Kindred

by Stein, Tammar

  So I nod and say I’ll think about it.

  Emmett glances at me sharply, something dull in my tone probably tipping him off that I’ve given up on getting through to him.

  He looks a bit grim and then nods, almost to himself.

  “You hungry?” he asks.

  I make a face. “Nothing much agrees with me lately.”

  “I know a great place,” he says gently. “Give it a try.”

  We go to a little French café in the artsy section of Nashville near Vanderbilt University, and Emmett orders us chicken soup and a crusty baguette. I’m charmed by this part of town, which I haven’t been to before. It’s full of students and weird boutiques selling handmade clothes for too much money. The soup stays down, and with so many cafés around, there are plenty of public restrooms, a fact that helps me enjoy myself as we stroll. I’ve learned never to let myself get too far away from a potty safe house.

  On the drive back to town, we pass a church billboard proclaiming HE DOESN’T PROMISE AN EASY RIDE, ONLY A SAFE LANDING.

  I close my eyes and spend the rest of the ride in silent darkness.

  I feel Emmett’s hand on my leg a little above the knee, on the skin exposed by my shorts. The warm weight is comforting. Without opening my eyes, I place my hand over his. He turns his hand and curls his fingers around mine. He doesn’t squeeze or press my fingers. He just holds my hand, and I hold his until we make it back to town.

  XXII.

  WHEN MO COMES HOME THAT EVENING, I can tell by the set of his shoulders that he’s expecting another fight. I don’t want to fight, but I know he’s my only chance to succeed with Jason.

  I’ve made brownies, a pathetic offering that I hope will bring him to the table and keep this talk civil. As he catches the scent of warm chocolate, I see his posture relax just a bit.

  “I’ve added peanut butter chips,” I coax.

  He rolls his eyes but comes to the kitchen table, sitting down warily.

  “Eat,” I say. “They’re still warm.”

  So he sits and we eat together. I wait until he has a mouthful of brownies before I start to talk.

  “Mo,” I say. “I don’t want to fight.”

  He nods but doesn’t say anything, his face set in hard lines incongruous with his full mouth and the dark crumbs on his lips.

  “You’re my brother. I love you.”

  His face softens at my tone and he reaches out to touch my hand.

  “Miriam, sis, you know I love you.” Mo’s eyes are shining; his face, so similar to mine, so familiar, beseeches me to trust him.

  “I know you love me, Mo,” I say, because what else can I tell him? He does love me. But that doesn’t mean his love is pure. And it doesn’t mean he hasn’t hurt me.

  I always forgive him. For the slights, for the tricks he played on me, for embarrassing me in front of my friends and laughing about me in front of his. Because at the end of the day, we’re twins. I know why he does the things he does. I know him better than anyone else and he knows me. I’ve always felt that if I turned my back on him, he would be lost. Forever.

  Then, with blinding clarity, I suddenly realize something I should have seen from the beginning: the angels carried an image of Mo’s face as well. I’m stunned it hasn’t occurred to me before. Jason and the students at Warfield aren’t my only mission. I cannot believe I didn’t see that my brother needs me as much as Jason does. The thought has me shaking with excitement. This isn’t just about Jason, that hostile, defensive and surly boy I have nothing in common with. It’s as much about Mo as it is about Jason. I feel a surge of energy and resolve at the thought. I may have fumbled with Tabitha. I might fail with Jason. But not with Mo. I will not let the devil have him. Because he’s mine.

  “Mo,” I say, gathering my racing thoughts, struggling to control my voice. “This is important. This is more important than anything we’ve ever done. You know that.”

  I try to see if I’m getting through to him.

  “This isn’t a game.” My voice cracks. “It’s the angels and the devil fighting over this.” Over you, I want to say but I don’t. “How can you help Satan? How can you do that? It’s a choice you make; it’s not fate. And if you can’t bring yourself to defy him completely, then please just don’t help him.”

  “At least I’m talking to the man in charge; you’re just dealing with some underlings,” he taunts.

  “That’s because God is greater than the devil,” I shoot back. “He can delegate this; Satan can’t.” Mo’s face changes again, closes to me. In my sudden excitement, I haven’t planned my strategy very well.

  “Screw you!” he says. “How do you know that I’m on the devil’s side?” I see the mulish, bitter look on his face. “Why do you assume that you’re on God’s side? You’re blind. It’s your arrogance and your pride. It’s so typical. Little sister, you’re in over your head.”

  “I’m trying to stop a killing,” I say. “How can you possibly think doing anything else is right?” I can’t pull back, not now that I understand the bigger picture. I know it’s the wrong thing to do, but I just can’t stop the words from tumbling out. “I’ve had more visits,” I babble quickly. “Angels and visions. This is real. This is important.”

  Mo clenches his teeth and I see a muscle twitching on the side of his jaw. This isn’t going the way I want, I think in sudden panic.

  “Mo, please.” I reach out my hand and he smacks it away. We both look shocked for a moment. My hand is red and stinging. I clutch it to my chest. He looks unhappy and scared, but before I can say anything, he pushes his chair back, scraping it loudly, and walks away.

  “You’re my brother!” I shout after him. “Come back!”

  But his steps never falter and he doesn’t look back.

  XXIII.

  THE NEXT DAY I HAVE MY APPOINTMENT with Dr. Messa, and I arrive in the waiting room heavy with a dull sense of dread.

  The nurse who calls me in recognizes me and says hi with the warm friendliness reserved for repeat customers, a category I’m not pleased to be part of.

  After a twenty-minute wait in the examination room, where I grow more and more cold and scared, Dr. Messa walks in with a professional smile on his face. We shake hands, his warm and dry, mine damp and frozen. Then he sits down on a small rolling stool and flips through my file. The smile fades as he scans the notes, and he sets the file down on the narrow counter next to him and gravely makes eye contact.

  “So the Asacol isn’t working,” he says.

  “No,” I say softly.

  “Bowel movements?”

  I squirm, talking about this. I hate it. It’s private; it should stay that way. But instead I try to match his matter-of-fact tone.

  “I’ve lost count how many times I go a day. And I have a low-grade fever, off and on.”

  He nods.

  “Well, Miriam, we have several options.” He begins to explain that there’s a pyramid of medication. I’ve been on the lowest rung, but I’m about to be promoted. As one climbs this pyramid, the medication grows more powerful, which means there’s a greater likelihood that it’ll suppress the disease but also a greater likelihood that my body will reject it or that I will experience serious side effects. Chronic nausea. Shingles. Cancer.

  Should climbing this pyramid fail to help, either because the medication doesn’t suppress the disease or because the side effects are too strong, then we’re left with surgery.

  “It’s not the end of the world,” he says, noting that I look pale. “Here, let me show you.” On the thin, crinkly paper that covers the examination table, Dr. Messa begins to sketch a rough model of the colon.

  “The most drastic option is a complete removal of the diseased colon.” Drawing an X, he says, “This is where the surgeon cuts the colon and removes it. Then he pulls the ileum though the abdominal wall.” He continues sketching quickly, the drawing crude but very illustrative. He keeps talking, and my face grows hot and then prickly with clammy heat. I feel woozy
, and his voice grows distant. My sight shrinks to a narrow tunnel and then … winks out.

  I come to on the examination table, lying right on top of the horrid sketch.

  “Are you okay, dear?” the nurse asks. I don’t remember her coming in, but I suppose Dr. Messa called for help when he realized his audience had just passed out.

  I blink a couple of times and then try to sit up. The nurse puts a hand on my shoulder, pressing me down.

  “Just stay there a bit, until everything settles.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I whisper, for some reason humiliated.

  “It’s okay; you’ve been through a lot. I hate it when we see patients your age going through this. Hard enough when you’re thirty. But in a young girl like you, it breaks my heart.”

  Her feelings are sincere, but her pity makes me feel even worse.

  I turn my head away from her and close my eyes. She takes the hint and shuts up. I really don’t enjoy hearing that my situation is pathetic. After the staff scrounges up an orange soda, which they insist I drink, I’m allowed to get off the examination table. I keep my eyes averted so as not to see Dr. Messa’s illustration.

  When I check out, I see him. He looks sheepish and comes over to me. As he stands by my side, I realize we’re basically the same height, and I’m not a tall girl. I never noticed how short he was. Maybe being the bearer of bad news makes you seem taller. I wonder about his personal life, about his childhood. He must have been teased in high school. He became a doctor, and now he helps people. Why do some people shrug off teenage misery while others don’t?

  Dr. Messa doesn’t meet my eyes; he just pats me on the back a couple of times and says, “Don’t worry, Miriam. It might not come to that. We’ll take care of you. We’ll lick this thing.”

  He means to be kind, so I just nod and don’t say anything.

  I return to the office, working mechanically. I write words I don’t understand, have conversations I don’t remember. I wait until I get back to my apartment before I start crying. But this time, the crying doesn’t last long. My eyes are sore from crying so much, my soul tired.

  Is this God’s work? Another kick in the pants for always failing? I think back on Hank’s musings on the nature of disease. Is it the devil trying to slow me down? If it is the devil, then why isn’t God stopping him?

  I log on to an online Bible, looking for answers, hoping for comfort. Random clicking leads me to Psalms, my favorite book of the Bible. I mean to click on Psalm 23, which seems appropriate, given the situation, but end up reading Psalm 51, my mother’s favorite:

  Surely I was sinful at birth,

  sinful from the time my mother conceived me.

  Surely you desire truth in the inner parts;

  you teach me wisdom in the inmost place.

  Cleanse me with hyssop, and I will be clean;

  wash me, and I will be whiter than snow.

  Let me hear joy and gladness;

  let the bones you have crushed rejoice.

  This has me shuddering. I feel even lower than I did. Was I sinful at birth? Is God justified in His judgment of me, judgment of my failure? Perhaps He has given up on His attempts to teach me wisdom. I click to Psalm 91, which my father and I had discussed in the past. It is a bit more comforting:

  Surely he will save you from the fowler’s snare

  and from the deadly pestilence.

  He will cover you with his feathers,

  and under his wings you will find refuge;

  his faithfulness will be your shield and rampart.

  You will not fear the terror of night,

  nor the arrow that flies by day.…

  No harm will befall you;

  no disaster will come near your tent.

  For he will command his angels concerning you

  to guard you in all your ways.

  I laugh hollowly at the irony of those last lines. Spare me the guardianship of angels. The air-conditioning clicks on and a cold wind blows down my neck. I shiver but don’t rise. I reread the entire passage. There is something so compelling about the thought that God protects His beloved. Of course my mind wanders back to the dream at the ruins. The impossible voice promising shelter and safety. Is there any way that it could be real? Let’s assume that His angels have been guarding me. That would mean that this whole intervention was for my benefit. At first the thought seems preposterous. This whole ordeal has been nothing but trouble for me, from the terrifying, blinding beginning to this current situation of illness and frustration. But as I continue to sit in front of the glowing screen, struggling with my thoughts, the simple, ancient verses fill my vision; they sink into my brain and I start to see things in a different light.

  If I take the events of the past few months and filter them through the lens that I am not a victim, that no celestial being bears me ill will and that in fact this has all been for my well-being, then suddenly everything sharpens in focus and the picture before me bears little resemblance to the way I’ve seen things until now. Because suddenly I see that showing me people in need and granting me the opportunity to make a difference in someone’s life is a gift, not an injury. I still think angels aren’t my biggest fans, but perhaps the motive behind the cruelty was pure.

  Because without a visit, would I ever have believed my brother’s encounter? Would I even realize he needed a champion, that he needed me?

  No. Of course the answer is no. I never would have believed he needed me, and when he confessed his encounters with the devil, I wouldn’t have believed what he said.

  It’s a mind-altering epiphany.

  Raphael’s visit, the dream, the vision—these were a boon granted to me, and in my selfish, self-involved pity, I failed to see them for what they really were.

  I sit back in my chair, stunned by the thought. A gift. Not a punishment. Not an unfair task, but rather a chance to achieve something truly important in life. I close my eyes and rest my head on the heels of my hands. How could I have misunderstood so badly? The late morning sun streams in between the blinds, casting lines across the carpet, the desk and my arms.

  I realize something else. My disease can help me. It could be just the thing I need to get through to Mo. Whether God-given, devil-cursed or a biological fluke, without it I don’t stand a chance.

  In a daze, I scroll up to the passage I logged on for, meaning to read.

  I have always found Psalm 23 beautiful. But now, as I walk through my own valley, my own shadow—if not of death, then at least of what seems like a desecration of my body—it’s been hard to feel anything but abandoned, discarded, betrayed. As Psalm 23 appears and my face is bathed by the eerie blue glow of the screen, I read it again. Maybe a promise that no harm will befall me, that no disaster will come near me, is not a literal promise of good health. It’s a state I can reach if my heart and my soul are ensconced in the shelter of faith. And knowing that I am not being punished, believing that I am loved, goes a long way toward that.

  Surely goodness and love will follow me

  all the days of my life,

  and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.

  XXIV.

  MO IS AVOIDING ME, but now that I know what I have to do, that’s easy to fix. I log off and text him to meet me at the Civil War ruins. I’d told him about it, and as far as I know, he hasn’t made it there yet. I put a sketch of the hike on the kitchen table and then head off, leaving my cell phone conspicuously behind.

  If he has no way to weasel out of it, he’ll come. I’ll give him until an hour before dark before calling it quits.

  But I know my brother. He won’t be able to resist checking out an off-the-beaten-track Civil War site. If he knows I’m there waiting for him, if he can’t tell me no, he’ll come.

  The walk to the ruins is even more difficult than it was the last time. It’s a hot, humid day, for one, and the moisture in the air seems to suck the breath right out of my chest. And I’ve grown weaker. My legs feel rubbery and my breath catche
s as my heart flutters, trying hard to keep up. My fever is back, making the day feel like both a blazing scorcher and too cold. I stop to rest frequently, cursing under my breath as I do.

  I make it to the site and sit down, leaning back against a mound in the shade. I could be leaning against a ruined barracks, a storage room or maybe even the latrines, though probably those would be farther away from the living quarters. I close my eyes and try to bring my racing heartbeat down to a more sustainable level.

  It is two hours before Mo finds me. I’m tired, but calm. I’ve had enough time to arm myself for this battle. It’s my last chance. And I know what’s going to happen to me, to Mo, to Jason, if I fail. It’s ironic that Mo himself gave me the weapons. Misdirection, charm, familial loyalty. I’ve had time to think about how to approach this situation, and I’m taking a page from his book, treading that fine line between cleverness and manipulation. After nineteen years, I know what makes him tick and I don’t hesitate to use it.

  Mo flashes a crooked smile my way.

  “You tricky little bitch,” he says. He is partly enchanted by the ruins, partly pissed off that I got him to come, and partly admiring that I cornered him. Mo has always had a healthy respect for a worthy adversary.

  “If it makes you feel better,” I say, because he’s never called me a bitch before and because things are already going badly, “this is the last time I’m going to talk to you about this.”

  “About time,” he says, his back to me as he sizes up the place. I give him a moment to admire it. He explores it, clambering over the mounds, walking the perimeter, poking around its nooks and crannies. I wait until he circles back to me, antsy and ready to go.

  “I wanted to give you the rest of the story before you make your decision.” I can tell by the set of his shoulders that he thinks this is all bullshit. That I’m about to spin some sort of guilt trip, some human-interest story to sway him.