Origin

by Diana Abu-Jaber

  I touch his arm. “Everyone did. And I’m still alive.”

  “Damn it.” He squeezes the steering wheel. “I’m sorry, baby.” He takes my hand and kisses the knuckles.

  Keller presses me for any details that I can bring up about the unknown nurse, but my recall of the hospital is diffuse; all I remember are vague details I overheard from the staff: small, “foreign,” dark-haired, and “exotic.” He jots notes as he drives.

  When we reenter Keller’s house, I’m filled with tangible relief. The smell of the place—pine cones and dry timber in the fireplace—is sweet and consoling. And then, very quickly, for some reason, I start shivering, my face damp with tears that seemed to rise right up through my skin. Keller is startled, hurrying me to the couch in the living room, pulling off my parka. He goes back into the next room, returns with the quilt from his bed, and wraps me up. “Lena, what do you need? What’s happening? Is it the poison? Damn it, I’ll drive you to St. Joe’s in Rochester.”

  But I palm away the tears quickly, snuffling then laughing. “No, please don’t. Please. Just let me rest for a little while—I’m just so tired.” I pull the quilt away from my shoulders. “I don’t even know what I am.”

  Keller sits next to me, one arm around my shoulders. “I realize we didn’t discuss how you wanted to do this. I brought you here without asking.”

  I half shrug. “I like it here.”

  He nods gravely. “I’m going to insist that you stay here. Where I can keep an eye on things.”

  “Keller, what? This is where I want to be.” And again, to my sharp embarrassment, I feel the ache behind my eyes and turn my face.

  Keller sits up, grabs my arm. “We’re going to another hospital—this was stupid! God only knows what that fucking poison did.”

  “No, no.” I’m shaking my head. “It’s just . . .” I look at him, my vision a little glassy. “That—person—whoever it is—they were right there. You know?” I force a miserable smile. “Close enough to change the sheets on my bed.”

  His face takes on grief and tenderness. Because we know—as just about everyone in law enforcement knows—that sometimes concern and worry and attention—sometimes nothing’s enough—not to keep anyone safe and whole. But even so, even with both of us knowing, he still holds me tightly and I hold on, listening to him murmuring, “You’re safe now, Lena. I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

  LATER, THE PHONE RINGS in the next room. I roll over, my body loose and sleep-soft, and realize I’m in Keller’s bed.

  There’s a low murmuring—Keller is in the next room on the phone and then he’s in the doorway looking at me. He slides the receiver to his chest, holds it pressed there.

  “How do you feel?” he asks. He looks rumpled and freshly awakened.

  My lips seems to be stuck shut; the corners of my eyes are scratchy. Finally, I manage to ask, “What time is it?”

  “Seven thirty-eight. Morning.”

  I sit up, rubbing my face.

  “It’s Pia,” he says. “Do you want to talk to her?”

  I reach for the phone and surprise myself, and her, by saying, “Hi, Mom?”

  There’s a pause—startled, I’d imagine—just long enough for me to notice, as I peer through the blinds, that it isn’t snowing. The sky is brightly lit and the icicles on the eaves are running with sparkling rivulets. “Lena,” she says. “Where is this number? Are you with that man I met the other day? I called the number on his card.”

  “It’s pretty early, Mom. What’s goin’ on?” I watch a car eke its way up the snowed-in street.

  “Lena . . .” Her voice is the ancient plea that I remember so well. “Lena, I’m just an old lady. Henry isn’t well . . . and . . . you know, with his stroke and all of it, he’s not the same. And now—we don’t hear from you in five years—” Her voice is strung so tightly, I can hear a ripple of tears there. “And here you are! Just like that! Well . . . well . . .” Her voice meanders away. She seems to have lost her place.

  “Pia,” I say. “I’m really tired.”

  “Oh!” She’s surprised. Her voice trembles and she seems to be present again. “Well, that’s why I called. What’s wrong with you? What happened? I just got a message—just now—from the hospital. They were looking for you. The nurse told me that you’d just walked out without telling anyone. Why were you there?”

  In this moment, it’s almost a comfort to hear Pia’s voice. I consider, fleetingly, telling her about the nurse and the poisoned sheets. And if we had a different sort of relationship—if Pia were a different sort of mother—I might’ve done it. But Pia has a way of escalating every worry and concern, making her own fear the central issue. It seems that nothing good can come of telling her anything. So I say, “I did something stupid. I went walking around outside the other night and bumped my head.”

  “You bumped your head!” She sounds horrified. “How did you do that? Are you all right?”

  “I just stumbled. I’m fine.”

  “Do you want me to come over there? What did the doctor say?”

  “No, Pia, really, I’m fine. I swear.”

  “Why didn’t anyone call us from the hospital? Why didn’t you tell them to call us?”

  “It was pretty confusing, I was having some trouble. . . .”

  “Well, now you know how other people feel!” she says, oddly, back to the querulous defensive voice. “Why did you do that? Don’t do things like that anymore!”

  “I won’t, Mom.”

  “That’s not how I raised you. To run around like that in the dark.”

  “I know, I won’t ever do that again.”

  “Well. Fine, then.” She sniffs and seems to draw up into herself, and I sense that she is remembering other complaints now. “I understand you came back over here the other day. While I was away.”

  “We didn’t time it that way.”

  “Oh really? Well, I understand from your father that he may have given you a certain piece of information? About a certain woman?”

  “Oh. Yeah, that’s true. We went and talked to her.”

  “You talked to her?” Pia sounds stunned, her voice shriveling. “You talked to that woman? Lena, why did you go and do that? Why do you do these sorts of things? You should’ve waited for me to come home. You didn’t even know who she was. I could’ve told you.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  “What?”

  “You didn’t tell me. You didn’t tell me about the woman. I didn’t know I had another foster parent. You had my whole life to tell me.”

  “Because you didn’t need to know!” she wails. “She wasn’t really a parent—not like I was. She was just—she was just holding on to you for the time, that’s all.”

  “That’s not what she told me.” My voice is soft, and it seems that Pia must pause in order to take in what I’ve said.

  Finally, she says, “Oh really? And what, exactly, did that woman tell you?”

  “She said it was like I dropped out of a cloud.” I feel almost guilty, telling Pia this, but I can’t help myself. I almost wish, perversely, that I could see the look on Pia’s face. “She said I was two years old when I came to her.”

  “She’s certainly a font of information.”

  I move the receiver to my other ear. “She said I came from some place called Lyons Hospital.” My voice catches and then I say, “Is that where I was born?”

  “Well.” Now her tone seems to be softening. “Our information is so . . . limited.”

  “The problem is, Pia,” I say, my voice as measured as I can make it, “I can’t wait for you to decide to answer me. Right now, while we’re talking on the phone, someone is putting poisoned baby blankets in the mail. The mothers think the blankets are safe and they wrap up their babies, and the babies die. And I’m working on this
case and I need to find out why the killer was wearing a tooth on a string. Just like the one I own. So you’ll have to excuse me if I’m impatient.”

  “Lena!” And now I hear her voice breaking into real tears. “Why must you do this?” she demands. “Obviously a person like that wouldn’t have anything to do with you. Why can’t you ever let anything alone? Isn’t it enough that you grew up with two loving parents? You had a warm house and food and clothes—and there are all sorts of children out there who never have any of that. Why aren’t we enough for you?” In the past, her tears frightened me into submission, but now I just feel dizzy—the crying echoes in my head, hard and vertiginous. Keller leans in the doorway; he lifts his eyebrows. He gestures as if offering to take the phone. I shake my head as Pia is now saying, “Your father has been very, very sick—in case you haven’t noticed. He needs your support now, Lena. I don’t know how much longer either of us is going to last—why can’t you be nice and enjoy us now? Because once we’re gone, we’re gone.”

  “But this isn’t really about you, Pia,” I say. “This is something I’ve needed to do for years. For all my life.”

  “What more do you want!” Another wail. “Do you want my blood? Lena, leave it alone. Do you hear me? Do not pursue this any further. There’s nothing out there that any of us wants to find out. We are not some sort of case for you to crack. We are your family, we love you, and that’s all there is to it. Let the past be past.”

  “I know you’re upset.” I close my eyes.

  “Do you deliberately want to hurt me? Isn’t my love enough for you?”

  I exhale, my breath hot and mineral. I listen to the crackling silence on the phone. Finally I let myself go forward with it: “The killer might be after me, Pia. So you see, I really can’t wait any longer. I have to know—where did I come from? Why do I have a necklace made of a tooth on a string? Is it from my birth mother?”

  It seems that there’s a fine, little gasp, like a sip of air, on the other end. But Pia comes back quickly, scolding. “You have nothing to do with any sort of a killer—how ridiculous. I’ve never heard of any such thing. It’s—it’s all ridiculous and frightening and strange. I don’t want you involved in this blanket case anymore. You will not speak to that woman anymore. Promise me! I want you to swear it to me.”

  I open my mouth, I look up. Keller is back in the doorway, frowning and shaking his head, as if he can hear the conversation.

  I don’t respond, but this doesn’t stop Pia. “So that’s that,” she says primly. “There’s no need for any of this bother and hunting around. There never was. As soon as you grasp that, the happier everyone will be. There’s no big mystery here. You needed parents, we needed a baby! I couldn’t have loved you more if I gave birth to you myself, Lena. You should know that.”

  I think, but do not say: Then why didn’t you ever adopt me?

  She’s more upbeat now. “Let’s pretend this never happened! What do you say? You never heard about that awful woman and neither did I. There, we’ve agreed!”

  CHAPTER 40

  I STAY HOLED UP AT KELLER’S HOUSE, UNDER A SORT OF BENEVOLENT house arrest that he’s imposed. I sleep in his bed and he sleeps on the floor beside me, wakeful as a watchman. On my second morning back, I wake myself coughing. After I get up, Keller tells me that the hospital lab called. “They had the results of your blood workup—you’ve got the cocktail in your blood.” He watches me as he tells me this, holding my hand in both of his.

  That’s what we’ve been calling it, privately, the cocktail. The report comes as no surprise. “Sure,” I say, though hearing of my poisoning, so undeniably confirmed, lifts my pulse, the blood soaring in my head. I’m still loopy and lethargic, my entire body—especially my chest and lungs—brittle with pain.

  “They want you back in there ASAP—you need chelation therapy for the poisoning, plus they want to give you a full workup to make sure the cadmium hasn’t injured your kidney function, respiratory tract . . . oh, and they want to start doing bone-density tests.”

  “They want me to come back in when the person who did this to me is probably still there?” I stop, my throat and chest racked with coughing.

  Keller holds my back as I cough, one arm slung around my shoulders: it hurts to be touched, but I want the comfort. “Well, that’s the best part,” he says grimly. “A nurse found the lab report on your first round of blood work—it was stuffed into the back of a linen closet. Apparently the blood tests they’d done just after you’d been admitted showed low cadmium levels. When they retested two days later, your levels had jumped.”

  I lie back in the bed, hot and shivering. “Clears Mr. Memdouah, doesn’t it? We were in the hospital at the same time. He couldn’t have given me more poison.”

  “Depends,” he says. “If they want to see it that way. Cummings rushed the arrest to make the reporters happy, and he won’t be so quick to let go.”

  Keller goes into the office, to start reinterviewing the families of the victims. He makes me swear to stay in today, to call him if I need anything at all. He phones an hour later to say that after he reported the results of my blood work, Frank burst out: “We’re hanging on to a purported suspect and meanwhile Lena gets poisoned in the hospital? In the fucking hospital?”

  There’s more news from the office: Rob Cummings—who has only three weeks left on the job—still maintains that Memdouah is only an emissary, that the real culprits are members of the NFF. The investigations will continue, Cummings vowed, until they uncover their “hidden arsenal.” Later, when his statement is broadcast on the morning news, they don’t report that the police have already combed the St. James Apartments twice, cross-examining everyone. They haven’t uncovered any toxic dyes or related compounds in Membouah’s lair, nor have they found any secret stashes at the headquarters of the NFF, nor anywhere on the reservation in Nedrow. None of the members of the NFF match the anonymous fingerprints on the cribs. The police did discover that Hillary Memdouah is dating a half-Iroquois man who lives in Nedrow, but he has no affiliation with the NFF.

  Chief Sarian, Keller tells me, considered the news on my blood work stoically, then laced his fingers together and said that one of his men would begin interviewing hospital personnel. Half the station, Keller says, is now in favor of dropping the charges against Memdouah.

  Police cruise by Keller’s house regularly. Twice, I look out the window to see Charlie’s car, his upright silhouette behind the wheel. I sip warm teas to calm my throat. I draw charts and make notes, looking for the map that connects the victims’ families to each other and to me.

  Dr. Southard calls and tells me to rest. She says I’ve been “assaulted and terrorized,” to expect to feel a fallout of fear and grief and anger. I tell her that work helps me, that, at the moment, it’s all I can do or think about. She says at some point I should think about living in the “wider world.” She gives me her home number. She warns that my dreams may be disturbing.

  What I feel is a sort of silent watchfulness, a stealthy silence, much like that of the hours I spent in my childhood bedroom, waiting to be sent away. Waiting for what would come.

  ON THE MORNING of my third day back, Bruno Pollard sits across from me in Keller’s living room. Bruno unzips his parka but leaves it on over his suit jacket; he sits hunched on the couch, all business, firing questions, writing in his pad, not looking at me as we talk.

  “Why was Memdouah holding that book?” he asks.

  I try to remember the odd, tilting moment of waking in physical distress, the man watching me in the dark. “He said that it was his, that he’d written it,” I say slowly.

  Bruno lifts his eyebrows as he writes. “Ah-hunh. That’s pretty weird.”

  “He’d picked it up from my bed while I was asleep. He said someone had told him to let me sleep.”

  “One of the NFF?”

  “Mo
re like the voice in his head.”

  Bruno uncrosses then recrosses his legs—too big for the armchair. “Did you ever hear him threaten people? Or use threatening language?”

  I open my hands, feeling trapped by the question. “He has a . . . violent imagination. But that’s all any of this talk ever was for him—imaginary.”

  Bruno nods without looking at me and just keeps writing. I remind him of the tooth necklace, my belief that it’s central to the case. Finally I mention the unknown nurse who was rumored to be wandering around the hospital.

  “Yep,” he says, knocking the side of the pencil against the pad. “We’ve been talking to staff about her. All sorts of people have seen her, but she’s like the Loch Ness monster—the sketch artist can’t pin it down to a coherent description.”

  The interview lasts a little over an hour. Before he leaves, Bruno shakes my hand, then puts his arms around me. I swallow my gasp, the lash of pain that I feel in my skin and joints. “I’m gonna catch the one who did this, Lena,” he mutters. “I’m gonna catch that motherfucker who did this.”

  AFTER HE GOES, almost immediately I feel shrunken and isolated. A current of silence settles over the house. I wander from room to room, the quilt from Keller’s bed draped around me, noticing every minor sound. I’m swept with a tidal exhaustion, my bones stiff and aching. I pull out notes from the crime scene examination, but the quiet makes a grainy empty space around me; my head hums. On the living room couch, I turn on the TV to try and calm my prickling anxiety, but it’s all car chases and fistfights. Finally, I tune in to a black and white movie, from the forties perhaps—an old crone in a fright wig, speaking to a young couple, chanting in an otherworldly voice: “The night is full of witches who brush across the moon, their brooms bristling like fire, their laughter rising out of the weeds. The world is full of ways to be frightened—depending on what you tell yourself about the sounds you almost hear, the shadow in the corner of your eye, the graze of unseen fingers.”