A Peculiar String of Bizarre Dreams

Chapter 30: Oranges and Pinks

Warming my hands on the coffee cup, I walk out in search of Dr. Langdon.

I find him quite easily in the same spot, all by himself, charring his lungs to death. His hair appears more disheveled than the last time I saw him in the corridor.

"Hello, Dr. Langdon. My name is Jemma," I introduce myself as he glances at me with eyes clouded in smoke.

"Hey, take a few steps back, will you? This smoke will kill you."

I frown at him but do as he says. At least he's talking to me, in any other instance a doctor like him wouldn't have the time to make casual conversation with a passersby.

"If it will kill me, what will it do to you?" I mumble sourly.

"What makes you think I'm still alive?" He straightens his back to stand taller as if daring death to annihilate him.

"Because of the smoke. You still have living lungs that are exhaling all that smoke."

"Not for long, Jemma, not for long."

Does the doctor have suicidal tendencies? Should I tell Nurse Eliot to keep an eye on him? Does she already know?

"How old are you?" He asks as his fingers artfully hold the cigarette to the side, and he attempts to get a better look at me through the haze.

"I'm eighteen."

An abrupt silence ensues during which he resumes to puff on his cigarette and I stand about two feet away from him, drinking my coffee. He makes sure he exhales away from me, even though the smoke is polluting the air in my vicinity.

Then, he breaks the lull, "You go to school, kid?"

"I just graduated," I tell him shortly.

I realize that one of my hands has found its way back to the sapphire locket, while the other holds the now-forgotten coffee. I don't feel nervous, but I am curious.

"Will you go to University or college or something?" He asks.

I nod but decide not to tell him that I'm going to Oxford. I'm not sure it even matters.

"I'm going to study history," I explain, "but I'm also a biology major."

"That explains the interest in my smoke-exhaling lungs," he remarks cheerily as he puffs his cigarette down to an inch.

"They say you're the best in your department. A pulmonolist and an oncologist?" I ask trying not to sound derisive.

"That's me," He says with a sigh devoid of smoke.

"So you don't practice what you preach?"

"I don't think anyone cares about that, Jemma," he says bitterly.

"Historians do. Hitler practiced what he preached."

The doctor laughs and throws away the cigarette stub in the bin.

"Well, I'm not a historian."

"You're a doctor, right? An important one too." I pause uncertainly for a moment. "Can I ask you a question, Dr. Langdon."

"Call me Ransom. And why do you think I'm important?" He lights another cigarette, possibly the hundredth of the day.

"A few hours ago in the corridor, you walked past me. You were asking for scrubs and Nurse Eliot went to help you."

At this, his dark eyes grow warm with understanding, "Aah, you met Eliot. The nurses in the department flatter me. They're the kindest people you'll ever meet."

"So, can I ask you a question?" I say persistently while he takes a rather long puff of his cigarette.

"Sure you can ask me a question, I've already asked you my share."

"As a doctor you must have to make decisions all the time, life or death decisions. How do you do it? Does it make you anxious?"

He smokes his cigarette for a while before answering me, "I simply take my chances and make the best decision I can. It wasn't always like that, but I'm more confident now about what I do."

"So you're not like House — you're self-confident but you follow the book and don't break any rules...you're like Wilson!"

Ransom stares at me like I'm a mythical creature from another realm. Which technically, I am.

"I don't know these people. Should I know who they are?"

"If you're familiar with pop culture references from the future, you'll know who they are. At some point in 2004, look out for Dr. Gregory House and Dr. James Wilson. It's a medical TV show."

Ransom decides to play along, "Right, and you're the producer of this show, I assume."

"No, I am just a follower."

"Of a show from the future?"

"Precisely."

He takes a few puffs of his cigarette and adds, "What does it matter to me anyway. I've barely got the time."

"You find the time to smoke. Maybe you could put it to better use."

"Acquainting myself with a certain year's TV shows hardly sounds productive," he smirks.

"Don't you ever read for leisure?"

"I used to, before scientific reading took over my life."

"Can you remember the last time you enjoyed a book?" I ask candidly.

He thinks about that for a couple more puffs.

"Neuromancer by William Gibson, in the late 1980's. I read it in med school I think."

"Great choice! So you found the time to read in med school but you can't anymore."

"You've read Neuromancer? By William Gibson?"

I nod at him, puzzled at his surprise.

"Why is that so hard to believe?"

"Nothing...it's quite refreshing actually. I don't know many young people who've read that book."

"Well now you do."

I don't think Ransom is a Bijou Maven. He's simply an ordinary genius living among ordinary people. How can I veer this conversation to his expertise on gemstones? On the surface, he's most definitely an expert on the diseases he specializes in, not in gemstones. Plus, this is my realm, just in 1998. And in my almost-two-decade-long-life, I've never come across any Bijoux Mavens who live in my realm.

I watch Ransom drop his dying cigarette on the ground and crush its embers with his heel.

"Why didn't you throw it in the trash like you did before? Littering really?" My brows raise in anguish.

"It's my way of showing that in the end, I always win," he tells me as he continues to stomp out the ashes.

"I hope you do win, Ransom," I say gravely.

The sun is about to set, the darkening sky is streaked with oranges and pinks. I can still smell the rain in the air.