Taji's Syndrome

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “Your father has a lot to be proud of, Laurie. You can’t blame him for showing off.” Miss Cuante thought of her own twelve-year-old Accord parked on the other side of the auditorium and could not entirely conceal her sigh. “It’s a fine car.”

  “I guess.” Laurie was slightly embarrassed and was doing her thirteen-year-old best to hide it. “Well, thanks. I’ll see you in the morning. I’ll do the stretching exercises tonight, the way you told me to, and I’ll make sure I’m on time.” She started away, lifting her hand to wave.

  “Tell your sister I hope she feels better,” said Miss Cuante, wishing the same thing for herself. As she walked toward the small lot where her car waited, she did her best to be sensible, recalling that she was approaching menopause and it was time to get a proper checkup. Her divorce two years ago had left some strange scars that still gave her emotional jolts at unexpected times—this dizziness was probably more of the same but there was no reason not to take precautions. As she unlocked her car door, she resolved to make an appointment for a checkup as soon as the recital was behind her.

  Jonathon Grey beamed at Laurie as she got into the car and said, “Well, how’d it go, sugar?” In the last three years he had started to put on weight and although far from fat, he was becoming portly.

  “Pretty well,” Laurie allowed. “I think I’m ready. I miss having the mirrors like we do in the studio—on stage I can’t see if I do anything wrong.” She adjusted her tote between her feet. “How’s Marilee?”

  “We’ll find out when we get to the hospital.” He cleared his throat, a nervous habit which all his family recognized as a signal that he was not comfortable with what he had to say. “They’re asking us all to come in for tests, the whole family.”

  “What?” Laurie was shocked. “Why?”

  “Michaelson won’t say right out, but I gather he’s worried that this might be some kind of toxic waste reaction. He’s been checking with other hospitals—you know that search service they have out of Atlanta?—to see if there are other cases like Marilee’s out there.” He waved to the front of Jonathon’s Table which was still his favorite of his six restaurants, though his new one, Moonraker, was apt to displace it if it lived up to its promise.

  “You mean they still don’t know what the matter is?” Laurie demanded, shocked. “How can they not know what’s wrong after all this time?”

  “They can’t because . . . ” He faltered. “Maybe it’s something new. You know, like all the problems they’ve had in treating AIDS.”

  “That’s a special case,” said Laurie. “Everyone knows that.”

  “Not everyone,” said her father. “Otherwise it wouldn’t still be around, even with the vaccine.” He signaled for a left turn. “Your mother’s waiting for us in Chula Vista.”

  “Oh?” She said it carefully, wary in how she spoke of her mother since her parents’ reconciliation eight months ago. Everyone had held their breaths waiting to find out if Catherine and Jonathon would be able to make a go of it after all the threats her first husband had made. With Gary back in jail and the family no longer under siege, Laurie hoped that the worst was over and that they were all a family once more.

  “Don’t worry, sugar, everything’s fine. We’ve straightened it out. You don’t have to—” He interrupted himself to honk at a flashy pickup that cut in front of his car, swearing as the pickup driver responded with a wave of his raised middle finger. “Didn’t mean to—”

  “It’s okay, Daddy,” she said, reverting to her old pattern with him.

  “It’s been a rough couple years, I know it has. When Catherine’s first husband got out of jail—” He stopped, not finding a way to go on without distressing Laurie and himself.

  “I know,” said Laurie. “Everyone was scared.” She did not like to admit that she was as frightened as anyone. “And now Marilee’s sick.”

  “They’re working on making her well. And we’ll do everything we can to help Michaelson, won’t we?” He nodded toward the road ahead. “Your mother already promised to stay with Marilee at the hospital if that would make things better. Jared and Shelley and you and I can manage on our own if Catherine spends a few days at the hospital.” He cleared his throat. “According to Michaelson, there might be a pattern in this disease’. If more cases come in, then they’ll have a better idea what they’re up against.”

  “I see,” said Laurie in a soft voice.

  “And you know how important it is to stop something like this early.” He said it, repeating what Ben Michaelson had told him. “I wish I knew what was wrong.”

  “So do I, Dad,” Laurie sighed, adding as she stared, unseeing, out the windows, “Do you know what kind of tests we’ll have? Did they tell you?”

  “No, not yet. Probably blood stuff. You know what that’s like.” When he had asked the same thing of the doctors, the answers had been vague and ill-defined, as if the physicians themselves did not know what they were looking for.

  “How long will it take; did they say?”

  “No. Not too long, though.” He was determined to be confident, and he said the last with emphasis. “Whatever’s wrong with Marilee is serious enough that they’re taking precautions, that’s all.”

  “Oh.” She reached down and fiddled with the handles of her tote. “Is Marilee still in isolation?”

  “Yes. Just in case she has something catching. That’s one of the reasons for them to test us.” He reached over and put his hand on her hair. “Don’t borrow trouble, hon. There’s no reason to assume they’re being anything but careful.”

  “What if we have something catching? Will we all have to be isolated?” She was thinking of her dancing and her plans for the next year. If she had to be isolated because of something her half-sister had, she would lose precious, irreplaceable time. Guilt grabbed her by the scruff of the neck, shaming her for putting her ambitions ahead of Marilee’s health, but the thought lingered and would not be denied.

  “What’s wrong, sugar?” asked her father when Laurie had been frowning in silence for the better part of a mile.

  “Nothing, really. Worries.”

  “We all have ’em,” Jonathon said quietly. “It’s part of living.”

  “Yeah.” She stared ahead, trying to find a way to make her own conflicting emotions more palatable. She never thought of herself as heartless, but perhaps she was, if she could be more apprehensive about a few lost months than that Marilee might have a fatal disease. She did her best to make her mind a blank and to concentrate on nothing but the people on the sidewalk. After a short while, she said, “There’s Mom.”

  Jonathon signaled and pulled toward the curb. “You’ve got sharp eyes, Laurie,” he said as he braked to a stop.

  “Hi,” said Catherine, opening the back door and pressing Laurie on the shoulder. “Don’t mind me riding back here. I want to stretch out and it’s easier in the back. You stay where you are, Laurie.” As she pulled the door shut, she said, “I can’t tell you how much trouble Dave is giving me about this second agency. He’s convinced that we need three more people for the office, minimum, and there’s no way we can afford them.”

  “Why all those people?” asked Jonathon, leaning back to exchange a twisted kiss with his wife.

  “Because Dave can’t stand the thought of having a small second office, that’s why. He doesn’t want to admit that all we need is three people and the computer and everything’s fixed.” She kicked off her shoes and lifted her legs onto the seat. “I don’t know how to convince him.”

  “Far Venture Travel isn’t exactly the biggest agency in the world,” said Jonathon. “You don’t need a huge staff, do you?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Catherine. “Dave’s trouble is he wants to be the boss, which means he wants someone to boss around, preferably a lot of someones. He hasn’t said so yet, but I think he imagines
himself as a travel mogul, booking two hundred tours a year for groups of seventy and eighty. Ever since we handled that cruise for that Del Mar company, Dave’s got his eye on big package deals. He forgets that the bookings I handle— which he thinks are a waste of time—bring in more than sixty-five percent of our profit. Handling a European vacation for a family of three doesn’t appeal to him.” She put her hand to her well-cut greying hair. “Never mind that. I’m blowing off steam. I probably should have yelled at Dave, but that never gets me anywhere. How’s Marilee? Have you talked to Ben yet today?”

  “He still wants us to take those tests.” Jonathon glanced at Laurie as if to reassure himself that it was correct to discuss this in front of his daughter.

  “Well, if he thinks it’s necessary, it probably is. We want Marilee to—”

  “Get over the thing,” Jonathon finished for her. He reached out and gave Laurie a pat on her ann. “One casualty in the family is enough, isn’t it?”

  “Um-hum,” said Laurie, starting to feel scared again.

  —Harold Porter—

  Finally the snow got so bad that Frank Porter pulled his camper off the road in the town of Mullan, a few miles over the Idaho border. He wrestled himself into his heavy shearling coat and then turned to his son. “You keep an eye out for company. I’m going to walk to that service station and find out if there’s a motel open this time of night.”

  “Sure,” said Harold, his voice cracking. “I’ll do it.”

  “Good for you, son,” Frank declared, taking the time to cuff the boy lightly on the jaw. “You’re a good kid.” Then he was gone into the blur of flakes swarming out of the night sky.

  Harold pulled his knees up and sat huddled against the seat, trying to decide what was the best thing for him to do. His father rarely left him alone, and if he knew more about where they were, he might take a chance to find a phone and try to reach his mother. In the four years since his father had abducted him from his mother’s home in Golden, Colorado, he had been able to call her nine times, so she would know he was still all right. Twice he had tried to get away and return to his mother, but both times his father had found him and beaten him so badly that now he was afraid to make the attempt again. He felt in his pocket for coins, in case he found a phone, and realized he had less than two dollars to his name: he would have to call collect. Little as he admitted it, he missed his mother, and the life they had had before his father returned. Alexa had found them a place on the outskirts of Golden where she raised ponies, specializing in a handsome Welsh Cob/Caspian cross which was starting to earn her a reputation and a growing income. Harold had liked tending to the ponies and being with his mother Alexa, who lavished affection on him as if to make up for the years they had followed Frank on the rodeo circuit. Now Harold was once again on that circuit, and Frank, aging unpredictably, had become increasingly suspicious and demanding of his son.

  “You drifting?” Frank asked as he yanked open the door and pointed an accusing finger at his boy.

  “A little. It’s cold.”

  Frank grunted. “There’s a motel about a mile up the road. They’ve got a room for us, and we can get sandwiches there.” He wedged himself behind the wheel and twisted the key in the ignition. “Old fart better start,” he muttered.

  The engine turned over with a protesting roar, and Harold blinked to conceal his relief. “We going to stay here a day or two?”

  “Have to, if the snow doesn’t stop. Told me at the service station that most places around here are already snowed in. Shit, if I can’t get going, I’ll lose that job in Twin Falls. I said I’d be there next Tuesday.” He tromped on the. accelerator and the camper lurched onto the road, fish-tailing on the icy surface.

  “Dad!” Harold said faintly, trying not to rouse his father’s anger. Nothing made Frank Porter more upset than the fear that someone was criticizing his driving. Harold clung to the seatbelt and ground his teeth to keep from yelling.

  “I can handle it,” Frank growled as he fought with the wheel. “I can handle a lot worse’n this.” He continued his battle for most of a minute until the camper steadied and began real progress down the road toward the motel.

  “Hey, Dad, how long are you going to stay in Twin Falls?” It was a forlorn question; Frank had never remained in anyone place as long as he intended to; someone would insult him, or he would get into a fight, or there would be accusations and Frank would take his boy and they would once again be on the road.

  “Through May, in any case. I told Bowan that I’d help out with getting his horses in off the range and broke, if he’ll guarantee my wages and a place to live for us both. He said there’s two house trailers on his place and we can have our pick of ’em. Things are going our way, kid, if we can get there.” This last was a dark reminder of Frank’s belief that he had been the chosen target of a capricious and vengeful fate.

  “We’ll get there. You can phone from the motel, can’t you, so he’ll know where you are?” He made this suggestion carefully, so that it would not appear that he was in any way prodding his father to do anything. Frank hated any kind of manipulation unless he was doing it.

  “I might,” he allowed when he had thought about it. “Ah. There’s the motel. Hang on, Harold.” He swung the camper abruptly and it slithered across the road, sliding into the parking lot of the Riverbend Motel. “Wait here while I get us checked in. I’ll be quick about it.”

  “Great.” He watched his father stamp into the light over the office and pound on the door. For an instant he thought he might open the door and slip away, making his way toward the highway where he could hitch a ride back to Golden and his mother. But he had sense enough to know that the chances were he would freeze or his father would find him and take out after him with his fists again. Harold shuddered, and told himself that it was from cold.

  “Okay,” said Frank as soon as he came back. “We got Unit Number Eleven. Here’s the key. I want you to get the duffles out and bring them in. We can get the rest in the morning. I’ll be back in a little while. Don’t let nobody in while I’m gone, you understand?”

  “Yes, Dad,” said Harold, knowing that his father would be going in search of drink, since he had run out of the cheap alcoholic liquid that called itself scotch earlier in the day. “Anything you say.”

  “You’re a good boy, Harold,” said Frank as he closed the door.

  As soon as he had finished carrying the duffles into the motel room, Harold went back to the office and asked the manager if there was a pay phone around. “I . . . got some people to call, with the roads being closed.”

  “Sure, kid,” said the manager. “There’s one down the hall. Takes quarters only.” He turned and started back to his sitting room behind the reception desk and then said, “You want a sandwich? Your father said you hadn’t had supper yet.”

  “That would be nice,” Harold said uncertainly. “But I don’t have any money—he does.”

  “I’ll put it on the bill,” offered the manager, and once again pointed down the hall. “Go ahead and make your calls. I’ll have a couple sandwiches ready when you’re through.”

  “Thanks,” said Harold, perplexed by the kindness the manager was showing him. He quickly put that out of his mind as he went to the phone and punched in the familiar number and the code to make it collect. He felt a twinge of guilt at making his mother pay to hear from him, but it passed as he listened to the beeps and clicks.

  “Who shall I say is calling?” asked the electronic voice of the computerized operator.

  “Harold. Harold Porter.” He felt his throat go dry as he waited, listening to the rings and counting them.

  Alexa picked up her receiver on the ninth ring. “Hello?” At the sound of his mother’s voice, Harold had to swallow hard to keep from crying. Sternly he admonished himself to be more grown-up, but as Alexa took the call, he felt tears
well in his eyes.

  “Harold?” she pleaded. “Is that you? Really?”

  “Hi, Mom,” he said inanely. “Yeah. How are you?”

  “I’m doing fine. What about you? Where are you? Are you all right? Oh, God, I’ve been so worried about you.”

  He knew that she was at the edge of her control and he tried to reassure her. “I’m doing okay. I miss you.”

  “Oh, baby, I miss you so much.”

  She was crying now; he could hear the sound of it in her words and her silences. “I miss you, too.”

  “Where are you?” she made herself ask.

  “Somewhere in Idaho. It’s snowing. We were in Montana last week, and then something happened and . . . ” He choked.

  “You don’t have to tell me; I know.” In her tears there was anger now. “He hasn’t hurt you again, has he?”

  “No, Mom, not really,” he answered evasively. “Look, he said something about going to a Bowan place near Twin Falls. I don’t know if there’s anything you can do, but that’s what he said, and maybe . . .”

  “I’ll try. I’ll call the State Police again and see if they’re willing to do anything. If he hadn’t taken you out of Colorado, it would be a lot easier. It always takes time when there’s another state involved.” Determination drove the sound of weeping from her speech. “I’m going to bring you home, Harold. You’ll see.”

  “I hope so, Mom.” He tried to laugh and failed. “I keep hoping that . . . it’s almost Christmas, you know? I wish I was spending it with you.”

  “Me, too,” Alexa said so softly that Harold barely heard her.

  “Anyway, Mom, I got to go. I don’t want to run up your bill and I don’t want to . . .” He did not have to finish; they both knew what Frank would do if he even suspected that his son had called Alexa.