The Refugee Sentinel

by Hayes, Harrison

  “And that is that.”

  With a short nod, Mitko went to the door, fumbled for the handle and left the room.

  six days till defiance day (54

  Wednesday night, before meeting Yana for the second time, Colton had slept for no more than three hours. He boarded the six-am bus the next morning and sat on two seats in a single motion. Today, he wasn’t interested in sitting next to anyone else other than Yana.

  The daughter of his past had been an abstract image, evoking in him a ferocious amount of guilt. She’d been an icon he prayed to each night before falling asleep. Then they met and the encounter grounded his love in reality. Yana was real and seeing her, for the first time in seven years, had wiped away the doubt if his Sacrifice vote had been worth it. The bus driver announced the ULE embassy stop and Colton stood and hugged a rail to keep steady. With his good hand, he straightened the front and back of his pants and as the doors sighed open, ran toward the meeting he couldn’t stop thinking about since their last time together.

  By the time he made it to the conference meeting room she had beaten him there. She was wearing a green backpack. He paused to catch his breath; she didn’t need to know he had run up the stairs because the elevator looked too slow.

  “Did you sleep well?” he said.

  “Mom says I give Sleeping Beauty a run for her crown. You need a naval battle to wake me, she says.” Yana adjusted her backpack. “Why do you ask?”

  “I remember otherwise when you were little.” He noticed the fingers of his good hand drumming against the table’s ledge like unconscious living drum sticks and stuffed them in his pocket. “You were, by far, the worst sleeper in the neighborhood.”

  “How do you know what I was like? I don’t remember you.”

  “It’s the biggest mistake of my life. The one mistake beyond redemption.” Colton’s eyes held remembrance, not reproach.

  “What does that word mean?”

  “It means to correct your mistake or make it right some other way.”

  Yana’s face cleared. She was wearing blue jeans and a shirt with a neon red mushroom from an old Mario Brothers game. She took an orange from her backpack and unpeeled the skin in a continuous strip, with care uncustomary for an eight-year-old. “I spilled milk on my bed sheets once, which upset Mom. The next morning, I brought her breakfast in bed, while she slept.”

  “That was redemption,” he said.

  “Orange?” She handed him a slice. “Please, tell me more about when I was little.”

  He put the orange in his mouth and sucked on it, without chewing. “It was you and me, for the first eleven months of your life. Your Mom worked a lot, same as she always does. She shot you out of her body and gave you to me with one hand, while mixing an algae tube, with the other.” Colton finished the slice and collected its seeds. He wanted to remember he had had an orange with Yana. “You and me. We did all right, despite the endless nights or the diapers I had no idea how to put on. One July evening, I even ran to the ER – two miles from our house – with you burning up in my arms and me wearing boxers, stubble and the weight of the world in my hands… But we did all right.”

  Yana wrapped her arms around her knees. “Why did I forget you, then?”

  “I had to leave, so I wouldn’t hurt you again.”

  “Fathers should protect their daughters, not hurt them.”

  “I wasn’t a very good father.”

  “Am I safe with you, now?”

  He waved a hand and shook his head. “When you were six months old, you cried so much, your face would turn purple. We had a coloring book at home, with ducklings. I’d show you a finished duckling first, colored in yellow then trace over a black-and-white one with my finger, as if my finger were a brush. Your eyes would blink, tiny coffee beans, and you would stop crying and take deep sighs. And you’d watch me trace the ducklings with my finger.”

  “Did you keep the book?”

  “I lost it the night I carried you to the ER. I took it with me, so you wouldn’t be scared in the hospital. I didn’t take my eyes off you, but I forgot the book. And I paid the price the following months. You refused to fall asleep without the ducklings. I would pace inside our apartment with you in my hands – we’d go for miles.”

  “I have a piano competition in two weeks. Will you come watch me?”

  Across from her, Colton breathed through the nose to collect himself. “I wouldn’t miss it, patte.” Then he found the courage to ask about her and Yana shared with generosity. How she always wanted to have a pony she’d call Nicholas. How she postponed pulling out her loose tooth for an extra day because she wanted to give the Tooth Fairy a full day’s notice. And how she planned to marry Bobby Tober, the only boy in her class she didn’t feel yucky about. He took her in, remembering the words verbatim, as if to last him another seven years. Then the door opened, “Mr. Parker,” a face peeked in the frame, “two more minutes,” then disappeared.

  He reached over the table and caressed Yana’s cheek with the outside of his hand. She didn’t pull back. So this was how happiness felt like, he thought, and swallowed to unclog his throat. “Today’s the last time I’ll see you in a while,” he said.

  “That’s OK. I won’t be much fun until my competition is over anyway.”

  “I’ll come to your concert wearing a bright red hat so you can spot my head in the crowd – like the mushroom on your shirt.” He gave her a grin.

  “What happened to your hand?” she said.

  “This guy?” He raised his stump, looking at it as if it were a foreign object. “Tsk, tsk... I must have dipped my hand in invisible ink.”

  Yana slapped her forehead. “Invisible ink doesn’t exist.”

  “Of course, it does. I can dip you in it sometime, holding you by the nose, so the only part of Yana you’ll ever see again is this nose floating around…”

  The door behind them opened again. This time the head walked in with a body attached. “Time’s up, Mr. Parker.”

  Yana looked at the clock on the wall. “I need to go to my piano class.” She headed for the door then turned. “I think you might be a good person, I will prove it to my Mom and to you.”

  “Eight-year-olds aren't supposed to talk like you.”

  “Eight-year-olds aren't supposed to grow up without their fathers, either.” She waved goodbye and disappeared.

  six days till defiance day (55

  Colton collapsed on the mossy bridge-walk then squatted against the wall to keep out of sight. Walking through the main entrance of a hospital with a missing passport was a no-go, so he kept waiting and hiding in the shadows. As elated as he was from seeing Yana earlier in the day, the pulsating wrist had become impossible to ignore. Mitko had been right: cauterizing the stump had been a patch-up job, never meant to replace surgery. And six days later, in full capitulation to the infection, Colton saw it the same way too.

  He had come to the Virginia Mason seeking the help of a certain someone he hadn’t seen for more than a year. And was going to find out how she’d respond… unless Sylvya wasn’t at work or had already gone home for the day. She had to be here. Otherwise, it was game over. He’d be forced to camp on this bridge for the night until the curfew crews arrested him by the morning. Then… his mind gave up, planning this far out was pointless and painful.

  The winter evening was about to save Seattle from itself. The dusk embraced the city’s empty bridges and their rotted foundations. It masked the air too, upgrading its smell from offensive to somewhat tolerable until the following morning. In the dark, Colton struggled making out the silhouettes leaving the Oncology ward. He dozed off then snapped awake. What if he’d missed her? The thought carried sweet resignation bordering on relief, as the stump kept throbbing in pain.

  That’s when he saw Sylvya step out of the revolving doors. So far, so good; he had to catch up with her, say hi and convince her to save his life, as she always had. But he couldn’t move. He sat up and breathed in, once at first then twice to
collect more strength, and shouted her name, “Sylvya...” Vertigo shook the world and his palm grabbed his forehead. She hadn’t heard him. He sighed. Back when he was married to Sarah, he used to mock bad TV standup with a similar sigh. Tonight the joke was on him. He had to try again before she had walked out of sight… for Yana’s sake.

  Colton leaned on one elbow, bracing himself, in case he passed out. This was it, ladies and gentlemen, he thought, the final card-reveal at the final table. He took a breath and let out what, to him, sounded like a scream, “Help me, Sylvya…” He keeled forward and fell, unable to soften the drop. Sorry for letting you down, patte, he thought, face on the steel bridge. He tried to push up but his arms felt as strong as boiled macaroni. It was OK, he would catch his breath first then get up and find Sylvya at the metro station; even if he’d have to crawl like a two-year-old.

  His body then lifted, either by the power of persuasion or by the power of God – if God hadn’t packed his bags yet from this sinking planet – and Colton saw the person who did the lifting and recognized her face. He’d never seen anything more beautiful.

  “What are you doing here?” Sylvya hugged him and sobbed then hugged him again.

  He tried to respond but words were more work than he could afford. He tried again and this time she understood. “Don’t call the cops? I won’t.”

  She kissed his lips, washing them in tears. “I’ll take care of you. But you’re not allowed to pass out on me anymore. Not until I get you inside.” She draped his arm over her body and stood up. Like a marionette, Colton stood up with her. He smiled.

  “I will return in a minute.” Sylvya looked for an acknowledgement, until his head nodded; either that or he had blacked out. With her tongue sticking out and sweat budding on her face, she steadied his body against the wall, let go and took a hesitant step back, her arms the last ones to lose contact. She touched his lips with hers, one last time, and ran toward the hospital’s main entrance. Then came running back, pushing a gurney without breaking her stride. His figure was still there, where she’d left it. She collected him, as one would a child, placing his torso on the gurney first, then his legs.

  Colton was breathing and, as a bonus, looked like a regular patient. She pushed her cargo toward the main entrance, the gurney’s wheels rolling without a rattle. Without checking him in, she headed to a treatment room and latched a dozen IV bags into his veins.

  Seattle felt like Mountain View again, and the night rain felt like a blessing.

  five days till defiance day (56

  The piano wept under Yana’s hands. Then, without warning, a couple of notes hiccupped, tripping the follow-up ones like a domino line. Boulez’s Second Sonata teetered from side to side and collapsed into a cacophony of noises. Yana hung her head. “I keep slipping up in the same spot.”

  “The Second is a difficult piece, kid,” Mitko said. “But the good news is, you’ll live longer if you learn it well.”

  “You’re making it up.”

  “When our brains do something new, it takes us longer to recount what happened. It’s the reason why childhood feels so long. Do something new every day and you’ll slow down time.”

  “This is not new. I’ve been playing it for the last eight months.”

  “Tell you what: let’s get you some reinforcements for this fight.” Mitko brought chocolate ice cream from a conference room fridge and placed two cups with two spoons on top of the Steinway.

  “About your slip... don’t press, let the music come to you – it has nowhere else to go. Hold the keys firm, pause and don’t let up until, one-two-three,” his hand waved in the air, “the next bridge takes you over the sequence. It’s about the nuance and the length of your silence...The judges might notice if you skip a few notes, but what matters is how you transition to the next D-minor and they won’t score you down much if you do it well.”

  Yana’s head dipped up and down. She sighed. Next to her, Mitko pulled a chair up and flicked off invisible dust specks from the Steinway’s polished top. He put an arm around her shoulders.

  “And how about a story before we move on?” By instinct, she leaned into his embrace.

  “But… do we have time?” she looked at the wall-clock. “Eighteen minutes until the hour is through.”

  His fingers patted her shoulder. “Remember what I promised you? The bit about teaching you to see with your heart?”

  She nodded again, this time with more conviction. “So in eighteen… seventeen minutes,” she corrected herself after another glance at the wall, “I’ll learn how to see with my heart?” Her eyes were like two lakes, one filled with excitement and one with doubt.

  Mitko put a finger over his lips and leaned closer. “A promise is a promise. But only if you keep your end of the bargain.”

  “I won’t tell a soul,” she whispered, the conspiracy in her voice, as earnest as if they were discussing the disposal of a body. “I swear on Stumpy’s life.”

  He pulled back. “Who’s Stumpy?”

  “My plush robot. Sometimes I take him to bed if I’ve had a bad day or if there’s a thunderstorm outside. But I try to leave him alone at night because robots are nocturnal.” She pressed her knees to her chest. “Go ahead… tell me your story.”

  “Once, in a country called Estonia, lived an eight-year-old boy...”

  Yana interrupted. “I’m eight too.”

  “Yes, he was as old as you.”

  “I like that.”

  “The boy, who was as old as you, liked playing the piano as much as you do. It didn’t matter if he had schoolwork to do or run chores for his Mom, he looked forward to the evenings, because that’s when his teacher taught him piano.” Yana shook off a yawn and tucked her hair behind her ears. “One evening, as the boy came to his teacher’s apartment for a lesson, he heard loud noises. Worried, he rushed in, and in the teacher’s living room, he saw a scary sight: a thief had tied the teacher and held a knife to his throat. The boy froze, not knowing what to do. Should he fight or follow the thief’s orders to save the teacher’s life?

  “Free my teacher at once, the boy said and stomped the ground with a foot. If you let him go, I’ll give you all my money. The boy emptied his pockets and a total of three dollars in coins fell on the floor between him and the thief.”

  “Three dollars is not a lot of money,” Yana whispered.

  Mitko took a bite of ice cream before continuing the story. “The thief laughed. I don’t want your pitiful coins. I want your teacher’s Steinway piano, there are no others like it in our town. Step away or I will slice your teacher’s throat.

  “The boy had to think of a solution. If I play a song, on the piano, will you let my teacher go, the boy said.

  “Why would I let your teacher go because of one song, the thief said.

  “Because it will be the most beautiful melody you’ve ever heard, the boy replied. And it will melt your heart and convince you to let my teacher keep his piano.

  “The thief laughed until tears ran from his eyes. Go ahead and play, you foolish boy, he said.

  “The boy sat at the Steinway and rested his fingers on the keys. He didn’t know what to play. He had lied about a special melody his teacher had taught him – he knew no such thing. He closed his eyes and decided to follow his heart. The music came to him and poured out of the Steinway. The months he had spent with his teacher flashed in front of his eyes. And as he played, he decided he didn’t want to impress the thief but give a gift to the teacher, a gift of thank you and goodbye. After the boy finished the thief dropped his knife and ran out of the apartment in shame. He had indeed heard the most beautiful melody in life.”

  Mitko cracked his back. “So, there you have it. Each time you sit at a piano, think of the boy whose music defeated a thief and play from your heart, at the piano and in life.”

  Yana hugged the pianist with both arms.

  two days till defiance day (57

  The bridge-walks swam in water because of the tears in Sylvya�
��s eyes. Recounting the injustices of her past felt like a punch to the gut and she had to hold to a lamppost to keep steady. She was a good person – always had been. Since the age of seven, she wanted to become Cinderella when she grew up, or Sheryl Sandberg at least. But day-after-day, she had fast-forwarded to two children and a failed marriage.

  Still, she held on to hope, squeezing her eyes shut each night and imagining the life the seven-year-old had planned. Sometimes the make-believe helped and the following mornings didn’t feel as bad. On such days, the showers felt more refreshing and her children more precious. If only she had the courage to live this different life she imagined. And leave behind her work and the snooty boss and David’s voicemails about splitting time with the kids. But she didn’t and kept on living as she was. Often she hid in the hospital storage room, gasping for air, like her pulmonary patients would. The difference was the patients would recover while her affliction would remain for life.

  Then Colton came, impossible to spot at first – a wreck of his own making. He seemed beaten up beyond repair but, in time, she realized he hid even deeper scars beneath the physical bruises. Her natural empathy and professional training were the first to kick in then other emotions joined. He treated her different and she loved his company though she couldn’t explain why. His jokes were borderline inappropriate, but she attributed it to his bad luck and to whatever emotional saddle weighed him down. After a week, she wondered if he was the man she had dreamed of as a seven-year-old girl.

  She ended up following him to Seattle and the city waltzed into her life with more grace than she thought possible. Like a fairy Godmother, Seattle heaped on her the Virginia Mason job and a free apartment and she often pinched herself making sure she wasn’t dreaming. One day she walked into the Starbucks on the Fourth Avenue bridge and Seneca, her smile clashing against the baristas’ gloom, and asked for the sweetest frozen drink on the menu. She walked out, sucking on ice and mocha through a fat straw and saw him, the one person among the millions she had come here to find. Colton was sitting in the Seattle Public Library, framed by a bay window.