Faeted

by ReGi McClain

  “And you say you were here from the twelfth to the fifteenth?”

  “That’s right.” A star next to pick up vitamins .

  “Hmm… well, Ms. Mooreland, I can’t find any records of you being here. Are you sure you were seen at this hospital?”

  Harsha set down her pencil to focus on the speaker. “Yes, I’m sure. That’s not the sort of thing someone forgets.”

  “You’d be surprised. Do you remember the name of your doctor?”

  “Dr. Green is the one I met. I also had a nurse named Vivian.”

  A pause. Then, “I’m sorry Ms. Mooreland. There is a nurse by that name here, but no doctors. Can you spell the name for me? Maybe I got something wrong.”

  She rolled her eyes and spelled ‘Green’.

  “Nope. He’s not here. Maybe you were seen at another hospital. Have you tried County General?”

  “No. I was not seen at another hospital.” More’s the pity . She fought to keep the aggravation out of her voice. “I was seen there. I still have the cup with the hospital’s name on it.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am.” The clerk’s tone chilled, edging itself with suspicion. “I can’t help you.” The line went dead.

  Harsha stared at her phone in disbelief, wondering if the entire hospital staff snacked on their own supply of drugs.

  Most of the time, Jason’s video games blended into the normal background noise of her home, but whenever she felt testy, they turned themselves up by several notches. They did so now, the tinny noises grating on her ears until they hurt. Resisting the urge to snap at him to turn the TV down, she huffed in frustration and glanced over at the package. It looked about the same size as a medium flat-rate box. Its plain brown sides and bland labeling, with no return address, told her nothing about what it contained. Visions of the awful things people found in unmarked packages crept through her imagination, regaling her with images of exploding houses and severed digits.

  But Josh said no one in Vegas is after me, and there may be a certain something inside. She pressed her lips together and yanked a letter opener through the tape holding the box closed. Holding her breath, she eased the flap open.

  “Yes!” Her eyes sparkled as she pulled out what she hoped for, the only thing that mattered when it came to packages.

  The noise of Jason’s game stopped. “What? What is it?”

  In answer, she squeezed one of the tiny spheres. POP!

  “Bubble wrap! You better save some for me!”

  She grabbed the rest of the wrap out of the box, ignoring the other contents, and skittered into the living room, where she plopped beside Jason on the couch. The two of them spent the next several minutes giggling like children over their tuneless symphony of pops and snaps.

  When they ran out of bubbles, he asked, “So what was in the package?”

  She shrugged. “Who cares? Someone sent us bubble wrap.”

  “That phone call you made didn’t go so great, did it?”

  “No.”

  “Hmm.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He pointed at her wrist and gave her an “are you stupid?” look. “You didn’t get those medical records, did you?”

  She shook her head. “The hospital staff is incompetent.”

  “It’s a conspiracy! Someone high up didn’t want anyone to know what happened to you. It’s because they don’t want you to sue, or the government was funding the Rice Clinic, or something like that.”

  She returned the “are you stupid?” look.

  He didn’t acknowledge it. “Anyway, you might as well see what else the bubble-wrap-sender sent. Maybe it has a coupon for more bubble wrap attached.”

  She smirked and fetched the box. Confused, she pulled out a tan folder and attached note.

  Jason wrinkled his brow, mirroring her confusion. “Why the bubble wrap if all they were sending was paper?”

  Harsha shrugged and read the note.

  I found these records at the Rice Clinic. Take them to Dr. Brown, in Princeville, HI. He can help you. For your own safety, don’t show them to anyone else.

  Sincerely,

  A Friend

  She opened the folder and skimmed the papers. Every word provoked more angst. Those quacks at the Rice Clinic accused her of not being human based on a botched DNA test. She threw the records into the box, dropped her head back on the couch, and ignored the angry tear sliding toward her chin.

  Jason handed her a lavender drop before picking up the file. “Huh. Well, at least this proves you didn’t try to commit suicide.”

  “Yeah. And it proves we’re never going to find a cure, either.”

  Saying it out loud brought a painful lump into her throat. More tears trickled down her cheeks while she tried to squelch the irrational hope that refused to leave her alone. She reminded herself how many times her search for a cure failed, how many odd pills, potions, and practices she tried to get better, only to have them make her worse, or do nothing at all. She grabbed despair and hugged it to her heart, using it as a shield against optimism.

  Jason picked up the note and turned it over in his hands. “Are you going to call this guy?”

  She snorted. “Why? So you can remind me what I went through?” She shuddered. “What do you think?”

  “Actually, it’s not a bad idea.”

  Harsha sat up straight and pressed her wrist to his forehead. “Who are you and what have you done with my brother?”

  “Every few months you can’t help yourself. You get it into your head we can get better and then you fly off to see the latest quack. It’s been like clockwork since the day you turned eighteen. Maybe if you stuck to a guy on the island, you could get your fix without so much trouble.”

  “My fix?”

  “Yeah. I swear you’re addicted to needles. Just not in the normal way.”

  “Jason, you’re a brat.”

  “Yeah, but I’m sick, so you have to humor me.”

  Chapter 4

  The debate continued for several days. Jason seemed to think of it as a game. To Harsha, it felt like being in an alternate universe. He won in the end. Not because she agreed with his theory about her addiction to doctors. No. He won because she failed to make herself stop hoping for a cure. Besides, the slight possibility existed that this new doctor knew something to explain the strange behavior of the staff at the Los Angeles hospital. So, she went.

  Jamala drove her. Harsha hired her both as company for the hour-and-a-half drive and as security against being kidnapped. She regretted the move when Jamala worked the conversation around to the large, raw scar on her left wrist. Harsha’s attempts to redirect the conversation to Haitian culture or Jamala’s progress on her business degree fell flat. An hour into the drive, she caved to the questions, though she left out the anonymous package and her previous suspicions regarding Las Vegas. Jamala spewed out indignant English words seasoned with numerous French profanities and a voodoo curse or two.

  The bilingual outburst amused Harsha for the first minute but began to wear on her nerves after two. To stem the flow, she asked Jamala for a progress report on a difficult project.

  “Oh, no, you don’t, Harsha Mooreland. I’m not finished yet. You know what I think? I think you need a real vacation. I’ve worked for you what? Three years now? Your trips to see mainland doctors are the closest you ever get to a vacation, and those don’t count.”

  “Nobody at Ho’ola takes vacations. Not administration, anyway. The Vyacheslavs haven’t taken a vacation in six years.”

  “The price of owning a business. Besides, they may not take big chunks, but they take at least one five-day weekend a month.”

  Harsha opened her mouth to argue that she enjoyed her work. They pulled into an innocent-looking clinic parking lot, bringing Harsha’s intended speech to a stumbling halt.

  The small area provided space for a dozen vehicles. No abandoned or hood-up cars marred the filled spots. The tan and russet, single-story building boasted n
eat hedges and gleaming glass doors. The sharp contrast to the Rice Clinic failed to reassure her. Harsha swallowed to dampen the queasy feeling creeping up her throat as she looked at the entrance. Jamala got there first and held it open for her, eyebrows raised in a question.

  Harsha eased out of the car, staring at the door, unable to get her feet to move toward it. It’s okay, it’s okay. I’ve done this dozens of times. It’s nothing like the Rice Clinic. She shook off a brief flashback.

  Jamala’s brow crinkled. She let go of the door and took a step back toward Harsha. “It’s all right if you ”

  Realizing she needed to get back on the horse, so to speak, Harsha hurried to catch the door and rushed through.

  After the usual formalities and a longer than reasonable wait, a nurse pulled her chart out of the slot on the wall and called her name. Harsha put on a business smile, one which she knew looked more confident than she felt, and stood to follow.

  Jamala stood with her. “Want me to come with you?”

  Harsha hesitated. Taking someone with her sounded like sweet wisdom in her ears, yet she abhorred sharing the details of her illness with coworkers. I wish Josh was here. “It’s just a consultation. I won’t be long.”

  The nurse hurried Harsha through the labyrinth of doors and halls. “Dr. Brown doesn’t see many patients these days. You must have an interesting case.”

  Harsha grimaced. Being an interesting case to a doctor who no longer took many patients did not bode well. I hope Jamala can hear me scream from here.

  The nurse tapped on the last door in the hall and dropped the paperwork in a file holder on the wall before hurrying off. Harsha tensed her muscles to control the impulse to run. She relaxed when the door opened to reveal a man so shrunken by age, she felt sure of overpowering him in a pinch, even considering her physical limitations.

  He pulled the paperwork from the folder and led the way into his office. “Ah, yes. Ms. Mooreland. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”

  A clean, serviceable wooden desk stained a deep, almost black, walnut shade and two matching chairs, one on either side of the desk, dominated the room. Overburdened bookshelves of the same shade covered the wall except where a small, untrimmed window held its space open for any chance rays of sun to peek through. A black desk lamp attempted to assist the window in lighting the room. Harsha took the seat on the patients’ side of the desk and waited while the doctor settled himself in his chair.

  Dr. Brown wore an expression of mild concern, his soft brown eyes looking slightly up to compensate for his chin tilting slightly down. The crown of his head, revealed in shimmering radiance at this angle, grasped at the last gray strands of hair as if his life depended on keeping them.

  Harsha’s stack of medical records, including the files from the Rice Clinic and a summary of what she remembered about her treatment at the hospital in Los Angeles, which she sent after making the appointment, lay open on the desk. Dr. Brown shuffled through the pages, asking routine questions. His bland tone betrayed no surprise, curiosity, or concern.

  After the usual inquiries, he closed the file, folded his hands on top of his desk, and smiled without mirth. “Well, Ms. Mooreland, this certainly is a treat. I haven’t come across a hider of your kind before. What is it you hope I can do for you?”

  She furrowed her brow, confused. She never heard the term ‘hider’ in connection with her illness before. She never heard any useful label applied to her illness before. Her pesky little hope glimmer flared brighter.

  “What do you mean, ‘hider?’ Is that what my condition is called? Hiding?” Ashley’s words came back to her and she checked herself. Hider could be his word for space alien . She scolded herself in her mind for her irrational hopes and focused on the warning words. “Wait. What do you mean, my kind? What kind am I supposed to be?”

  Dr. Brown wrinkled his forehead in mild surprise, his strongest display of emotion yet. “You mean, you don’t know what you are? Why did you come to me?”

  Harsha narrowed her eyes. Chills of suspicion tingled across her shoulders. Doing her best to be subtle, she slipped a hand into her purse to wrap her fingers around a taser, a gift from Jefe she used to leave at home. She shifted her weight forward on the chair, ready to bolt.

  “I received an anonymous letter. Now tell me what you mean. What am I?”

  “Well,” the doctor leaned back in his chair, looking casual and disinterested, “strictly speaking, you’re not entirely human.”

  That did it. It seemed her anonymous friend had seen her records and wanted to play games with her. She let the taser drop back into her purse and stood to leave. “Strictly speaking, Doctor, you’re not sane.” She reached to open the door. “I think I’ll get a second opinion on this one, thank you.”

  “You already have fourteen others.”

  Her fingers quivered on the doorknob. More than fourteen. So many more than fourteen . Not just doctors. Her drive to find a cure had led her to one self-proclaimed expert after another, some legitimate, some not. The scar on her wrist peeked out from under her sleeve, scolding her for even considering staying a moment longer.

  If I listen to him … Her feelings jumbled while echoes of Jason’s admonitions warred with her hopes and dreams. If his ideas are ridiculous enough, I’ll finally be convinced that this is stupid. That I’m wasting my time. That I can let go.

  With slow, deliberate movements to control the panic threatening to overcome her, she sat back down. “All right.” Convince me it’s hopeless . “If I’m not human, what am I?”

  “Well, that’s rather difficult to say, you see.” His tone scratched her ears like fingernails on a chalkboard, its calmness at odds with the battle raging in her thoughts. “Because I don’t know your heredity for sure, based upon the files you’ve provided. However, it is certain you are at least part merfolk, and, more importantly for our purposes, part fae, or faerie, as most people know them. I’d say you’re descended from the fae-mermaid.”

  Harsha stared at him slack-jawed while her brain processed his words. When they sank in, she guffawed and rolled her eyes. At least this is the most amusing theory. Jason will thank him for the laugh . “I’ve heard some crazy ideas, but you just outdid them all.”

  Dr. Brown held out his hand, a silent demand to look at her left wrist. The gesture arrested her mirth, replacing it with apprehension. He looked deadly serious. Trembling with nervousness, she gave him her arm.

  He leaned over, scrutinizing it. “You never wondered why they were so interested in your DNA?”

  She pressed her lips together to hide the sudden rush of fear and pain that came with the memory of that awful afternoon while she dug in her purse for a lavender candy. “I read the file. And they told me. They were nothing but a bunch of crazy conspiracists.”

  The doctor met her eyes, his sober expression commanding her to consider his words.

  His manner baffled her. He seemed to believe what he said. Not in the fanatical way Ashley Rice grasped at a wild theory, but with the immovable certainty of someone who knew his claims to be true.

  She shifted, uncomfortable under his steady gaze. “Right?”

  “They knew you couldn’t be human, so they persecuted you. You’re lucky the government didn’t find you.”

  Jason’s government conspiracy theory came to mind. She had found it funny at the time; she still considered it laughable, but the humor took on a sharp edge. The weird treatment at the hospital indicated a wider circle of participants than Ashley’s crew of four. Without Vegas to explain it, government manipulation sounded plausible.

  Dr. Brown reached over his head. Without looking to ensure he was grabbing the right one, he pulled a large book from the shelf behind him and opened it to a marked page featuring an illustration. “This is a typical human DNA sequence. You’ll note there are only four proteins.”

  He pulled a page from her file and laid it next to the picture. “This is your DNA, as sequenced for you by those quacks.”r />
  Harsha stared at the two pictures. The illustration of a normal human DNA sequence looked at her from its page, calm and placid, as if to say, “See? Nothing interesting.”

  Her DNA, on the other hand, demanded attention, hypnotic fascination, even. While the normal DNA displayed four gray columns, here and there interposed by black dashes labeled A, T, C, or G, her own sequence sported eight columns, four labeled like the other picture, four with question marks.

  Distrustful, she studied the doctor’s eyes. Sad wrinkles lined them, hinting at years of close calls, hopeless cases, and good intentions gone awry. “This is preposterous. You can’t expect me to take this seriously.”

  Dr. Brown raised one shoulder in a slow shrug. “Until a minute ago, I was under the impression you knew, but few people are aware of the existence of hiders these days, so your reaction is unsurprising.”

  The deepest parts of her heart wanted to accept his words at face value. They offered her an explanation. Granted, a puerile, implausible explanation, but an explanation nonetheless. It contradicts itself . “Aren’t faeries supposed to be immortal?”

  “To our knowledge.”

  This is where his fantastical idea crumbles . She regretted having to ask her next question, but she needed to see his belief falter. It unsettled her. “If I’m descended from immortals, why am I dying?”

  “So, you’ve decided to take my word without further ado?”

  “No.”

  He stared at her, his brows lifted, as if his query stood in place of a challenge. He knows he sounds like a nutcase, but he doesn’t care . He stood on his beliefs and no one would convince him to do otherwise. Indeed, it seemed he felt no danger of being proven wrong.

  Harsha shifted under his confidence, his scrutiny causing her to doubt her own sanity as much as his. He held his stare, not speaking, until it forced words out of her. “Not yet. No one else has ever had any answers for me. If you think you have something for me to go on, I’ll…” I can’t believe I’m about to say this , “listen.” Feeling a need to assert her disbelief, she rushed to add, “But nothing more.”