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  THE KEY TO THE FUTURE

  Dr. John Sullivan is the medical director of the Philadelphia General Hospital’s Alzheimer’s unit. He’s also a member of the West Philadelphia Historical Society, spearheading an effort to document as much information as possible regarding the hospital’s Franklin Wing, an abandoned section of the medical complex set to be razed. During his research, Dr. Sullivan acquaints himself with Dr. Zachary Schmidt, an eccentric and at times controversial physician who worked in the Franklin Wing until his mysterious disappearance on July 4th, 1976. There, in Dr. Schmidt’s former office, Sullivan discovers a time tunnel capable of transporting an individual into the future. The time portal offers Dr. Sullivan the unique opportunity to not only aid in his fight against Alzheimer’s disease, but also save the life of a terminally ill patient. Unfortunately, his efforts are hindered by the Pagano Destruction Company, a local firm of dysfunctional characters in charge of the Franklin Wing demolition, firmly set on a lucrative project deadline. As the demolition date approaches, Dr. Sullivan suddenly finds himself trapped in the future, forced to make life and death decisions in an attempt to return home safely.

  The Key to the Future offers the reader a glance into the year 2065, both from a medical and technology standpoint. The storyline touches upon the fight against Alzheimer’s disease and the plausibility of forward time travel. The narrative challenges the reader to re-evaluate their concept of both history and time.

  THE KEY TO THE FUTURE

  A NOVEL

  By

  Michael Banas

  THE KEY TO THE FUTURE

  Copyright © 2019 Michael Banas

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-0-9890713-6-9

  Also by Michael Banas

  In Plain Sight

  Last Words Spoken

  Twelve Men in the Huddle

  The Chief Resident

  The Center of Excellence

  Pennsylvania’s Finest

  Contents

  About THE KEY TO THE FUTURE

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Also by Michael Banas

  Chapter One – Doctor Sullivan

  Chapter Two – The Historical Society

  Chapter Three – Pagano Destruction

  Chapter Four – The Franklin Wing

  Chapter Five – Aidan

  Chapter Six – The Barber of Silverwood

  Chapter Seven – The Sullivan Gang

  Chapter Eight – Uncle Frank

  Chapter Nine – Testing 1-2-3

  Chapter Ten – The Baseball Stitch

  Chapter Eleven – A Visitor in the Night

  Chapter Twelve – Word From Above

  Chapter Thirteen – Ingrid

  Chapter Fourteen – Ground Zero

  Chapter Fifteen – The Twin Paradox

  Chapter Sixteen – The Volunteer

  Chapter Seventeen – Vincent Romeo

  Chapter Eighteen – The Cardinal Rules

  Chapter Nineteen – Utter Bliss

  Chapter Twenty – Blood Brothers

  Chapter Twenty-one: The Prophecy

  Chapter Twenty-two: Operation Firecracker

  Chapter Twenty-three: In Loving Memory

  Chapter Twenty-four: CEO Covington

  Chapter Twenty-five: Winky’s Call

  Chapter Twenty-six: Do You Trust Me?

  Chapter Twenty-seven: Side by Side

  Chapter Twenty-eight: R.S.

  Chapter Twenty-nine: The Final Clue

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  DOCTOR SULLIVAN

  “Mrs. Appleton, what’s the earliest memory of your childhood?”

  “Excuse me, doctor? I’m having trouble hearing you.”

  “I said, what’s your earliest recollection in life?” asked Dr. Sullivan loudly. “As a child, that is?”

  “Well, that’s a difficult question to answer,” responded the frail patient lying in bed. “I’m ninety-four years old.”

  Dr. John Sullivan paused, allowing his patient to search her memory banks. Random noise from a nursing station just outside the door filtered into the room. On the patient’s nightstand stood a collection of family photos.

  “That’s one of the two questions I ask all patients on the Alzheimer’s floor,” whispered Sullivan to the medical resident at his side. “The short-term memory is gone, but the long term is always there.”

  “Well, I can remember being a little girl and my mother running into the kitchen yelling for me to come outside,” stated Mrs. Appleton.

  “Yes. Go on.”

  “She yelled Gertrude, come outside quick, and look into the sky!”

  “Interesting,” said Dr. Sullivan. “What happened next?”

  “I ran out to the back porch and immediately heard a strange noise overhead, a whirring sound. Then I looked up into the sky.”

  “Was it sunny?” asked Sullivan.

  “Yes, now that you ask… it was sunny,” responded the patient with a smile. “I had to squint from the afternoon sun.”

  “And then what?”

  “I saw it.”

  “What, Mrs. Appleton? What did you see?”

  “An airplane,” said the patient while looking at her medical team. “It was painted light blue and I could see the pilot in the open seat. He flew right over the house and waved at us. Can you imagine?”

  “Wonderful,” said Sullivan with a clap of his hands. “You must have been thrilled.”

  “We were, doctor. It was rare to see an automobile in the neighborhood, let alone an airplane. We had never seen one before! I’ll never forget that day. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Mother even wrote a letter to Aunt Lottie in Georgia, just to tell her.”

  “Very good, Mrs. Appleton,” concluded Dr. Sullivan as he rose from the bedside. “Tomorrow in group session, I’m going to ask you more about that day, O.K.?”

  “Sure. Come to think of it, I almost tripped over my dog running out onto the porch that day.”

  “What was the dog’s name?”

  “Penny. She was all black with a spot of white under her chin.”

  “You see? You do have a good memory Mrs. Appleton. It just takes a little nudge to activate it.”

  “I hope you are right doctor. I’m trying my best.”

  “Tonight, as homework, I want you to think about the most memorable day of your life,” said Sullivan. “A day you’ll never forget…”

  “The Battle of the Bulge!” yelled Mrs. Appleton.

  “Excuse me?”

  “The Battle of the Bulge,” continued the patient. “I’ll never forget it.”

  “The Battle of the Bulge? Why?”

  “My Walter was in it.”

  “Your husband?”

  “Yes. He sent me a long letter just before the battle, saying how dangerous it was over there. It was awful. He even told me to order a coffin in his size. That’s how confident he was about dying. Oh, I sat by the radio for days waiting for news.”

  “The majority of patients her age will recall the war,” said Sullivan to the resident. “It was the defining event of their generation.”

  “So many good boys died over there,” continued Gertrude Appleton with a shake of her head. “A real shame. They left right after high school graduation. I can remember the train leaving the station. We were all waving and crying.”

  “And your husband, Mrs. Appleton, was he safe?”

  “Yes, he made it. He lost all of his hearing in one ear, but compared to some other
families in the neighborhood, we were darn lucky. He only described the battle to me once, then never spoke of it again.”

  “Very good, Mrs. Appleton,” said Sullivan. “Thank you for sharing that recollection with us. Now, I want you to concentrate on those two events overnight. O.K.?”

  “Yes,” said Mrs. Appleton, now looking at the medical resident. “Young lady, can you please pull that afghan over me. I’m catching a chill.”

  “Sure I can,” said Dr. Olivia Garcia while covering up the patient. “There you go, Mrs. Appleton.”

  The attending physician and his chief resident left the room and entered the nursing station. A dimming of the overhead lights signified quiet time on the Alzheimer’s floor.

  “That’s a wrap, Dr. Garcia,” said Sullivan. “Rounds tomorrow morning at nine o’clock.”

  “Great,” replied Olivia Garcia. “I like the way you gave Mrs. Appleton an assignment for the night. Hopefully she’ll be thinking about that airplane.”

  “Geriatrics can be a rewarding field,” said Sullivan. “You just have to look for the little things. Be patient. That’s the key to becoming a good geriatrician. Always remember my personal mantra.”

  “Which is?”

  “I call it the 3Rs: Recall, Respect and Rejuvenate.”

  “Wow, that’s beautiful,” stated Garcia. “I’m seriously thinking of going into the field. I have to decide in less than three months. It’s between geriatrics and cardiology.”

  “Great options. I love caring for the elderly. But then again, I’m the only geriatrician on the Philadelphia General Hospital staff. So it’s not a profession in vogue.”

  “Sometimes you have to break from the herd,” said Olivia with a smile. “Good-bye Dr. Sullivan.”

  “Smart girl,” said the lone nurse in the station area keying data into a computer. “I like her.”

  “I agree, Nurse Adams,” said Sullivan. “She connects well with the patients.”

  An awkward pause occurred between the two health care professionals, each searching for their next line. The nursing station was desolate, the Alzheimer’s floor not a hotbed of activity within the hospital. The ward was located in a remote wing of the Philadelphia General.

  “How’s your mom?” asked Nurse Adams.

  “She’s hanging in there,” responded Sullivan. “Thank you for asking.”

  “Tell her I said hello.”

  “I will,” said Sullivan with a nod of his head. “She’ll appreciate that. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Yes. Have a good night,” replied Adams with a push of her glasses up her nose. “Goodnight, Dr. Sullivan.”

  The physician walked down the empty corridor toward the elevator, his new shoes squeaking on the tile floor. Just outside the elevator hung a sign, welcoming visitors to the floor:

  Welcome to the Alzheimer’s Ward

  Philadelphia General Hospital

  Dedicated to the Memory of Your Loved One

  Director – John F. Sullivan, M.D.

  Next to the sign was a picture of Sullivan, taken five years ago during the ward’s dedication ceremony. It was his first year in medical practice.

  The elevator ride down to the lobby stopped on the third floor, allowing Dr. Vincent Pagano to step in. At his side strolled a female physician assistant, wearing a white lab coat atop high heels. Pagano and Sullivan were medical school classmates, having graduated together ten years ago.

  “Sully, how’s it going up in memory lane?” asked Pagano. His assistant laughed at the comment yet did not look at Sullivan. She stood close to the orthopedic surgeon’s side.

  “Very good,” replied Dr. Sullivan, having long grown accustomed to his colleague’s crude humor. “A ninety-year old patient told me today the first time she ever saw an airplane in the sky.”

  “Whoa,” said Pagano. “Tell me more!”

  “The pilot in the open cockpit waved at her.”

  “How about the first time she got laid?” asked the surgeon. “Ask her if she remembers that? Maybe her husband was watching Babe Ruth on T.V.”

  “I’m not going to respond to that comment,” said Sullivan as the doors opened into the crowded hospital lobby.

  “By the way Sully, sorry to hear about the judge’s decision. Demolition is in T-minus thirty days. I hope you’ll be there.”

  The trio stepped into the crowded hospital lobby.

  “The scrap heap of history,” laughed Pagano as he strolled away in the opposite direction. “Sorry, Sully.”

  Outside the hospital Dr. Sullivan stopped at a corner food truck, picking up a salad, two hot dogs and a small gyro. He headed west toward home, his house a large double block situated between 43rd and 44th Street, just off the Philadelphia General campus. While walking up the concrete steps he noticed the front bedroom window to be open, a good sign.

  “Mom, I’m home,” shouted Sullivan as he walked in the door, shuffling some junk mail through his hands. A parakeet in the kitchen began to chirp excitedly.

  “She’s dozing,” said an elderly nurse walking down the stairwell. “Had a rough day.”

  “How so, Ella?”

  “Nauseous, bowels all clogged up. Starting to develop a cough,” said the visiting nurse as she gathered her purse. “Said she wants to die.”

  “She’s been saying that for two years. Did she take her medications?”

  “Yes, but under protest,” said the nurse with a grin. “She’s a stubborn one.”

  “Thanks Ella, have a nice evening.”

  “You’re welcome, Dr. Sullivan.”

  “Oh Ella, I almost forgot. Did you remember about tomorrow night? I have to give a lecture at 7 P.M.”

  “I remembered doctor,” said the nurse as she walked out to door. “Been doing those memory exercises you taught me. I’m good until 9 P.M.”

  “Thank you,” replied Sullivan. He walked into the kitchen and placed the salad in his mother’s favorite bowl. “Mom, I’ve got some salad for you, extra tomatoes.”

  “Doctor John Sullivan,” chirped the parakeet. “My son, the doctor!”

  “Mom?” shouted Sullivan, now walking up the stairs with the food on a dinner tray.

  He entered the front room of the home to see his mother sitting up in bed and staring out the window, a cat curled up beside her. A fresh spring breeze helped ventilate the stuffy confines. Her eyes were open but she didn’t look at her son as he approached the bedside. The roar of the #42 bus shook the house as it passed by, screeching to a halt at the bottom of the hill.

  “I’m ready for the bone yard,” stated Martha Sullivan. “Call the grave digger.”

  “Ella said you had a cough. What’s going on?”

  “Nurse Ella is an angel, having to clean up after me day in and day out. I couldn’t make it to the toilet again today… messed up the sheets.”

  “She’s a great nurse. We’re lucky to have her.”

  “Did you get the gyro?”

  “Yes,” answered Sullivan, now placing the meal before his mother, the cat suddenly alert.

  “A fresh salad for you and one gyro… no onions, for Moses.”

  “Have you ever seen a cat that likes gyros?”

  “He’s your best friend Mom. Always at your side.”

  The trio ate dinner together in silence as a popular game show blared from the television atop a cluttered vanity. It was Mrs. Sullivan’s 445th consecutive show – a streak she was quite proud of. Next to the T.V. was a framed picture of a soldier in uniform, draped with a Purple Heart.

  “Somebody called to remind you about a talk tomorrow night,” said Mrs. Sullivan. “He didn’t need a call back.”

  “Must have been Fred, he’s all upset about the final ruling to tear down the General Hospital’s old Franklin Wing.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The Philadelphia General’s Franklin Wing, they’re finally going to tear it down.”

  “The Franklin Wing… where I used to work?”

  “
Yep, your old wing Mom. I’m giving a historical lecture on Dr. Schmidt, whose office was in the basement of the Franklin Wing. He was quite the eccentric.”

  “That place is haunted. Stay out of there,” stammered Mrs. Sullivan with a sudden sense of apprehension.

  “Oh Mom,” laughed the doctor. “That’s folklore, trust me. I’ve been down there a bunch of times and guess what? No ghosts.”

  “They never found his body,” said Mrs. Sullivan with a sudden clarity in her eyes. “I was a nurse on the Franklin for a long time. I remember the day Dr. Schmidt disappeared. He vanished into thin air.”

  “I’m just trying to document as much as possible before they implode the building. So much history will be lost. It’s a real shame.”

  “When are they going to knock it down?”

  “In a few weeks.”

  “He won’t allow it.”

  “Who Mom? Who won’t allow it?”

  “The ghost of Zachary Schmidt,” replied his mother while stroking Moses. “He won’t allow his office to be destroyed. Trust me. I knew Dr. Schmidt very well.”

  “He’s dead, Mom.”

  “No, he’s not,” retorted the octogenarian with confidence. She pulled Moses a bit closer to her side. “He kept reappearing, even after they said he was gone. He’s still roaming around in that basement of his.”

  “Did you ever see him again?”

  Mrs. Sullivan didn’t respond, as if trying to remember events from long ago. Slowly she shook her head with a frown across her face.

  “Mom, do you remember the first time you ever saw an airplane in the sky?”

  “Oh, don’t start with the memory stuff,” moaned his mother with a wave of a gnarled, arthritic hand. “If there is one thing that still works in this old body – it’s my memory. Now put on channel 48. The Pugs are playing.”

  “Sure Mom,” said her son while switching channels “Did you ever see Babe Ruth on television?” Despite his mother’s love for the game, John Sullivan never cared for sports.

  “Don’t be silly, television wasn’t invented then.”

  “Right, I guess not,” came the reply. “Very good Mom, I’ll see you during the seventh inning stretch. Call if you need anything.”