Unbreathed Memories

by Marcia Talley

  “Ow!” Julie’s mouth was a rosy “O” that declined to release her thumb. “My ear hurts, Aunt Hannah.”

  “Well, no wonder. You had the TV up so loud.” I grabbed the remote and punched the volume control until an advertisement for snow tires was reduced to a dull roar.

  Julie laid her left palm flat against her ear. “It really hurts, Aunt Hannah.” A big tear coursed down her cheek and dripped onto Abby’s nearly bald head.

  “Did you tell Mommy?”

  She shook her head.

  “Daddy?”

  “Uh-uh.”

  A diabolic plan was beginning to take shape in my head. I, her concerned and compassionate aunt, would take Julie to the pediatrician. To Dr. Voorhis. I was ashamed of myself, but only for a moment. What is the greater good, I thought? And after all, even if the earache was a false alarm concocted by a bored, neglected four-year-old, how could it hurt? I knew one way to find out if the child was faking. “I’m going to take you to the doctor, Julie,” I said.

  Julie wiped her nose with the back of her hand, leaving a shiny streak. Her eyebrows knit with worry, then she surprised me by saying, “OK.”

  I held out my hand. “Let’s get your coat.”

  Julie squirmed off the sofa without using her hands, her thumb still in her mouth, Abby clamped under her arm as though it were in a vise.

  While helping Julie into her jacket, I noticed my sister’s key ring hanging on a hook near the front door. I had my own house key, of course, but was curious about one of her keys, a flat brass key to which was tied a white disk labeled “AH.” All Hallows? Nowhere was the key stamped “Do Not Duplicate,” so, thinking it might be useful someday, I tucked the key ring into my pocket, intending to get a copy made. I knew I could put it back before Georgina ever noticed it was missing.

  A few minutes later, as I strapped Julie under the seat belt of my Le Baron, I wondered what I would say to the doctor. I should have called for an appointment, but had decided to chance it. They could hardly kick a sick child out of the office.

  A quick look in the telephone book told me that Dr. Voorhis had his office at Greenspring Station near the intersection of Joppa and Falls Road. Soon Julie and I were zipping up 83. I made the complicated exit and parked in front of a fake Colonial Williamsburg complex of upscale shops and professional buildings. Julie’s eyes, level with the window, caught sight of a shop. “Can I have an ice cream?”

  “Later, love, after we see the doctor.”

  Hand in hand, we strolled into the building and checked the directory together. Dr. Voorhis’s office was on the second floor. Once there, a receptionist dressed in a mint green suit with matching shoes and hose looked up when we entered. Julie’s hand was clasped tightly in mine as she lagged shyly behind. “I’m sorry, I don’t have an appointment”—I checked the nameplate on her desk—“Mrs. Care.” I fought to control a laugh. What a name for a nurse! “I’m taking care of my niece.” I dragged Julie out from where she was hiding behind me. “Julie Cardinale. She’s a patient of Dr. Voorhis’s.”

  Mrs. Care’s face brightened and she beamed in Julie’s direction. “Hi, Julie. It’s nice to see you again.”

  Julie, her thumb still planted firmly in her mouth, studied Mrs. Care through suspiciously lowered lashes and gave no sign that she recognized the woman. Mrs. Care returned her attention to me. “What seems to be the matter with her?”

  “She’s got a raging ear infection, I’m guessing. My sister mentioned that she has had them before.”

  “The doctor’s not in yet, Mrs. …?” She raised an inquiring eyebrow.

  “Ives. I’m Julie’s aunt.”

  Mrs. Care jotted my name down on her telephone message pad. “As I was about to say, Dr. Voorhis has been delayed at the hospital, but I expect him any moment. If you and Julie will just have a seat in the waiting room, I’ll let you know just as soon as he comes in.”

  Julie and I planted ourselves in a couple of overstuffed chairs by the window and spent the next ten minutes thumbing through an old Smithsonian Magazine, learning about what was in the Smithsonian’s “attic.” Julie’s thumb never left her mouth. It must have been shriveled up like a prune by then. Another patient, a girl I judged to be about fourteen whose mother was nowhere to be seen, worked diligently on her math homework. Two mothers with infants sat opposite us, and a little boy about Julie’s age hid behind his mother’s chair and peeked out at Julie from time to time.

  I expected to see the doctor when he walked through the front door, so I was surprised when Mrs. Care announced that the doctor would see Linda Parsons now. Dr. Voorhis must have had a private entrance. The older girl slammed her math book shut, stuffed it into a tattered bookbag, and disappeared through a door behind the receptionist’s desk. Julie and I had made it completely through two more Smithsonians and a Highlights magazine before it was our turn.

  “Ordinarily I’d take Julie right into the examining room,” Mrs. Care said as she escorted us to the doctor’s private office. “But since you aren’t the child’s mother, I suspect he’ll want to talk with you first.” We sat down before a desk completely clear of papers except for one file precisely in the center, a brass lamp with a black shade, a crystal clock, and a pen and pencil set—I tilted my head to read the inscription—presented to the doctor by the Baltimore Rotary Club.

  I held Julie on my lap, her legs dangling between my knees as she scissored them rapidly back and forth. My eyes drifted from the desk to the credenza, where a picture of a man I took to be Dr. Voorhis was posing, Hemingway-esque, with a swordfish three heads taller than he was. Next to it sat an Oriental vase, and next to the vase, in a silver frame, stood an eight-by-ten photograph that stopped my heart. I had never seen her alive, but recognized her picture from the newspaper. What was a photograph of Diane Sturges doing on Dr. Voorhis’s credenza? Adrenaline rushed into the space under my rib cage, hard and cold.

  I twisted my neck until the tendons twinged, to study the wall behind me. Dr. Voorhis’s diploma from Johns Hopkins hung front and center on the wall, flanked by other certificates and photographs. Holding Julie on my hip like a baby, I stood up and turned to study the photographs more closely. Dr. Voorhis shaking hands with Governor William Donald Schaefer. Dr. Voorhis receiving an award from Mayor Schmoke. From the formal pictures, I realized where I had seen his face before—in a photo on Diane Sturges’s desk that terrible day I had rescued Georgina. Well, well, well. That was a fact to chew on.

  Then another photo made it all perfectly clear. Dr. Voorhis and a woman I took to be his wife were posed on the deck of a cruise ship, a young girl sandwiched between them, her golden hair cascading over her shoulders. Even then, Diane had been a beauty.

  But why would Dr. Voorhis be recommending his daughter? Didn’t that constitute some sort of ethical conflict? No, silly. Doctors can’t treat their own family members. I supposed they could recommend them as professionals to anybody they wanted.

  “Put me down, Aunt Hannah. I am not a baby.” Julie squirmed in my arm. It was like trying to hold on to a cat in a bag. I lowered her into the chair. Julie had taken her thumb out of her mouth long enough to reposition Abby under her arm, when Dr. Voorhis breezed in behind us, his white coat open and flapping behind him, revealing khaki trousers, a light blue shirt, and a dark blue tie.

  “Morning, ladies.” He stood behind his desk, opened the file folder, turned over a few pages, and studied them through a pair of black reading glasses perched dangerously near the end of his long nose.

  He whipped off the glasses and looked up. “Well, Julie Lynn, what seems to be the matter with you today?”

  Julie unplugged her thumb and pointed to her ear. “My ear hurts.”

  “Well, we’ll just take a look at it, then.” He beamed a five-hundred-watt smile in my direction. “And you are?”

  “Julie’s aunt.” I was thinking fast. “My sister, Georgina, is unable to care for her children right now. She’s too upset over the recent death of
her therapist.”

  It was cruel, bringing that up. I expected his face to crumple, his eyes to fill with tears which he would fight, bravely, to hold back. As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I watched the doctor’s face, but nothing twitched or blinked. There was absolutely no sign of recognition.

  Julie was ignoring us, marching Abby up and down the arm of her chair, humming loudly. “My sister’s at home,” I lied. “Under medication.”

  Dr. Voorhis nodded. “Ordinarily, since I don’t know you, I’d want to speak to Julie’s mother, but since little Julie here seems to make a habit of attracting those big, bad earache bugs …” He patted Julie on the head. “I think Dr. Vee will know just what to do.” The smile ratcheted up to a thousand watts. “You remember Dr. Vee, don’t you, sweetie?”

  Julie, both arms firmly wrapped around Abby rabbit, nodded.

  Dr. Voorhis extended his hand. “Follow me, young lady.” Julie reached out and he covered her tiny hand in his, holding her up as she hopped off the chair. I followed them down a short corridor and into an examining room. Dr. Voorhis lifted Julie onto the examining table, where she sat, her legs dangling over the side. “Will you take off your T-shirt for Dr. Vee?”

  Julie nodded, her mouth clamped shut. I held Abby while Julie lifted her T-shirt and, in one smooth cross-armed movement, popped it off over her head, setting her ponytails sproinging.

  Dr. Voorhis was washing his hands. “Help her off with her jeans, will you please? I’ll need to check her lymph glands.”

  Julie cooperated while I unzipped her jeans. When I pulled them down over her hips, though, I nearly died. Julie had apparently dressed herself that morning—out of the ragbag. The underpants she wore had a hole the size of a quarter in one side, and the elastic waistband had long ago died. To keep her underwear from falling down, Julie had gathered the fabric together at the waist and secured it there with a large blue diaper pin. Dr. Voorhis shot a questioning glance in my direction. I decided to pretend I hadn’t noticed. He checked Julie’s glands for swelling, examined her wrists and ankles, looked down her throat, and warmed the end of the stethoscope under his arm before laying it against her bare chest.

  Julie, who had been silent up until now, staring at the acoustical tiles in the ceiling, suddenly revived. “Oh, Doctor.” She heaved an exaggerated sigh. “I’m so tired! I didn’t sleep a wink last night.”

  Dr. Voorhis had finished with the stethoscope and tucked it into his pocket. He strapped a light to his head, took Julie’s chin in his hand, and used an otoscope to peer into her ears.

  “You see, my parents were having a party,” Julie continued.

  Voorhis stepped back to look at the child. I didn’t believe for a minute that Scott and Georgina had been celebrating the night before, but didn’t want to contradict her. I held my breath, but was entirely unprepared for what Julie said next.

  “And everybody was wearing sheets.”

  “Julie!” I aimed an unconvincing smile in the doctor’s direction. “Kid’s got an active imagination.”

  Dr. Voorhis looked skeptical, and I could see my suitability for taking care of my sister’s child being severely questioned. “How long have you had this earache, Julie Lynn?”

  Julie focused her wide, innocent eyes on his. “Today,” she said. She pointed a chubby finger at me where I sat with white-knuckled fingers practically squeezing the life out of her rabbit. “Abby’s got an earache, too.”

  “Really? Well, let’s see.” Dr. Voorhis took Abby from my hand, lifted each floppy ear, and examined it with his otoscope. “Tsk, tsk, tsk. Your bunny’s got a bad infection, Miss Julie.” He looked at me. “Ear infections are particularly bad in rabbits. So much ear.”

  I warmed up to the pediatrician. I’d never seen one work so well with children. My daughter Emily’s pediatrician had been a competent but humorless man who never liked coming to the office on Sundays, which was the only day that Emily ever seemed to get sick. Dr. Voorhis sat at a small table in the corner of the examining room, made several notations on Julie’s chart, then pulled a prescription pad toward him. “I’m prescribing an antibiotic for Julie,” he told me. While he scribbled, I helped Julie dress, vowing to find her some decent underpants the minute I got her home, even if it meant doing a load of laundry myself.

  I took the prescription slip from Dr. Voorhis and tucked it into my purse. “I’m hoping my sister will be feeling better soon.” I lifted Julie from the table and set her feet firmly on the floor. “I’ve got enough worries of my own right now.” In the hallway, I turned to face him. “I understand you recommended Dr. Sturges to my sister.”

  He nodded. “I did.”

  “My sister really grew to depend upon her.” Astonishingly, there was still no mention of his relationship to the woman. I could have been talking about the weather. The man must have been seriously into denial.

  “Well, good-bye.” He crouched in front of Julie, balancing on the balls of his feet. “Take your medicine, Ms. Julie.” He shook her hand solemnly. “And take care of that rabbit.” He handed Julie a slip of paper torn off his prescription pad. “Here’s some medicine for Abby, too.”

  I paid the receptionist the ten-dollar co-pay required by my brother-in-law’s health plan, then left the office with Julie skipping cheerfully next to me. When I tucked her into the seat belt, she still had the paper the doctor had given her clutched in her hand. “Abby’s got a persipshun! Abby’s got a persipshun!”

  “Can I see?”

  She thrust the paper under my nose. In large block print, Dr. Voorhis had written, Abigail Lapin. One carrot. Three times a day.

  chapter

  13

  Julie and I drove directly to Baskin-Robbins on Smith Avenue. While we waited for her prescription to be filled at the pharmacy next door, I treated her to that ice-cream cone I had promised. I watched, with affection, while Julie strolled up and down in front of the display case, her brow screwed up in concentration as she tried to make a selection from among all the tubs of flavors behind the glass. No one else was in the store, and the youngster behind the counter had been well brought up, waiting patiently for his pint-sized customer to come to a decision. After several long minutes, Julie pressed an index finger flat on the glass and announced, “That one. Chocolate. And put sprinkles on it.” She glanced up at me sideways through fringed lashes. “Please?” I smiled and nodded. When the clerk handed Julie her cone, I ordered a rum raisin for myself.

  While we sat in the store, licking our cones, Julie mused, “When I get old, I’m going to get a job.”

  I ran my tongue around the perimeter of my cone, catching early drips. “That would be nice. If you worked here, you could eat ice cream all day.”

  Julie shook her head, setting her ponytails dancing. “Nuh-uh. I want to be a doctor.”

  “Like Dr. Voorhis?”

  “Nuh-uh. I want to take care of sick animals.”

  “Then you want to be a veterinarian.”

  She nodded, her tongue still glued to the chocolate cone. “Yeah. A vegetarian. Mommy says we can have a dog when she gets better.”

  I admired her optimism, but was saddened to think that it might be a long time, then, before the Cardinale household ever acquired a pet. I looked at Julie’s wide, innocent eyes peering over the top of her cone and swallowed around the lump that had suddenly developed in my throat. “What kind of a dog do you want, Julie?”

  “A big, huggy dog,” she said. “Not little and skinny like Wishbone on TV.”

  I thought of Snowshoes again, for the second time in as many days. “When your mommy was a little girl, Julie, we had a big fluffy dog named Snowshoes.” I held my hand out about three feet from the floor. “He was this tall.”

  “I want a dog like Snowshoes,” she said, cautiously nibbling the rim of her cone.

  We enjoyed our ice cream, discussing dogs and cats, most of which she had seen on TV, except for a neighbor’s cat, a sleek white animal named Sir Francis Drake who enjoy
ed visiting the Cardinale garden on sunny afternoons. “Queen Isabella died,” Julie said, matter-of-factly.

  “Queen Isabella?”

  “She was the lady cat married to Sir Francis,” Julie explained.

  “Oh.” I squashed my ice cream down into the cone with the flat of my tongue. “That’s too bad.”

  “Mommy says that happens. Animals die.” She looked up at me. “People, too.”

  “That’s true, Julie.”

  “Mommy’s doctor died, and now she cries all the time.”

  “I know.”

  “Maybe if we get a dog, Mommy will stop crying.”

  “I certainly hope so, Julie.”

  Until then, I had been reluctant to bring up the party Julie told the doctor about, but it had been preying on my mind. I decided to ask.

  “Was Mommy happy last night? At the party?”

  “Mommy said it was Daddy’s party and we had to go to bed.” She glanced at me sideways and a sly grin crept over her face.

  “But you didn’t go to bed, did you, Julie?”

  “Nuh-uh. Sean and Dylan and me, we watched from the top of the steps.”

  “What did you see?”

  “Just a bunch of grown-ups with sheets on, drinking wine.”

  “Are you sure about the sheets?”

  She nodded. “Mommy had a pink one.”

  “What were they doing in the sheets?”

  “Singing funny songs. And dancing.”

  I was having a hard time picturing my introverted sister and her straightlaced husband cavorting around their living room wearing sheets.

  “What else were they doing?”

  Julie shrugged. “It was really boring. Dylan let me play with his Game Boy. Do you have a Game Boy, Aunt Hannah?”

  “I have a computer.”

  “Game Boys are fun,” she announced before polishing off the flat waffled bottom of her cone and licking her fingers. “I want to have a Game Girl!”

  I dipped a napkin in ice water and dabbed at the sticky brown residue remaining on her lips and chin. I wished I could ask more about the party, but realized that Julie had probably told me all she knew. “Time to go, Miss Game Girl. Your prescription must be ready by now, and I also have another errand to run.”