It was ironic that the substance freed him into slavery. In one sense, his life was now his own for whatever short breadth he kept it; not his brothers’, not his father’s, not the Jesuits’. He had only himself and his God to answer to. And even his God seemed amenable to the suggestions Edward made about his life’s course.
But there was the matter of the pressures he had to meet just to stay alive while he had those syringes in his pack. Possession of the substance brooked no weakness.
He knew he had many things to meditate on - his family, the Jesuits, Callista, his future. Much of this was surrounded in a black haze of pain that he resisted visiting while in trance. All that would come later, though. He knew it would be necessary to revisit all his past in order to set course for the future. But now all his concentration must be centered around the Onge “chosen one”.
Mahanta may not be all bad, and surely not as bad as Nockwe makes him out to be. Mahanta may still be influenced. He is young, and I am the only man on Earth who can understand him.
Edward foresaw a future, tenuous and hazy as it might seem, where Mahanta assisted him on his golden path.
Edward grabbed his cloak, adjusting its hood so that as little of his face was exposed as possible without drawing undue attention. He shouldered his backpack.
“I’ll be here another night,” said Edward to the innkeeper on his way out.
The little man bent slightly and nodded, then belatedly called after him. “I hope you get to feeling better!”
“Me, too,” muttered Edward Styles as he left.
26
The clinic had a brightness to it that distinguished it from the surrounding property. Its walls were clean and freshly painted. A red cross made of wood hung prominently over the door. The steps were swept and clear of loiterers.
Edward checked the street several times approaching. He did not really know what he was checking for, but he checked just the same.
A young Indian woman manned the clinic’s desk. She was tall by Asian standards and wore a white hat with the same simple red cross insignia. Whoever ran this clinic had the best marketing and branding on the whole island. The innkeeper referred clients and her receptionist wore a uniform!
“Is the doctor in?” asked Edward in Tamil.
“She is not,” answered the young woman in English. “She is making house call. But she will be back soon. Please have a seat.”
Edward sat down. The receptionist walked around her desk and handed Edward a clipboard with a checklist of possible maladies from which he might be suffering. He left the contact information blank, checked nothing, and wrote at the bottom, “Need doctor’s consultation.”
She seemed puzzled when he returned the nearly empty form, but recovered quickly. “Thank you,” she said. “Have a seat. The doctor will be in shortly.”
“Shortly” was an hour, during which time the receptionist offered him a drink of water twice and a Coke once. The timing seemed scripted, as though to interrupt a caller from boredom at just the right moment.
“This clinic, how long has it been open?” he asked, after he’d long run out of things to mull over.
“Three years, happily serving the community of Lisbaad,” she said. Edward smiled. He wondered how long it would take him to get her off-script.
Edward stood up and idled over to the window. He looked out into the narrow street. A car or two, some pedestrians. “The owner, the doctor, she’s a white woman?” he asked, still looking out the window.
“What?” The receptionist looked up at him from her desk. Not long at all.
“The doctor?”
“Yes, she is a white woman.”
“Where is she from?”
“From the United States of America. She is a fully licensed medical doctor, graduated from Oxford University.” His American Cali had gone to Oxford, too, but not in medicine.
“That’s odd.”
“Odd? What is this, odd?”
“It’s strange that an American would become an M.D. at Oxford, even stranger that she would open a clinic here.”
“Why is this so strange, you say?”
“This isn’t exactly the most profitable enterprise, is it?” he asked.
“No sir. It is not for profit. Those who can pay must, but most of the good doctor’s clientele are locals whom she treats for absolutely free,” she said.
Edward turned from the window. “Excellent use of whom,” he said.
The receptionist smiled. “Thank you, sir.” A door creaked from behind her. “That must be the doctor. Please wait a moment while I bring her your documentation.” By that she meant the one empty sheet of paper where he’d scribbled on the bottom. Certainly less red tape than America. Beats our health system any day…unless you’re actually sick.
The receptionist re-entered. “The doctor will see you now,” she said with exquisite pronunciation, as though she were performing a Shakespearean drama. He could tell it was her most-used line. As she said it she swung her arm grandiosely, leading him to the doorway behind reception. “This way, please,” she said. There wasn’t a hint of accent in her voice as she said that line. She must have drilled and drilled it.
Edward followed her. She seated him in a small room and closed the door as she left.
The room was simply furnished: a chair, the doctor’s roller stool, the examination pallet. A couple of cabinets and a receptacle for waste were on the far side.
The door clicked open and the doctor glided in. She was very young for a doctor, in her late twenties. Her blonde hair hung loosely in a bun. She was well, though moderately dressed, and had on no makeup. Her complexion didn’t require any.
She didn’t get past the door. She stopped in mid-glide and examined him with an odd look on her face. Her lips were perched sideways, frozen. Her eyebrows arched as high as they could go, and then they furrowed down. She disappeared. The door closed behind her.
Edward rubbed his face with his hands. He did not know whether to laugh or to cry. Apparently, Callista Knowles had stayed for med school after he’d left. Apparently, Dr. Callista Knowles had stationed herself on this island for the past few years.
For a moment, something occupied his thoughts other than the nirvana effect.
A moment later, she walked back in.
“Edward,” she said, businesslike. He could not read her face.
“Cali,” said Edward. “I mean, Callista.” He could never read her face.
“You need a doctor’s consultation?” she asked.
Now more than ever. She looked older now. She didn’t look any worse, only different. He hadn’t seen her in nearly a decade. He knew he looked different, too.
All the words he’d thought but never said in those lonely years rushed to his tongue to fill the air. Not a sound could come out.
He’d figured a one in a billion chance of their meeting again, but he’d played it over in his mind at least that many times. It had never gone like this. He sighed.
She watched him, waiting for an answer to her question. He watched her eyes. She had plain brown eyes. They were one of her more alluring qualities.
She broke eye contact by turning to the disposables closet and searching for a disposable. She had no need for a disposable, though Edward surmised from the tears that had welled up in her eyes that she needed something to do. She hadn’t really changed at all.
He wanted to stand up and put his hands on her shoulders but she walked out again before he could do anything.
He had proposed to her seven years ago in his senior year of college. He remembered the goofy tux he’d worn to the restaurant (“Why did you rent a tux for a dinner?”) and that frightful moment on one knee all alone at the park where the Earth had seemed to stop, and then roll right over him.
He’d written her dozens of letters. He’d never heard back. He’d figured she’d made a cold, clean break. And yet here were very warm tears in her eyes.
One thing that had changed about her: he’d
never seen her this discombobulated.
He looked at the white wall and tried to not think too much. She’d be back again any minute.
He’d had no plan after their wedding. It was more an end in itself. They’d dated for years. She’d been his best friend. They had been two Americans in a sea of Brits. They’d become one another’s home. It was them against the world.
The night she declined his proposal, where she’d ended their relationship, he’d sat on the edge of his bed with a handful of Tylenols trying to catch his breath. In the end, he couldn’t come up with a reason to live, but he couldn’t come up with a reason to end it, either.
In retrospect, he knew that joining the order, giving in to his father’s and brothers’ urgings, was his suicide, far more effective than over-the-counter medicine. A cold, clean break.
He thought he heard her call his name. His senses jarred to the present. Had she called his name or had his mind just drifted? “Callista?” he called weakly. No answer.
Finally he saw her peering out around the door. “Edward?” she asked quietly. “Come here.”
He followed her to a small lounge area. Two chairs were positioned squarely facing each other across a table. A cup of coffee steamed at either end.
“We’re out of tea,” she apologized. “And I’ve come to like coffee better.”
“That’s because you’re American.” She wasn’t looking him and didn’t even acknowledge the attempted renewal of their longest running joke.
She had come to London with her parents when she was seven. Her father worked in the American consulate. It was her “flaw” - she wasn’t a nice British girl like his father would have wanted. He used to pick at her endlessly on the point.
It was completely ridiculous. He was American, too, and the last thing his father would have wanted for him was any sort of girl at all.
Of course, she didn’t have any real flaws. Not in his eyes.
Maybe she had flaws now. He had a feeling seven years had given him better vision when it came to things like that.
“Sit,” she said, motioning toward his chair. She took the seat across from him and sipped her coffee.
“So…” she said, looking down into black cup. Her black blouse was distractingly form fitting. He just looked at her. She looked up, caught his eyes, and then looked down again. He couldn’t stop looking at her. His eyes felt sore. “So, I got my medical degree. Peace Corps, couple other aid programs wouldn’t accept my application, so I just…”
“Lisbaad?” he asked.
“I wanted to go to China, but it was too hard for me to get to the mainland.”
“Lisbaad?” Edward repeated again, incredulous. She shrugged. “I like your clinic,” he said.
She grinned ever-so-slightly. “Thank you,” she said with a tired sigh.
“I got my Doctor of Divinity, just like pops and brothers wanted. I’m a full-fledged missionary now.”
“How long have you been here?” she asked.
“Four months. You?” he asked.
“A few years. Not long after I finished my residency.” He nodded. “What kind of work are you doing here?” she asked.
“The Onge. I’m working with them. The native tribe south of here.”
Her eyes widened. “They are crazy. They won’t trade. They won’t even let me see their sick. Well, except once. One exception proves the rule.”
“The rule that they’re crazy?” he asked.
She nodded, then laughed. She was cheering up. Her laugh was the same, too. Edward felt familiar with her though they’d been so long separated. “I suppose you’ll defend them?” she asked. “You’ve gone native?”
“Well, I’ve worked with a few tribes. All my work with the Jesuits has been with native peoples, missionary work. These Onge are definitely the most odd. They lack culture, and yet they are very organized. They are fixated on survival. And very violent. They only let one white man interact with the tribe at a time. I’m the white man right now…”
“That doesn’t sound like a defense.”
“They’re crazy.” They both laughed, then stopped suddenly. He’d forgotten for a moment that they hadn’t spoken in years.
They sipped their coffee deliberately.
This is surreal. I finally meet her again and I’m talking anthropology.
Now she was looking at him. He felt a fleeting rush through his stomach. “I thought you -” he started to say.
“What, go back to the States? Marry an ambassador’s son and never work a day in my life?” There was a bitter edge to her voice that she could not fully disguise from him; she was forcing playfulness.
“I don’t know,” he said. “You never mentioned becoming a doctor and saving the Sri Lankan coast from plague and pestilence.”
“Well, you always mentioned being a Jesuit. One of us had to change things up.” His father, his brothers, they always mentioned him becoming a Jesuit. He only mentioned his fights with his brothers and father.
She was digging at him. He didn’t really know why, but he didn’t feel up for an argument. Why did she want an argument? He could barely muster what it took to look at her and keep a goofy grin off his face. She apparently wasn’t quite so happy to see him. What’s her deal?
“Would you like anything to eat?” she asked.
“No, thank you,” he said. She sipped her coffee. He watched. “I looked for you a few times, when I was back in London,” he said. She continued sipping. “I looked for you in every city I traveled. I always thought that somehow we’d catch up.”
She set the cup down carefully. Still, it made too much noise, and the drink almost lapped over the side. She smiled deliberately. “Well, it is certainly wonderful to see you, Edward.” She sounded like a ghost in a creepy movie.
He remembered the day he’d asked her to marry him. Her “No, I can’t, Edward, not now, it’s a bad time,” had carried the same hollow, deliberate sound and pacing to it. It gave him chills.
The receptionist poked her head in. “I am most sorry to disturb, madam, but the inspector from St. Mary’s is here. He needs a moment of your time.”
Callista rose. “If you’ll excuse me, Edward, it will only be a moment. This clinic is funded, actually, by your Jesuits, and every few months they do an inspection.”
“I don’t want to be seen,” said Edward.
“He’s a Jesuit. Maybe you know him,” she answered and started to walk out.
He grabbed her wrist gently. Her skin felt electric. “I can’t be seen, Callista. Is there a place I can hide?”
Her eyebrows arched, then furrowed. “There’s a closet. Maybe he won’t look there. He’s doing an inspection, though. He usually looks at everything. Follow me. Sorry, I can’t put him off. ”
She led Edward into a supply closet down the hall. The location gave him reservations. If the inspector were to open the door, Edward had a lot of explaining to do. “Is there a back door?” Edward asked.
A baritone drone rolled down the hallway. “Please tell Dr. Knowles that if she isn’t available, I could return at another time.” Edward recognized the voice. He’d met the older man at St. Mary’s when he’d first arrived at the Isle of Lisbaad.
Callista turned abruptly and walked toward the entrance. She pointed to the back of the building.
“Hello, Brother Fields,” she said. “I’d be more than happy to help you today.” She turned the corner.
Edward darted down the hall in the direction she’d pointed. He passed the exam rooms. He saw no exit. He was trapped.
He skidded back to the closet and closed its door behind him.
As his eyes adjusted to the darkness he could make out white shelves filled with medical supplies - syringes, gloves, basic first aid materials, nothing fancy. It didn’t seem like she had what he needed.
Maybe she can help me find it, though.
He could hear Callista’s conversation with Fields through the door. It was obvious by the inspector’s tone that the ma
n was only going through the motions.
“How many patients have you had since I was last here?” asked Fields.
“At least a couple hundred, most of them locals,” she answered.
“There was a plague…”
“In the southern stretches of the island. I got a few of the cases. Just influenza.”
“Their outcomes?”
“All favorable. After isolation, of course. When my clients pay nothing, there is little benefit to me in having plagues sweep through the city. Unlike Western practices…”
Fields chuckled and asked, “Any change in your facilities?”
“None. Well, the paint, of course. Would you like a tour?” she asked.
“Naturally.” Edward heard their footsteps draw near. He tensed. He simply had nothing prepared for the eventuality of Fields discovering him in a closet.
I should have just confronted Fields. I could have come up with answers to all the questions…why didn’t you check in at St. Mary’s? Why have you left your post? On and on. Easy fibs.
Why are you hiding in a closet? Edward didn’t have a fib for that one.
Their footsteps passed his closet, down the hallway to the little rooms.
“How are your supplies?” Fields asked. He’s going to want to see this closet. Edward wasn’t home free yet. He had such an urge to get out that he felt like he was crawling out of his skin.
“Too low. Always too low. Here’s exam room number one, if you remember from before, freshly painted like everything else,” she said.
Edward drew his breath. He really had no right answer here. It was a roll of the dice.
He wished he were in the trance, but instead he’d have to rely on blind luck. He opened the closet door and made a beeline to the reception area.
Diane started to say something, but he urgently motioned for silence. Edward slipped out of the front door and didn’t dare look back.
27
Podo’s job was driver. He hadn’t gotten the hang of it, yet. He’d told the Messenger this, but Tomy wouldn’t hear it. Tomy the Messenger simply said that success was foreseen, so Podo could drive well enough.
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