Lower Level Three

“Mr. Nassar, Dr. Tepper will see you now,” announced the administrator’s assistant from behind his computer. 

“Oh, thank you,” replied Salim Nassar who anxiously stood up from his seat and slowly paced toward the doctor’s office. He continued to ponder why he, a volunteer, had been summoned by such a high-ranking hospital official. Salim’s sweaty hand reached for the doorknob and he entered the large office.

To his right were numerous shiny plaques and awards furnished in a large glass display and to the left was a massive picture window which perfectly framed the tenth-floor view of the surrounding Manhattan neighborhood. From behind a dark wooden desk, Dr. Tepper waved for Salim to enter. 

“Mr. Nassar, thank you for accepting my invitation. Please come take a seat.” 

Though outwardly hesitant, there was no refusing someone of Dr. Tepper’s position and stature, and Salim carefully lowered himself into the cushioned chair to the doctor’s right. 

Dr. Kenneth Tepper sized up the lanky nineteen-year-old, initially looking him up and down as he approached, and now uncomfortable staring directly at the seated young man’s face. He allowed a dozen or so seconds to pass before clarifying his purpose. 

“Salim, to be perfectly honest, you may be the first volunteer I’ve ever found the need to meet with personally in my twenty plus years here at Memorial. Under most typical circumstances I’d contact HR and let them take care of all issues. But in your situation, I simply could not resist.” 

The young man, dressed in khaki pants, a navy-blue scrub top, and high-top sneakers attempted to hide his increased perspiration and inhaled a deep breath while he awaited his fate. Noting the panicked scare in his eyes, only then did Dr. Tepper realize Salim’s impression and decided to immediately let him off the hook. 

“Yesterday, I received a letter from a patient which I’d really like to share with you,” the doctor began to explain while reaching for the handwritten note. “This is important not only for what it says, but also because of who it’s from. This letter was written by Charles Pendergrass... Does that name ring a bell?” 

Salim briefly searched his memory for the name which immediately stood out from amongst the patients he’d assisted on the medical ward during his tenure as a hospital volunteer. He shook his head affirmatively. 

“Well, let me further educate you for a moment. Dr. Charles Pendergrass was a renowned physician within the field of Pathology and is responsible for many of the techniques used in the modern-day autopsy; a few of which still bear his name today. He was also the Chairman of Pathology at this institution for almost forty years before he retired at the age of eighty-two. Truly a remarkable individual,” described Dr. Tepper. 

Despite the introduction, Salim attempted to read the doctor’s tone and facial expressions as he remained unclear regarding the true nature of their meeting. He smiled and nodded politely, acknowledging his new understanding of Dr. Pendergrass’ achievements and the gentleman in question. 

“So, Salim, it’s ok I call you Salim, right... Well, Salim, can you imagine my surprise when I receive a letter from my old colleague who wanted to share his experiences as a patient while at my hospital? You know what, why don’t I just cut to the chase, and read his letter.”  

Dr. Tepper removed a pair of narrow reading glasses from the pocket of his blue stripped suit and placed them on the tip of his nose. Salim looked up at the doctor who was quite tall, even seated behind his desk. He had a thick, grey-tinged beard and extremely broad shoulders. While Salim anxiously awaited the nature of this letter, his mind wandered and he considered whether Dr. Tepper had ever played football or wrestled in high school or college. The volunteer wiped his moist palms on his pants and listened as Dr. Tepper held up the letter and started reading. 

“My dearest former peers, friends, and colleagues. It was important I compose this letter highlighting an individual who stood out during my recent stay at Downtown Memorial Hospital. And while I acknowledge that I possibly wouldn’t be alive without the medical expertise and care of the doctors and nurses, today I choose to recognize a young man who likely goes under-recognized every day he walks the very same halls I once did.  

The man I refer to is named Salim, his last name I cannot recall, and his role was to bring me water almost every afternoon. And while he performed his task appropriately, this is not why I have taken the time to bring him to your attention. This young volunteer taught me an important lesson, one which a doctor who spent more time with cadavers than live patients could only learn years after his retirement. 

Sadly, my wife, Greta, passed away two years ago and my only son lives abroad with his family. As such, I have limited family support. When I was recently hospitalized this past month with a small bowel obstruction, the only person who visited me on a regular basis was Salim. After all, the doctors and nurses work different shifts and change assignments, but every afternoon, Salim knocked on the door asking if I needed a refill.  

One such afternoon, after fulfilling his duties, I inquired about the weather outside and Salim walked over and opened the shades. I immediately realized why they were drawn as a fierce sun shone through. I commented to the young man how Greta was my sun goddess and that we had been married over fifty-five years before she died. Despite countless rooms he needed to service, Salim’s genuine humanity immediately came to light as he did something no one else did during my two weeks stay; he recognized my situation and sat down in the chair beside my bed. 

Almost every day at around four thirty, the young man would enter my room, top off my pitcher with ice cold water, and ask whether I could use some company for a few minutes. Salim was so considerate that he’d even caution me if he wasn’t coming in on a certain day. And while I knew he had other tasks to accomplish, with limited human contact, I accepted his offer every time. 

The purpose of this letter is not to discuss the nature of our conversations, which ran the gamut from his family’s immigration from Lebanon, to sports, his ambitions, and of course, how could I not talk about my beloved Greta. Salim shared with me his aspirations to become a doctor, and when the time comes, I highly recommend his application to our affiliated medical school be strongly considered. This young man is a truly unique, compassionate human being, who I believe is responsible for my recovery. The future of our profession and our world would be in good hands if there were more future doctors like my friend, Salim.  

I would also like to thank the nurses, doctors, and everyone at Downtown Memorial who participated in my care. It remains such a special place in my heart. Sincerely Yours, Charles Pendergrass.” 

When he finished reading the letter, Dr. Tepper looked up to find the volunteer in disbelief by the kind words and proudly smiled. 

“I must say, that is one glowing letter of recommendation. Young man, I know you have a few years before you apply, however if you decide to consider our medical college, this letter will significantly improve your chances. In addition to a copy, which you need to include with your application, I am also happy to present you with this Service Award. Please keep up the good work.” 

Following Dr. Tepper’s cue, Salim stood up from his seat and shook his hand before receiving both his letter and prize.  

“Now Salim, unfortunately I must get back to the less pleasant parts of my job, so if you would excuse me.” 

 “Thank you so much,” offered the volunteer, who turned and headed toward the door. Though before he could again reach for the knob, Dr. Tepper stopped him with one more question. 

“By the way, did Dr. Pendergrass ever talk to you about his time working down in the morgue of this hospital?” 

Salim briefly looked back at the doctor, “No, we mostly spoke about his wife and his love of baseball. He never even mentioned he was a physician.” 

Though he didn’t appear completely reassured, Dr. Tepper dismissed the volunteer who was grateful for his leave. 

With his shift over, Salim Nassar waited for the elevator and was ready to head home to complete his schoolwork. He found it difficult balancing his studies, social life, extracurricular activities, and volunteering however knew it would all pay off when it was time to apply to medical school.  

An empty elevator arrived and Salim entered. He pressed the silver button labeled, “Street Level,” and the doors closed. As the elevator descended, he peered down at his plaque and then curiously at the elevator buttons below the one he pressed. With each passing floor, a number beside the button would transiently illuminate until the letters “SL” lit up and the doors opened. Salim noted that below this button, there were three more labeled, “LL1, LL2, LL3.” These, the “LL3” especially, reminded him that he hadn’t been entirely honest with Dr. Tepper. 

After he exited the elevator, Salim noted the dark sky and light drizzle through the hospital’s full glass entryway and placed his letter and plaque in his backpack. He then slung it over his shoulder. Hoping the conditions wouldn’t worsen, Salim began his twenty-two block journey uptown to his studio apartment. While he walked, he couldn’t help but recall his first meeting with Dr. Charles Pendergrass. 

It must’ve been a little over a month ago while Salim was working his shift on one of the general medical floors. Despite the kind words in his letter, Salim found it strange how the doctor only commented on one of his easier duties and failed to mention the less pleasant ones like helping him use the commode or bedpan. Then again, after such an illustrious career at the hospital, maybe this was by design. 

“Excuse me, Sir,” Salim knocked on the door of the private room twice. “Sir, would you like some cold water?” 

“Help me... Help me!” cried out the eighty-eight-year-old former physician who appeared disoriented, tangled in his sheets. Noting his distress, instead of troubling the nurses or paid patient care techs like most volunteers would, Salim walked over to assist the man. While the letter was accurate regarding their encounters later in his hospitalization, Salim thought back to how delirious he was when they first met.  

That initial encounter was short lived. After he untangled and tucked in Dr. Pendergrass, Salim realized his services were no longer required, and despite the continued pleas for “Help,” he swiftly escaped the room. The following day, a similar scenario played out, and once again, Salim aided the man whose name he’d yet to learn. But that day, before he could flee, the man grabbed Salim’s scrub top. Staring at him through bulging, yellowed eyes, the man warned, “Do not go to Lower Level Three. Save your soul!” 

Without much effort, Salim was able to free himself from the elderly gentleman and walked away, thinking very little about his words. After all, during his time at Memorial, he’d heard all kinds of crazy things. He’s been offered property in the Ozarks, propositioned by a sixty-year-old manic woman withdrawing from benzos, and on countless occasions been warned about Democrats, Republicans, and extraterrestrials. 

On Day three of their relationship, Salim once again entered with his pitcher and approached Dr. Pendergrass who appeared to be sleeping. After their eventful encounter from the day prior he decided to tiptoe in, refill his pitcher, and then escape. The first two parts of the plan went off without a hitch, but when Salim carefully placed the man’s pink, plastic pitcher back on the tray and was ready to exit, suddenly Dr. Pendergrass grabbed his right arm.  

The startled volunteer turned back to see the man fully awake with his same bulging, yellowed eyes peering straight through him. And while he was completely calm in comparison to his agitated state of the past two days, still, something was not right. The man tried to talk, but his words stuttered and stumbled from his tongue. Though sympathetic of the man’s situation, Salim freed his arm, unsure of what the delirious man was capable of.  

“Sir, I refilled your water. Is there anything else I can help you with before I go?” Salim asked, assuming the man would say little to nothing and he’d be morally freed from his obligation. But he would have no such luck.  

Still unable to properly coordinate his speech, Dr. Pendergrass again reached for the volunteer’s arm, though this time was unsuccessful. Salim informally bowed his head and was about to excuse himself when the patient was finally able to put two words together.  

“The morgue.” 

Salim then repeated, “It sounds like you said, ‘the morgue.’ What about the morgue?” 

Suddenly the expression on the man’s face changed. Inexplicably, he still appeared desperate, but no longer ill.  

“Do not go near the morgue. Save your soul!” he warned. 

At that moment, Salim realized the patient was as delirious as the day prior but had likely been pharmaceutically sedated. He placated the man, confirming he’d abide by his warning, and walked out of the room. This was the final time Salim ever saw Dr. Pendergrass in such a state as the following day he was off, and when he knocked on the door upon his return to Downtown Memorial, he was greeted by a very different scene. 

“Yes, please come on in,” invited the man. “I could definitely use a refill.” 

And while Salim had seen many patients improve during his time volunteering, none of their recoveries was quite as dramatic. Dr. Pendergrass was sitting up comfortably in his neatly made bed. He was well groomed, wearing clean pajamas, and fully alert. Salim even noted how his eyes had lost that yellow tinge and were no longer bulging from his orbits. 

Salim poured the water, wondering whether the man was even aware of the bizarre warning he’d offered the days prior.  

“Is there anything else I can help you with, sir?” inquired Salim. 

The patient smiled. “Why yes. If you wouldn’t mind, can you please open the shades. I’d like to see if the world is still turning.” 

Still amazed by the man’s recovery and transformation, Salim pulled on the chain in the corner of the window and the shade slowly rolled up. A powerful beam of sunlight slowly made its way across the room, eventually finding its way to Dr. Pendergrass’ bed. The man gently closed his eyes and smiled. 

“Thank you. You know, before her passing, my wife Greta was my sun goddess. Those rays are how I know she’s still with me.” 

And with those words, Salim and Dr. Pendergrass enjoyed the first of their near daily, afternoon visits. Salim had been honest with Dr. Tepper regarding the nature of their subsequent conversations. And during the final week of his stay, the former pathologist never again mentioned another word about the morgue or saving anyone’s soul. Salim simply decided to spare the doctor’s reputation and omit what he saw was the product of delirium.  

The day prior to his discharge, Dr. Pendergrass, who during their visits had oddly failed to mention his career or position at the hospital, expressed his appreciation for Salim’s company and wished him well. And with a final handshake, the volunteer believed their relationship had run its course. 

By the time Salim Nassar reached his building, the drizzle had all but stopped. He casually greeted a neighbor, emptied his mailbox, and then walked up two flights to apartment 2C. Once inside, he threw down his backpack and carried his mail into the kitchen where he drank from a half empty bottle of Sprite. He then flipped through some junk mail, a coupon booklet, the water bill, before coming to an envelope which lacked defining markings or a return address. Salim tore open the envelope, removed a piece of crisp unlined paper, and began to read aloud. 

“Salim, I was wrong. The ONLY way to save your soul is through the morgue. There will be others. CP.” 

Salim placed the bottle down on the counter and reread the letter over and over again in his mind. During this time, his face had turned pale and tiny beads of sweat formed on his brow as he tried to make sense of the cryptic note 

“CP... Charles Pendergrass,” Salim solved the more obvious piece of the puzzle and now realized how the doctor had been aware of his words even during their first meetings.  

 Salim then lowered the letter and attempted to process the significance of the note and his response. While in theory he could ignore the delusions of a crazy old man, after considering their subsequent conversations, Salim knew better. But what were his other options? It’s not like he could easily contact Dr. Pendergrass... And exploring the morgue on Lower Level Three was certainly out of the question. Or was it?    

With a Calculus test on the horizon, Salim didn’t have the luxury of time to infinitely ponder the letter or these questions. While he attempted to move on and tackle his work, his efforts were futile. Although he was no closer to understanding the meaning of Dr. Pendergrass’ letter, he knew that in less than twenty-four hours he’d return to Downtown Memorial and have an important decision to make. He could continue to provide the same compassionate care and then exit the elevator on the Street Level, or follow his newly found curiosities and the doctor’s instructions all the way down to the morgue on Lower Level Three.