touch her. “Help!” Alana cried. “Please help us.” Be okay, be okay, be okay, she prayed.

            An ambulance’s shrill scream cut the air. Alana jumped. Blood continued to pool around Messenger’s head, smelled like dirty iron. Alana got up the nerve to try and turn her, but someone called, “Wait! Let us help.” Others gathered around the body, and, working together, they gently turned Messenger so she could breathe. A purple-blue egg of a welt rose on the side of her head and nasty gashes and abrasions from the cement wept blood. Her nose, flattened at a weird angle, poured red, mixed with the stream from her split lip and mouth and veiled the bottom half of her face. Messenger moaned slightly, but didn’t move, didn’t open her eyes. Alana picked up a tooth that lay on the cement beside her head.

            “Messenger? Can you hear me? Can you speak?” Bystanders held their breaths with Alana, listened, but there was no response. Alana thought she saw Messenger’s ribs rise and fall, but she wasn’t sure. 

            When the EMTs arrived, they took over. Alana stepped away from Messenger. They secured Messenger’s neck and laid her onto a stretcher. Messenger’s face was already so swollen Alana wouldn’t have recognized her. Tears dripped down from the corners of each eye, made little rivers through the bloodstains.

            Alana handed the medic Messenger’s tooth. She longed to hold her hand but both palms were skinned red and dirt was ground into them, both wrists were twisted, cock-eyed. Alana wanted to whisper, “I’m sorry,” but didn’t.

            Two EMTs lifted Messenger into the back of the ambulance and closed the doors behind them. 

            Alana pulled on the arm of the head medic, writing his report. “Please,” Alana pleaded, “Can I go with her?”

            “What is your relationship?” he asked.

            “I’m, I’m . . .” Words failed her.

            He looked up from his paperwork. “Family?”

            “No.”

            “Only family,” he snapped. “You’ll have to get yourself to the hospital.”

            “No! You’ve got to let me go with her. She doesn’t have anybody else.”

            “Lady, you’re not getting the message. ONLY FAMILY.” 

            He turned and got into the front seat. The siren blasted. Alana had to cover her ears.

            She watched the ambulance carrying Messenger swim through the crowds of bystanders, leaving her behind.

 

AFTER THE ATTACK

 

Alana sat on a cold aluminum bench breathing fresh air. She stared straight ahead. After they took Messenger away, she’d run to the nearest subway, had arrived at the hospital not long after the ambulance. She’d sat in the emergency room for hours, watched one horror after another roll in through the door. But nothing was more horrible than the way Alana felt. She still couldn’t believe what had just happened right before her eyes. The attack replayed in gruesome detail in her mind and Alana couldn’t make it stop. She’d never witnessed violence like that, playing out in real time. A violence she had invited. Even though it hadn’t been confirmed, Alana had no doubt that, whoever this monster was who’d attacked Messenger, he’d learned about Messenger through Alana’s website. 

            They wouldn’t let her into the emergency room cubicle with Messenger, since they were evaluating her and the police were involved. She’d already pestered the nurse at the waiting room desk at least a dozen times for an update, but all the nurse would tell her was, “Be patient.” 

            Alana had been outside only ten minutes, but something nudged her back through the automatic doors and into the harsh fluorescent lights of the waiting room. At about the same time, a male nurse walked out from the back. He sat down beside Alana. “Are you here with the woman called Messenger?” he asked. He was a big guy, his chest bulged through his navy-blue uniform, but he had gentle eyes. Rob, Alana read on his ID tag.

            “Yes, I am! How is she doing?”

            “Still very out of it. Not unconscious, exactly. In and out. She has a concussion, broken ribs, a broken nose, contusions everywhere. She’s pretty bad.”

            “But she’s going to be all right. I mean, she’s going to make it?” Through her worry, Alana vaguely registered how the nurse’s uber-clean, hospital smell reminded her of her mom. 

            “Oh, sure. Don’t you worry. Everything’s going to be okay.”

            “Really?”

            “Yes. Just relax. It’s busy down here, as you can see. They’ll probably move her up to ICU a little later, but right now. . .”

            “ICU!” Alana cringed.

            “Take it easy. That might not happen. If it does, it’ll just be a precaution for tonight, because of her age and status. You can’t go up since you’re not family, but don’t worry. I bet they’ll move her down to a regular floor by morning. Then you can see her.”

            Alana finally exhaled for the first time since all this had happened. “Thank God. Some good news!”

            Rob paused. Alana had the feeling he wanted to add more, but instead he said, “I’d better get back to work.” 

            Did something happen that he isn’t saying? About Messenger or the attack? “Are you sure you’re telling me all you know?” she asked.

            Rob nodded. “That’s all for now.” He smiled. Even though she’d just met him, Alana thought she read pity in his face. 

            “Well, I can’t thank you enough for taking the time to come out here. You’ve been so kind.”

            “That’s why I’m here. Listen, why don’t you go on home tonight and come back tomorrow bright and early? No offense, but you look exhausted. They’re going to keep working on her down here for a while. We’re waiting for some specialists to come down, then they’ll probably order more tests. It’s going to be a long night. I’m sure that’s what she’d want you to do. Just go on home and get some sleep. Try not to worry. You’ve been through a rough time yourself today, haven’t you?”

            Tears filled Alana’s eyes. “Yes,” she whispered. 

            “Okay. Head on home now.”

            Alana hesitated, but what Rob had said made sense. “Can I give you my number? Will you text or call if anything changes? I mean, I know I’m not family or anything.”

            “I’ll call.” He jotted down the number she gave him on his hand. “Have a good rest. She’ll see you tomorrow.”

            “Will she be conscious by then? I mean, I know you can’t say for sure, but would you expect it?”

            “I think she probably will.”

            Alana’s heart leapt. “If she wakes up, will you be sure and tell her I was here?”

            “Of course.”

            So, Alana left. She walked out the emergency doors, intended to do as Rob suggested, but suddenly felt dizzy and weak. She sat down on the aluminum bench again, breathed in and out, ordered her head to stop spinning. The cold metal beneath her helped steady her. But she realized she wasn’t alone.                    

            A group of reporters, some with video cameras, surrounded her bench. “Aren’t you Alana Peterson,” a guy with thick, black glasses called, his voice loud and jarring. “Weren’t you the one posting about this Messenger person who was attacked? We just want to ask you a few questions.”      

            She sprang to attention. “No.”

            “Oh yes you are. I saw you all over social media. You’re Alana Peterson.”

            “No, you’re wrong. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

            “It was you. You just posted a website about her a week ago. The Messenger Files. And you’ve been asking for first person accounts for weeks. You know it’s you!”

            “No! Leave me alone.”

            Several others ran towards her, yelled questions all at the same time, took photos. Alana held up her arm and covered her face. When they wouldn’t leave her alone, she ran off down the street, but they followed. Alana ran and ran. She couldn’t tell if she was panting or sobbing. She found herself at Ed’s, saw him mopping through the glass door. Alana burst in and fell into his arms. He didn’t ask one question; he just locked the door behind her.

 

LATER THAT NIGHT

 

Even though the damage had already been done, the first thing Alana did when she got back to her apartment was to take The Messenger Files website down. Later that night, since there was no chance of sleep, Alana steeled herself to go online and see what she could learn about what had happened. She sat in her dark bedroom at her little desk, the glow of the screen illuminated her face. A local crime alert listed the following information.

            Jane Doe. Victim of violent attack in park. Female, undetermined race. Approximately 60 years of age. No identification. Assumed homeless. Height: five-foot-4 inches. Weight: approximately 160 pounds. Perpetrator obviously harmful to self and others. Victim transported to hospital by ambulance. No word yet of condition. No evidence perpetrator knew victim. May have had knowledge of reported suspicious activities victim was involved in.

            There were also some very unflattering photos of Alana hiding her face, with a caption: Journalist Blogger Investigates Mysterious Messenger beneath them. Alana cringed and immediately clicked to another link. 

            The police had identified the attacker as Rickie Brokoff, a member of The Church of the One True Light, a right-wing sect scary enough the police and FBI were very familiar with them. Their leader, Pastor Mike, also under investigation, had apparently called his followers to attack and destroy any perceived threats to what they defined as the true faith, to step out and take action, violent, if necessary, against heathens and blasphemers. To take a stand for God.

            The Church of the One True Light was against just about anything you might consider socially progressive. Their website slammed celebrities who presented themselves as spiritual seekers, any writers or even religious leaders who veered the least bit from a completely literal interpretation of the Bible, which was written by man, wholly and entirely inspired by God. Pastor Mike viewed any natural event or disaster as God’s judgement against human depravity.

               Alana read every single word and realized that, crazy or devout or both, Rickie Brokoff had not just chosen a vulnerable person to attack at random in the park today. Undoubtedly, her website had tipped him off. He’d probably read about Messenger’s work, decided she was violating numerous laws of God. All the information Alana had provided and the growing interest in Messenger, had provoked him to act. To hurt Messenger.

            But then yet another shock sounded through her. Oh God, no! Could Rickie Brokoff be that anonymous troll who’d posted his angry account of receiving a message on her blog so long ago? Had he been seething with rage ever since then, seen The Messenger Files website and made the connection, read the list of places to find Messenger thatAlana had included on the website to try and prove that Messenger was real? Chosen the park?

            Alana closed her computer screen and stared at the bedroom wall in front of her. Everything made sense. Posting her website had worked as a signal, a beacon. It was exactly what Rickie and his group had watched for. He’d been waiting since the day Messenger gave him his message, she realized now. All he’d needed was the list PLACES TO FIND MESSENGER. Then it was just a matter of time. I handed her to him, Alana concluded. 

            This was all her fault. 

 

THE NEXT DAY

 

When she woke up the next morning, Alana felt like she’d been thrown down and kicked around. Rob had never called. She’d viewed every hour on the clock in the glow of her phone. Tossed. Prayed. Rickie Brokoff’s face, his grunts, his weird voice, his scream, “Run!” haunted her. She watched Messenger’s body slammed down on the pavement, her swollen face and flattened nose, the huge goose egg on her forehead where she’d hit. The blood. Alana tossed and turned, waited impatiently for the faintest wisps of first light, the promise that day would come soon and then she could go back to the hospital and see Messenger. 

            And confess. That was the first thing she’d do. She couldn’t wait. She’d mentally rehearsed what she’d say. I’m so sorry, Messenger. I feel so terrible. Please forgive me. I shouldn’t have done it. I should have listened to you and waited to post it. But I had no idea this would happen. If I had, I never would have done it. It’s just, you abandoned me. At least it felt that way. But that’s no excuse. Please forgive me. I’ll do anything. Somehow, she was determined to make everything right. 

            Alana headed out of her apartment, took the train and stopped at the Flower Lady’s. “Terrible, horrible scourge,” the Flower Lady muttered, teeth clenched. She added a few more red carnations to Alana’s bunch, then tied the stems with raffia. “Give her my love. Ed and I’ll be over after lunch hour rush, once I sell the rest of these. Won’t be long, thanks to you.” Alana passed Ostap on the street having a smoke and he told her he’d come by the hospital later. 

            In the bright, spring light, almost blinding but so welcomed after all those monotone gray winter days, Alana felt her spirits lift. She glided through the hospital’s sliding glass doors. The elevator was open, waiting. She smiled at the people who shared the ride—a young man gripped a pink balloon, a little boy in his other arm wore an “I’m the Big Brother” T-shirt covered in bright red letters. Happy, expectant faces. They carried gift bags, a tray of food from the cafeteria. Everybody looked up while the elevator climbed. 

            Alana got off on the eleventh floor. She’d asked for Messenger’s room number at the visitors’ desk and was thrilled to learn she wasn’t in ICU. She winded her way back towards room 1144. As she walked down the fluorescent-lit hall, she realized this was the first time, since the very beginning of her search, that she actually knew where Messenger was. 

            She turned the corner, knocked gently on the door. When there was no answer, she opened it. A chill ran through her. Morning sun shone through the double window but the neatly-made bed was empty. The room smelled newly-cleaned. Alana checked the room number again, checked the note she’d made on her phone. No—1144, this was the right room. Her throat closed up and sick panic rose. Had she died? In the night, all alone? Alana ran out the door and back down the hall, grabbed the arm of the first nurse she saw.

            “Where’s the woman who was in 1144?” Her voice shook. She could hardly get the words out.

            The nurse sighed. “Can you believe she snuck out on us?” 

            “What? But she had a concussion. Broken ribs. She needed tests.”

            The nurse shrugged. “Don’t I know it! She had no business doing that. Somebody most definitely helped her break out, but we don’t know how.” The nurse’s long brown hair hung down in her face and she flipped her head to the right. 

            “Broke out?”

            “Yep. She wasn’t even conscious when the night nurse saw her last. She was one inch short of ICU. She would have been in there, too, if it hadn’t already been full last night. So, what do they do to us? Put a critically ill patient on our floor, on top of all the others we’ve got to tend.” She flipped the hair again. “It’s nuts! She had to yank the IV out of her arm, unhook every single monitor. Not to mention the fact that, with broken ribs, she’d be in terrible pain. It just doesn’t add up. Somebody would have to basically carry her out, the shape she was in.”

            “Did anybody come into her room?”

            “The night nurse said she saw this skinny old lady in some wild get-up, tall but no bigger than a minute, dart out of the room and down the hall before anybody could stop her. But the nurse told the police there was no way that old lady could carry her out. It had to be somebody else.”

            Alana breathed, willed herself to stop shaking, but it didn’t do any good. “She’s really gone.”

            “Yep. Only thing she left was a message on a little scrap of paper on the bedside table. ‘Thank you very much. Okay—bye.’ The police took it. They’re out looking for her now.”

            “Good luck,” Alana murmured.

            The nurse flipped her hair. “I tell you—these people. We work so hard to pull them back from the brink. But you know what? She’ll be right back in Emergency, worse off than ever. What can you do?” She flipped again. “And who’s paying for it? You and me. That’s who. The responsible ones! We’ve gotta take care of everybody else. Government takes it out of us. They just don’t get it.”

            “Why didn’t somebody call me?” Alana demanded. “Rob said he would.”

            “Who?”

            “The nurse. Rob. Big guy, really nice. Down in the Emergency Room.”

            “You must be mistaken. There’s no Rob in ER.”

            “Oh, come on. He talked with me last night when Messenger was still down there. Rob!” 

            “Nope. No male nurses in the ER right now.”

            What? Alana gave up. Nothing made sense. She couldn’t talk with this nurse a minute longer. She shoved her flowers into the nurse’s arms and managed to get down the hall. She rode down in the elevator, alone this time, sped out the doors and back to her aluminum bench. It reeked of nicotine, even though a sign read, “Tobacco-free Zone.” Alana sat, steadied herself, gulped air. She scanned the area for reporters who might be lurking but saw none.

            Where was Messenger now? The police wouldn’t find her if she didn’t want to be found, Alana knew that much. At least Messenger wasn’t dead. And she was apparently conscious. Who had broken her out? Jackie? But how? It didn’t really matter. Once again, Messenger was gone.

            She’s left. She’s left me again, Alana thought. And her guilt, that choking, sick feeling in her stomach and throat overtook her. She’d disrespected Messenger’s wishes. Betrayed her. A total breach of trust. Messenger had loved her. Yes. That was the only word to use. 

            All of Alana’s flimsy justifications fell away and she couldn’t collect herself. Alana always thought that was a funny expression. Her guilt, fears, regrets, sadnesses, anger, heartache, plans, strategies—all circled around her head like a baby’s mobile over a crib. She could almost see them dangling. Try as she might to bring some order to them, to grasp one and run with it, she couldn’t. The worries gathered, circled her and the bench, so she couldn’t move, decide what to do, where to go, whom to ask, where to begin. She held on to the aluminum bench for dear life, growing colder by the minute. 

 

ALANA’S NOTEBOOK: 

SEVEN FEARS

Is Messenger all right? Why did she leave the hospital?Who helped her? Jackie? Who else?Is there permanent damage? Brain damage from the concussion?Did somebody kidnap her? Somebody who wanted her gone?IS SHE GONE FOR GOOD? Will Ed forgive me?

SEVEN CONCLUSIONS

IT’S ALL MY FAULT! Everything that’s happened, I caused. SHE TOLD ME NOT TO DO IT. I should have listened, should have anticipated how things could turn out. I knew something bad was going to happen. It was just a vague feeling, but I knew it. And ignored it.Messenger is gone but undoubtedly still suffering from her many injuries.Darker forces may be at work here.Jackie is involved.If the messages stop, a light in this dark city (in this dark world) has gone out. Messenger’s work for positive change with the messages is set back. No—halted!The Clinamen won’t happen now. I’ve ruined it.NO, Ed won’t.

 

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