by Patti Lacy
A horn blared. Gloria startled. Andrew found her hand, squeezed it, and chatted about, of all things, the weather. All Gloria could think about was that doll and her Joy—suddenly chatty in the backseat—and the layers of dysfunction she needed to peel away to be a real mother. Most of all, she wondered why Kai, in her clipped manner, had requested one more meeting, this one at her hotel, before she returned to Boston.
Suede and leather chairs cozied up to a faux fireplace in the Wranglers Room. A cowboy painting, framed in weathered fence rails and barbed wire, hung above the mantel. Pocket doors had been slid shut. The staff had set a pitcher of ice water and glasses on a turquoise-inlaid table.
Kai balanced on her chair edge. With flawless skin and glossy hair, she presented the picture of a composed professional woman. Everything I’m not. Gloria tucked her hands under her legs to keep from gnawing her fingernails.
Kai bowed her head. “I want to thank you, Andrew and Gloria, for your kindnesses during a most tumultuous time.”
Andrew leaned forward. “We owe you the thanks.”
Joy nodded with vigor.
“There is one last thing I would like to discuss. Though it is not easy to say, I would be remiss in my duties as a physician, a sister, and I hope a friend . . .”
Gloria tried to swallow the anxiety lumping in her throat.
“During our time together, Joy mentioned a cutting episode.”
The lump exploded and set Gloria afire. Flames leapt white-hot about the room. Gloria blinked. Saw that bald-headed doll with slashes on plastic wrists. She jumped from her seat, flew to Joy’s side, and collapsed in a pile by Joy’s chair. “Oh, Joy!” Tears rained. “You’re so smart, so beautiful!” Flailing fingers found Joy’s cold, stiff hands. “How could you do that to yourself?”
Bead and metal bracelets covered—what? Evidence, hidden under cheap baubles, that Joy had attempted to harm herself? Once again you, her mother, don’t know.
She let go of Joy, gripped her throbbing head with both hands, and dug into her scalp instead of crying out. Bangles. Sweatbands. Gloria had thought her daughter was accessorizing. Stylizing.
Did she know anything about Joy?
A sob erupted from Joy. “I’m so, so sorry, Mommy. Daddy.” Joy flung her arms about Gloria’s neck. The smoke–bubble gum smell of her daughter cooled the fire. The room began to lose its white-hot glaze. “It was so wrong. So stupid!”
Thin arms tightened their hold . . . and smothered the last flames. Gloria quivered at her daughter’s touch. How long had it been since Joy hugged her with abandon? Years?
“Mommy,” Joy kept saying as she stroked Gloria’s hair. “I’m sorry.”
Gloria could not talk, could not do anything but spill tears onto Joy’s blouse and shake her head. She should be supporting Joy. Yet sprawling on the floor, having Joy hold her tight, filled a desperate ache.
Three years, she realized, answering her own question about Joy’s hugs. When Joy started high school, she disdained even cheek pecks. “I’ve . . . I’ve missed you,” Gloria managed. “I mean, it’s me who’s sorry.” Gloria buried her head in Joy’s breast. “I’ve done it all wrong.”
Warm hands—Andrew’s hands—massaged her neck.
Gloria closed her eyes, freeze-framing this moment, where Joy was safe . . .
“Um, Joy, Gloria.”
Gloria squared her shoulders. Not . . . not yet, Andrew. Just a little longer . . .
Andrew gently pried Gloria from Joy, who wiped her face with her hands and glanced about awkwardly.
Kai rose from her chair. “Excuse me. This is no time for an outsider.”
Andrew returned to his chair. “You are not an outsider. Please sit down.”
“Yes. Please, Kai.” Wiping her eyes, Gloria sat as well. No amount of thanks could repay the woman—the sister—who’d extracted Joy’s darkest secrets . . . and shared them with a family that must seem problematic at best. This sister, who’d even brought presents—presents they hadn’t bothered to open—had gotten only grief in return. Gloria rummaged for a tissue and blew her nose. That would change.
Andrew rested his hands on his knees. “I can’t tell you what it means that you shared this with us.” His voice was hoarse, his eyes bleary.
Kai lowered her gaze, as if she were embarrassed. Gloria knew the feeling well.
“Before dinner, as I told you, I checked in with my office . . . and got the name of a colleague, whom I called. I could not return to Boston without doing so.” Kai spoke haltingly, as if in unfamiliar territory. “Adolescent behavior is not my field of expertise.”
“You got ahold of someone this late?” Andrew asked.
“MRA has certain . . . connections in our city.”
“What . . . what did they say?” Gloria blurted, darting looks at Joy’s slender wrists.
Kai straightened. “Would you mind if I asked Joy a few questions?”
“Oh, please!” flew out of Gloria. “Ask her . . . anything.”
“How many times have you cut yourself?” Kai asked in a clipped voice.
Joy rubbed her wrist—that wrist?—and clenched her fists. “Just . . . the once.” Tears streamed down her face. “I . . . I didn’t like it.”
Kai nodded encouragingly. “That is a good thing.”
“A very good thing,” intoned Andrew.
Gloria rubbed her finger against her thumb. Lord, how did we get to the place where it is a good thing our daughter only once slashed her wrist?
“Did you use your razor?” continued Kai.
A nod.
“Did you pry out the blade or . . . ?”
Joy shook her head. “No! It wasn’t like that!” She buried her face in her hands. “I . . . hated the sound! I hated the way blood snaked across my skin! Honest to God!” She clapped her hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry. I mean, like, it was gross!”
Gloria jumped from her chair and again knelt by Joy. She rubbed shuddering shoulders, cooed, as if she understood. She had to understand, or at least try. Dear God . . .
“It . . . was all wrong. I . . . I swore I’d never do it again.”
“So you just used the razor,” Kai monotoned. “Like shaving, only . . .”
“Uh-huh.” Joy raised her head. Red-rimmed eyes sought out Gloria, then Andrew. “I swear, I’ll never do it again. No matter what happens, I won’t do that again!”
Gloria clasped her daughter’s sweaty hands and smoothed hair from Joy’s tear-ravaged face. “I believe you,” she whispered. “And I believe in you, Joy.”
“I appreciate your honesty,” Kai finally said, when Joy had quit whimpering. Those calm eyes honed in on Gloria, then Andrew. “Though Joy needs to be seen by a psychiatrist—her doctor can refer you—it’s my belief that she does not need emergency treatment.”
“You mean, like, the ER?” burst from Joy.
“I mean a mental health ward.” Kai’s words slammed into Gloria. “It is one thing to want to die . . . I speak from experience.”
Gloria spun about.
Kai had risen. Her handbag hung on her shoulder. Except for dark circles under her eyes, she could have been a graduate, fresh from college, ready for an interview. Yet she’s witnessed horrors I’ve only read about in history books.
“It is quite another thing to attempt to take a life. Including your own.” Kai stepped close to Gloria, who rose from the floor, and Joy, who rose from her chair. “Forgive me if I upset you, Joy. I am saying these things as your sister, not as a physician. For that I might be criticized by some in my profession.”
“I . . . I understand,” Joy stammered. “Say what . . . you need to say.”
Gloria opened her mouth to agree but could not find her voice.
“If you ever consider such . . . a thing again, think of those who would die for you.” Kai pointed at Gloria. Andrew. Put a hand on her breast.
Joy’s shoulders convulsed. Tears downpoured. She nodded in a frenetic way.
Gloria bowed her head, un
able to keep looking at Kai’s porcelain face, twisted by pain. In her soft-spoken way, Kai had opened her heart to them, dodging the medical protocol she’d prefer. Kai would die for Joy. A wave of guilt washed over her. And I wouldn’t even welcome Kai into our home.
“Think of Mother,” Kai continued, “who died, her last wish to reunite with you unfulfilled.” In a way incongruous with her trembling lips, Kai dealt business cards.
“I . . . I will,” Joy whispered.
Kai extended her hand to Joy. “I must leave now, dear sister.” They embraced stiffly, as if both were unsure what would be appropriate after the bombshell Kai had detonated. “With your parents’ permission, you may call me anytime, day or night, weekday or weekend.”
Gloria nodded passionately. “Of . . . of course.”
“I will give your names to my call service. They will be told to contact me, no questions asked.”
Desperate to show how she felt, Gloria threw out her arms and then let them fall to her side. She gathered resolve and shook Kai’s hand, praying her grip would convey what was in her heart. “We can never thank you for what you have done.” This time, there was no need for Southern manners. Fervor emblazoned Gloria’s every word.
Ah, David. It seems like an eon since we’ve spoken. Cell phone in hand, Kai sat cross-legged on her king-sized bed. She rubbed a stomach aching from too much T-bone and vowed to fast tomorrow. It would not be as simple to purge the image of Joy’s pale scar from her mind. Perhaps if she talked to David about it. . . .
Without bothering to listen to his message, she punched David’s number. Oh, to hear his voice and then speak to him of Joy’s potential, Joy’s problems. David, a fifth-generation Christian, could help her relate to the Powells and their religion. Perhaps it was time to learn more about their God if He performed such miracles—
“Hello.”
“David. It’s you!” A breathy quality hoarsened Kai’s voice. She barely recognized herself!
“Kai.” Something—exhaustion?—had softened David’s accent. Kai glanced at the digital readout on her phone. It was nine thirty—ten thirty Boston time. Early for David, who studied journal articles and played his classical music until well after midnight. She gripped the phone, as if the connection might be lost.
“I have so much to tell you!”
“So you met your sister.”
Ground I covered in the earlier message, along with the near-disaster. Something sharp as that steak bone stabbed Kai. “Did you get my messages?” she asked softly.
“I did, Kai. Did you get mine?”
“No. I just . . . I just wanted to hear your voice. It seems like it has been forever.”
“It has been a long day.”
“Did they call you in? What happened?” Questions flowed, so eager was Kai to understand his day, have him understand hers . . .
“No, nothing like that, Kai. Just . . . things.”
Kai’s scalp pricked. “I see.” Of course she did not see at all.
“Hey.” A phony ring shrilled David’s voice. “I double-checked your flight.”
Thank you, Mr. Secretary.
“Three thirty tomorrow, right?”
“I have not had time to study my itinerary.”
David cleared his throat. “Tell you what. If the ETA changes, I’ll call. Okay?”
“That would be wonderful, David.” Kai battled to keep bitterness from her voice. Perhaps a critical patient forestalled David gifting her with a nice long chat. Just because this was your expectation does not mean it was his. “If I cannot pick up, you can always leave a message.” She winced at the irony of her comment.
David exhaled. “I’m sorry to sound abrupt, but I really can’t talk right now.”
Kai relaxed her death hold on the phone. Even a perfect gentleman deserves a break. He does not know what I have endured. . . .
They said good-bye. Kai pressed Messages and retrieved one from Cheryl, who was just “checking in.” Curious about David’s message, Kai again punched a button.
“Kai, glad you made it through okay. I’ll pick you up, as we agreed, tomorrow at three thirty. Let me know if plans change.”
Five times, Kai listened to three Yankee sentences. Was this caller the doctor with the heart, the man who usually hung on her every word? Had the heart doctor, in a matter of two days, had a change of heart?
The thought sent Kai reeling to the bathroom. Or was it the beef?
16
Can I drop by Tuesday? Another emotionless voice mail from David. As Kai bustled about her brownstone, straightening the glossy jackets of Cheryl’s art books, she mentally replayed David’s message, as if there were deep import in five clipped words. Was a terse message better than none—which is what she’d gotten Sunday and Monday . . . But who’s counting?
Kai clipped daisy stems at an angle and rearranged them after filling a vase with fresh water. She’d make the den warm, inviting . . . everything that airport encounter lacked. Encounter. An unsuitable word for moments spent with one she . . . loved.
David, a skilled conversationalist, had been a monosyllabic valet when he picked her up Friday at Logan, then begged out of a date Saturday, pleading emergencies. Suddenly David had many emergencies. Coincidence, or excuse? She would ask him that very question . . . when he arrived for a chat. The likelihood of having a cozy chat with David in his present state ranks up there with me finding a cure for PKD. A miracle.
The teapot whistled. A siren joined the shrill and split the midmorning Tuesday calm that had settled over their Back Bay neighborhood. Loosing her tense fingers, Kai shook leaves into a French press and steeped the tea. Could an inviting room and fragrant aroma transform David into his old self? His loving self?
Someone knocked on the door with hollow booms. So unlike David’s staccato raps, followed by, “Kai! I’m here!”
David might be standing on the other side of the door, but if Kai trusted her instincts, it wasn’t the man who’d given her his phone number, his time, his heart.
She unbolted the door. Opened it.
There stood David, wearing the scrubs he usually stowed in his locker, the scrubs that he said reminded him of illness, of work. Where were his khakis, his loafers? With effort, Kai brushed away negativity. He was on call. Living a doctor’s life. He’d traded shifts with a partner so they could have this chat. That showed concern.
Despite internal gongs that cautioned reserve, Kai rushed into David’s fresh-scrubbed and lime scent and cradled her head just so . . .
As if he were a kind uncle, David patted her head.
Kai snapped to attention and tried to swallow a sickening feeling. She had diagnosed David, all right. All wrong. “Come in.” She let him walk past her and enter the room, where he stood under the light fixture, his head swiveling, his shoulders hunched, instead of beelining to his usual spot: the glider rocker near the stereo.
Clamping down tears, Kai walked to the kitchen, pressed the leaves, and poured tea. “Make yourself at home,” she managed, though every cell screamed that was impossible. As she carried the cups, tea sloshed onto her hand.
Heat scalded. Kai winced at the rush of fire. A bad omen, spilling Zhu Ye Qing, tea meant for special occasions. Something this would not be.
David sat on the edge of the loveseat and rested his elbows on his knees. His robust athlete’s complexion had taken on a sallow cast.
Kai’s right hand tingled. Had David taken ill? As Kai knew, physicians rarely took time to heal themselves. She handed David his cup and sat in the rocker that bore his aftershave scent. With effort, she cast off late-night memories of cuddling here, watching John Wayne save the West, and then strolling to the harbor to watch the moon surrender to silvery water.
She affected a casual pose, curling her legs beneath her. “What is it, David?” Pain radiated from her heart. “You don’t seem like yourself.” I’m worried sick about you . . . about us.
David set his cup on an end table and stared at steam cu
rls as though they revealed the mysteries of the world.
All she wanted to understand were the mysteries of this man.
“That’s the thing, Kai. I am myself. Therein lies the problem.”
David, using rhetoric? So unlike him. She warmed her hands on her cup and vowed to mask emotions and words. David asked for this chat. He should do the talking.
David met her gaze. Finally. “Kai, I’ve never met anyone like you.” His perfectly sculpted hands batted the air. “When we met, I thought God had answered my prayers.”
Kai blinked away bitter tears. Religion erected this wall. She should have known.
“How could one person—a beautiful woman—share my love for music and medicine, movies and art . . . and respect my commitment to remain chaste until marriage?”
Even as he talked of purity, desire trembled Kai. When this man so much as pressed his lips to her temples, her whole body throbbed. Yet the weariness in his voice, the tension in his jaw, signaled she must quell her emotions or lose face. “We do share many common interests.” The dry words and dousing of passion nearly choked her. She longed to add, including sexual attraction, but a Chang could not broach such a taboo subject.
David edged forward on his seat, leaning so close to his cup that tea steam added sheen to his face. “But not the main interest.”
Kai nodded despite a wave of nausea. Intuiting this did not salve the pain. She sipped tea, her eyes on David. Get a good look at your love. It may be the last. She, a Chang sister, would suffer another blow. Would this one prove fatal to her soul?
“I can’t see you anymore, Kai.” The anguish on David’s face wrenched Kai’s heart. Oh, that he would suffer. She gripped her teacup and stared at the green-gold contents, unable to look at his quivering lip, the hollowness about his eyes. “It kills me to say that,” she heard, “but God’s made it clear what I need to do. My parents concurred.”
Resentment tensed Kai’s muscles as she thought of David’s father, always pointing out flaws in the Chinese character, always lambasting “the heathens” that flocked through Boston Harbor. She bit back the comment sticking in her throat like a chicken bone: Who swayed you most, David? The Christian God . . . or your family?
