Human Remains

by Melissa Yi

  Breeeeeeeathe.

  While I balked, Ryan said, "Hello, I'm Ryan Wu. Thank you for inviting us," and handed Joan our gift basket.

  A frown flitted across her face. She reached for the basket, but only after a second's pause. The plastic wrap crinkled in her hands. "I told you not to bring food."

  Ryan smiled and pointed at the crackers, pretzels, tea, and whatnot tied with a red ribbon. "It's food that you can serve later, or offer to people who drop by. We could have gotten you a fruit basket, but I thought it might go bad if you don't eat it soon enough. Hope said you had too many casseroles." He took my hand. His skin felt warm, which meant that my hands were icy.

  "Thank you," she said, and craned her neck to look behind Ryan, at me. I was still standing in the hall, mute.

  I smiled, even though it felt like my cheeks were splitting. I knew that my eyes looked dead from the dismay splayed across her face. I said, "Thank you for inviting us to your home."

  Upstairs, someone banged a door, and a woman shouted. Little kids' footsteps skittered.

  Joan set the gift basket on a table near the kitchen, under an eye-catching, somewhat Impressionistic painting of a black boy playing at a water faucet.

  Ryan took a step inside the doorway, but I drew back, so we ended up holding hands in mid-air, across the threshold.

  Joan gestured at me with one hand. "Come in, Doctor Hope and Doctor Ryan!"

  My mouth jerked.

  Ryan laughed outright. "I'm just an engineer."

  "Oh, engineers are very important. In my country, they make sure you get things done." Down the hall, someone started playing "Stressed Out," by Twenty One Pilots, and Joan had to raise her voice as she made her way back to us. She was subconsciously rubbing her belly, which made me want to tear off down the hall and try to make Tucker talk to me.

  Breeeeeathe.

  I squinched my eyes closed. I was being rude. She was pregnant, she was a widow, and she had made us supper.

  Also, I was hungry.

  I took a deep breath and crossed the threshold. We who are about to die, salute you.

  Ryan exhaled in relief.

  Joan moved to close the door, but I didn't budge. I wasn't ready to be cornered with a pregnant woman yet. I said, over the music, "I'm getting some air. Is that okay?"

  Joan looked at me, at the bathroom door by her right elbow, and back to me. "People usually close the doors in this building."

  Ryan squeezed my hand.

  I took a deeeeeeeeeeeeep breath and stepped past the doorway.

  Light-headed. Palpitations. But doing it anyway.

  She had to jiggle the door to fit it properly in the door frame. I tried not to flinch when she locked it. Or maybe I did, because Ryan placed his free hand on my shoulder before lining his boots by the front door and offering to hang my coat on a hook on the back.

  "Thanks." I handed him my blue parka, one my mother had bought for herself and passed on to me. I kicked off my boots and told Joan, "It smells delicious. I've never had Ugandan food before."

  She laughed and started back into the kitchen, which was a little cut-out on the other side of the narrow wall that kept the fridge and stove visually separate from the entrance. She stopped and seemed to gather herself.

  "Are you all right?" I said.

  "Oh, fine, fine. I love to cook. My man loved to eat. We were the perfect match." Her smile didn't reach her eyes. She turned to the kitchen.

  I said, "I want to help you. I can … " What could I do? I hung my purse on a hook and followed her, Ryan by my side.

  Food steamed from two burners on the stove. The table was set with three places and a plastic carafe. Our gift basket squatted uncomfortably in the centre, in lieu of a flower arrangement.

  "Do you want me to cut up vegetables?" I turned to Joan and caught her rubbing her back.

  Uh oh. My heart thudded, but when I moved toward her, she made a point of straightening up and saying, "Everything is ready. You make yourselves comfortable."

  Ryan and I exchanged a look. His said Get me TF out of here.

  "We can come back another time, when you're feeling better," I said, edging back toward the exit so quickly that my socks slipped on the vinyl floor. "I'm sorry that we intruded. We'll let you—"

  Joan threw her hand out. She couldn't reach me, but her intentions were clear. "You're not going anywhere, Doctor Hope, until you try my banana juice, followed by my vegetable curry and my matoke."

  I quaked. I didn't know what matoke was, but I really didn't want her to go to so much trouble. Honestly, my North American ass would

  have been happy to take her to a restaurant and try and make her see Canada as something besides the country that killed her husband. The only thing that made me happy was that I was right about the curry.

  "As for you, Mister Ryan, did you know that Uganda is home to the Ankole Cattle?" Ryan shook his head, and she said, "Our meat has the lowest cholesterol levels of any in the world."

  I smiled a bit to myself. Every country has pride. I'd never heard of the Ankole cattle, but if I were eating meat, I'd definitely give them a try.

  "I was unable to procure any Ankole for you tonight. You'll have to be satisfied with what I found at Loblaws. That's the nearest grocery store."

  Ryan pressed his lips together. I said, "You don't have a car?" Joan waved her hand like she was swatting a fly. "I took a taxi."

  Oh, God. The pregnant widow was taking a taxi so she could make us a traditional Ugandan meal, for no discernible reason. "Joan, you need to be resting."

  "That's what my church keeps telling me. 'Joan, you need to rest.' 'Joan, let us know if you need anything.' They bring me casseroles and pray for me. I tell them the prayers are good enough." She waddled to the table and poured a dull, opaque, yellow liquid into three wine glasses.

  When I took mine, I realized the "glass" was made of plastic, and that it was a bit cloudy. She might have picked it up from a dollar store, with an unknown BPA status. I tried not to grimace.

  The liquid smelled like bananas, so at least that was one mystery solved.

  "It's banana juice," she said, catching my expression. "Of course it's not the real omubisi because it's a different type of bananas here in Canada. I had to do my best."

  "Sure." It never occurred to me that there were different varieties of bananas, but it makes sense, like different varieties of apples.

  Joan held her cheap glass in the air and waited until we followed suit. The three of us stood with our glasses aloft while she said, "Thank you so much for coming, Mister Ryan and Doctor Hope. May God bless you for the rest of your lives."

  Argh. Church talk even before we sat down. My fingers tightened on the plastic stem while I did my best to smile.

  "May the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit protect my husband's immortal soul. May they bring comfort to us and our families in this time of deepest sorrow and greatest need. May Lord Jesus bless us all!"

  "Amen," said Ryan.

  I murmured along with him, trying not to let my face betray my thoughts. A pregnant woman, an enclosed room, and praying. Could this night get any worse?

  Joan's eyes glittered. Her lips stretched around her large, white teeth. My stomach twisted, even before she raised her voice, filling the empty room. "Let us drink to the health of the two fine people who found my husband!"

  Chapter 21

  Ryan had already bent his head, eager to sample the juice. After that little bombshell, he yanked the glass away as if it were arsenic.

  My hand slipped. I would've dumped my entire serving, but the juice was so viscous, it only had time to slide sideways before I righted the glass in the air, my heart hammering in my chest.

  Gotta get out of here.

  Gotta get out of here.

  I set the glass back on the table, untasted, and said, "Excuse me." Joan's mouth tightened, even though it was still stretched into a parody of a smile. "It's all right. I know who you are. You are the ones who found my hus
band's body."

  Ryan cleared his throat and took my right hand. I squeezed back hard, wanting to feel his muscles flexing against mine. It anchored me in reality.

  Joan kept talking. "The police wouldn't tell me, but I was able to put the pieces together, especially when one officer said you were both Oriental."

  Damn it. I guess that was enough of a giveaway at the lab meeting. DemiAsian was half-white. I suppose the older Chinese researcher could have been Ryan, but I couldn't imagine Dr. Wen poking around a park after 9 p.m. There might be other Asian people in the lab, but not many wearing a guilty expression. No wonder she'd homed in on me immediately.

  And no wonder we had to leave.

  Without exchanging a word or a look, Ryan and I started to back up toward the door in synch. I felt proud of our mind-reading, even though the execution was imperfect. My right ankle reminded me to land squarely on my sole if I didn't want a twinge in my ligaments.

  "But you haven't had your juice," said Joan, spreading her large hands. "Where are you going?"

  "We should go," said Ryan. "Thank you so much for inviting us. We shouldn't have intruded on your grief. It was very inappropriate of us."

  I nodded and tried to look abjectly inappropriate while inching my body toward the door. Ryan had stopped moving in order to talk. Can't talk. Leaving.

  Then I saw Joan's face.

  Like we had hit her. I rarely use the word stricken, but now I realized where it comes from. Her shocked eyes. She didn't even breathe for a second. Her mouth worked a few times before she managed to speak again. "Your supper."

  That was something my mother would say.

  Joan said it again. "You didn't even have your supper."

  She didn't look so scary anymore. Still a big-boned, solid woman, still pregnant, but deflated somehow. I felt like we'd kicked a puppy.

  A mini puppy, smaller than Roxy.

  Her husband had died. She'd spent all day cooking for us. And now we were fleeing.

  True, she'd scared the stuffing out of me. But most things did right now.

  I used to have an excellent gut. I could tell, at a glance, if you were harmless or a psycho. Experienced ER nurses have sharpened this instinct to an art form. If, say, Dr. Bob Clarkson starts blathering about how he's going to make the St. Joe's Family Medicine Centre so good that aliens will cross the galaxy to gape at its awesomeness, they'll maintain a Mmm-hmm expression while he digs himself deeper into the earth's molten core.

  I missed that instinct. Post 14/11, everyone and everything seemed like a threat. It was only a question of how much. Minor dread vs. full-blown terror?

  Ryan glanced down at me and pressed his thumb against my palm. He'd sensed my hesitation and was letting me take the lead.

  It was a simple decision. Should we stay or should we go?

  Ever since I'd seen how fast the life can drain out of a bullet hole, the smallest choices paralyzed me.

  "I'm sure it's delicious." My voice disappeared on the last word, but I fought to get it back. "You went to so much trouble. We don't want to … intrude." Ryan had already used that word. Intruder alert. Intruder alert.

  "I made it especially for you. I invited you to our home." Her eyes glistened. She was going to cry any second. I was making a pregnant widow weep. "You said you'd come. It was a sign, you two finding my husband. It meant that he didn't have to be alone. You're a doctor. You tried to save his life."

  That was a pretty fancy term for moving his arm around, palpating his radial pulse, and starting CPR. "I did my best. Ryan was the one who called for help. But—"

  She reached forward, as if to clasp my hands, but I was already holding on to Ryan with one of them, and the other one felt immobilized, even though my brain knew what I ought to do.

  Her hands fell back to her sides. She rubbed her eyes and blinked hard.

  Oh, no.

  The first tear dripped down the curve of her brown cheek. "Please. I'm sorry if I scared you. I only want to know what happened to my husband. I can't sleep."

  I couldn't sleep, either. I'd lie there with my eyes closed, listening to myself breathe. Waiting for the sun to rise again. Either that or nightmares.

  "Mister Ryan. Doctor Hope. I know you didn't hurt my husband. I can trust you. And you can tell me what you saw and … what he looked like when you found him." She swallowed hard. She ignored the tears cascading down both cheeks, even though one of her hands had fluttered back to her belly.

  She wanted to know. She had to know the truth, no matter how ugly it was.

  That meant she was like me.

  Sure, I didn't have another person gestating inside me, and we'd grown up on opposite sides of the planet, but we were both freaked out and alone right now.

  So I did the only thing I could.

  I took a step forward, tugging Ryan along with me, and I touched the bare skin of her arm with my free hand. "Of course."

  Chapter 22

  "Sit down. Drink. Please."

  We obeyed, which made it seem more like a party and less like an inquisition. I'd never tasted anything quite like that banana juice. It seemed to hit the back of my throat before I registered the taste of bananas and something darker.

  Joan threw her head back and laughed at my expression. She had a rich, deep laugh. The chair squeaked underneath her rotund form, which made her laugh harder.

  Ryan smiled. "I like it. What do you put in it besides bananas?"

  "I had to improvise, Mister Ryan. Not only was it the wrong type of bananas, but Loblaws didn't have any banana leaves to put in it."

  "Please, call me Ryan."

  "And Hope," I said, although my mind was lingering on banana leaves. While I'd seen some banana trees with wide fronds on a trip to Costa Rica, it had never occurred to me to throw them in a blender.

  I placed my goblet on the table, careful not to shake it—it was a wood veneer table with skinny legs—and smiled too.

  "Would you mind if I said a prayer before we eat? It's customary in my culture," said Joan, looking straight at me, the heathen sitting next to her, instead of Ryan, the Christian directly across from her.

  I flushed. "Of course," I said again. I'd repeat that all night, like Harold.

  I was surprised when she reached for my right hand. Hers was big and soft and warm, like dough, only much firmer. Her sleeveless dress left her arms bare, so I could see the muscles flex.

  I reached for Ryan's right hand with my left, glad for the excuse to touch him. The painting of a boy drinking from a faucet hung close to me. I liked his face, and the colours, and the hexagons the artist had used over the canvas, like making big, beautiful pixels.

  "Dear Lord in Heaven, I know you're looking after my darling Lawrence. We miss him very much, but we know that You are holding him in Your hand, close to Your Heart." Joan's voice broke. Her hand tightened in mine, and I pressed back, trying to comfort her. "We love him and You with all our hearts. Please bless our little gathering with Mister Ryan and Doctor Hope and most especially the new life I am carrying inside me. Amen."

  Ryan murmured, "Amen," and I chimed in.

  Part of me still wished we'd left, or that I'd refused outright as soon as she'd issued the invitation. But how could I say no to Immaculate Joan and her precious little baby? What kind of monster would that make me?

  Joan opened her eyes. "I'm sorry if I frightened you, Doctor Hope. Sometimes I … I don't know what to say. I'm afraid I'm saying it wrong. We are new to Canada. I thought it would be more like the United States."

  Ryan and I both laughed because we usually get told how we're basically Americans with more hockey.

  "How is it different?" I said, even though I knew she wanted to talk about her husband. Her eyes were still scanning us, and her hand trembled as she let go of mine. Some chit chat might help, though.

  I could tell Ryan wasn't liking any of this, but he clasped my hand and waited politely for her to answer.

  She leaned back in her chair to think. It cr
eaked again. "Miami is loud. So many people, so many cars, the music, the pushing, but it was full of life."

  I could picture it in my head. I haven't been to Florida since I was a kid at Disneyworld, but as an adult, I would be all over the Cuban food and the lilac suits I'd seen on Dexter.

  Joan bit her bottom lip. "Ottawa is cold."

  I wasn't sure if she meant the temperature, the people, or both. And, of course, I couldn't blame her. "Did you want to stay in Miami?"

  Her mouth twisted. "It was a dream job for Lawrence, working with Dr. Kanade. No one else in the world is doing that kind of research on Influenza A. Lawrence wanted to stay there forever."

  So why didn't they? If both of them wanted to stay, why would they leave?

  It could be the U.S. government. Even Canadians can have trouble getting working visas, but from the look on her face, I doubted that. "Would you go back?"

  She stared at me with her wide, brown eyes. "It is too dangerous now, Doctor Hope."

  Miami has a lot of guns. The five year FRCP(C) emergency residents often said that there wasn't enough trauma in Montreal and that they had to go to Miami for it. I was allergic—you might even say anaphylactic—to guns, but most residents weren't five alarm scaredy-cats.

  Joan rubbed her abdomen in a slow, clockwise motion. "Lawrence wanted us to get out as soon as possible. He told me everything was fine, but I would wake up at night and hear him clicking on his computer, looking at the latest research."

  What? No one stays awake at night researching guns. Well, I might, but we all agree that I'm not neurotypical.

  She pressed on her lower abdomen with the heel of her hand. "He said I should go without him, but he has—had—a student visa. What am I supposed to tell immigration, that we're living apart because of a virus? A virus that started in our own country?"

  And then it finally smacked me in the brain. They weren't worried about urban warfare, unless you counted microscopic terrorists.

  She was talking about the Zisa virus, which started in a forest in Uganda.

  This summer, we started to hear rumblings about it in Montreal. Pregnant women were petrified. But at the time, we had fewer than six hundred cases in Canada. The vast majority of them came from travelling to more southern countries. I kept telling my patients, We don't have the Aedes aegypti mosquito in Canada. It's too cold.