by Patti Lacy
Cheryl eased away but kept her hands on Kai’s shoulders. “I’m so sorry.” Tears glistened in Cheryl’s eyes. Beneath a smattering of freckles, her translucent skin glowed. Her heritage of tough coastal fishermen who carved a life along the rugged Maine shores had imbued Cheryl with peace . . . or perhaps it was her God.
Kai sniffed back tears. “He told you.”
The teapot screeched at ear-splitting levels. Yet I will not budge, for it would mean breaking the connection with one who loves me.
“You sit down.” Cheryl guided her to the love seat. Mr. Rollins’ files were set on the floor. “I’ll get the tea . . . on one condition.”
Kai felt her heart leap. Surely Cheryl wouldn’t avoid talk of David. It could be awkward, as Cheryl had known David since primary school. It might put distance between her and her roommate. Can I withstand any more separation?
“Of course,” Kai managed wearily.
“That you don’t grouse about how weak the tea is.”
Sorrow lost its hold, and a giggle rose from Kai. Laughter is a tonic, Dr. Ward, as you taught us. I should laugh more often.
Cheryl joined her on the love seat and gifted Kai with a cup of steaming tea. “I talked to him after Bible study.” In her New England way, Cheryl cornered the tiger lurking in the forest. Such directness is foreign to me, yet perfect for my state of mind. “He claimed he did what he had to do,” Cheryl continued.
Kai set her cup on the coffee table. “What did you say?”
Porcelain thunked against porcelain. Two cups, side by side. Letting off steam. Much like what I am doing.
“Kai, this may be hard for you to get. It’s hard for me to get.” Cheryl leaned back, crossed her legs in the American way. “David felt your relationship was pulling him from God, his first love.”
Kai felt her jaw tighten. God as a “sweetheart.” A term of endearment David had used for her. Again the word nonsensical flashed in her mind, yet Kai would not question this dear friend.
Cheryl grabbed Kai’s hands to form a knot of flesh. “God asks us to give Him our heart, our mind, our soul. To die to ourselves.”
Kai’s insides wrenched. She had heard political propaganda like this all her life. To think two of America’s brightest deviated from logic in matters of religion!
“Then He can live in us . . . and offer a glorious new life.”
A strange wind cooled the fire that was her gut. Kai fought a desire to shake her head. One minute, Cheryl’s Christian language sickened her; the next, it revitalized her every fiber. “So the breakup had nothing to do with me.”
Cheryl released Kai. “David cherishes you. But God comes first.” Cheryl put her hand on her breast, as if pledging allegiance to this God. “In my heart, I know David’s right.”
Heart? Do not speak to me of the heart. You, David, and this God of yours are squeezing mine to death. Soon it will burst. Despite her irritation, Kai summoned the fortitude to nod.
“Can I pray for you, Kai?”
These Christians, always praying. To a God who says they must die to themselves. Kai turned from Cheryl, picked up her cup, and took a deliberate sip.
The phone rang. Once. Twice. Three times.
Kai stiffened, as if frozen by their talk. Having an unlisted number had freed them from cold calls. Perhaps David had changed his mind. . . .
“You have reached 946-9401. I’m sorry we can’t take your call. Please leave a message.” The recorder again beeped. Clicked. A buzzing sound scratched Kai’s nerves.
“Hey, Kai. It’s Andrew. Um, I tried your cell, but—”
The Texas drawl propelled Kai off the seat. She rushed to the kitchen. “Andrew.” She exhaled, hoping to rid her voice of anxiety. She’d forgotten that Joy was to call. But this was Andrew . . .
“Sounds like I caught you off guard.”
Kai eased onto a bar stool. “Of course not, Andrew. I was just—” on the verge of exploding at your God—“having a cup of tea with my roommate.”
“That’s nice.” So congenial, so sincere, Joy’s father. Also a pastor of this God. Kai sipped her tea. “I’m glad you called, Andrew. How can I help you?”
“Joy told me y’all talked.”
Kai’s grip tightened on the phone. Why had Joy not called herself?
“Thank you for being there for her, Kai. It means a lot to Gloria and me.”
An image of the delicate blond woman flashed. “How is Gloria?”
“Better than I expected. She’s . . . holding up. But . . . I think you know what this baby meant to her.”
I know. Joy explained it in living color.
“Dr. Davies says she should be fine. I mean . . .”
“It is good there are no complications.” Kai softened her tone in deference to the poor man, the kind man, and then felt her mouth tighten. A man who also has died for the Christian God. She forced a smile. “No infection. That is good.”
“A miracle! Believe me, we’ve been on our knees.”
Kai felt her eyebrows arch. Would she ever understand these Christians?
“That’s why I’m calling.”
Because you are on your knees?
“We finally got ahold of Joy’s doctor while he was at his out-of-state conference. He just flew back today.”
Kai held her breath. Joy’s lab results were in. That is why Joy did not call.
“Dr. Carlson had the lab take her blood pressure. Other things.”
What things? Kai pressed her palm against the counter and stared at the teapot, so silent on a trivet. No longer letting off steam, like she itched to do. “Have you gotten the results?” Kai closed her eyes, concentrating to pull every inflection from Andrew. Waiting. Waiting. She had spent her whole life waiting, but never had it gripped her like this.
“Yes. Some.” Was it her imagination, or did a false joviality swell Andrew’s voice? “Dr. Carlson isn’t alarmed and doesn’t want us to be.” He cleared his throat. “But some of the numbers didn’t add up.”
Kai pressed her lips together. The yin, the yang. A language I know well. So tell me, Reverend Powell, before I scream. “Which ones?”
“Um, he didn’t say.”
So we know nothing. Absolutely nothing. And I cannot rest until we do.
“He did say we should bring her to Boston. Let you folks check her out.” Andrew spoke with an ingratiating tone. “Guess he checked around before he called. He said y’all are the best.”
Kai rubbed her hand along the nubby kitchen wall. Her mouth had gone numb, as had her brain. She stared at that silly cat clock with the sweeping pendulum tail. Swish, swish, PKD. Swish, swish, PKD.
Kai pulled her gaze from the clock. So much had happened in such a short time, it was difficult to process. But she must. She tried to think. The Powells needed her to think.
“Will that be a problem, Kai? Kai?”
Thoughts dizzied her mind. She cleared them by picturing Joy, strolling in the Common. “Of course not, Andrew. I am at your service.” She would grab Dr. Duncan early Monday, certainly before the staff meeting. Mr. PKD, she’d nicknamed him. No expense would be spared, no test would be overlooked. This was her Lily—her Joy.
“Carl wanted her tested, er, yesterday. Just to get ahead of the game.”
“Of course.”
“When can y’all see her?”
Kai smiled, remembering Dr. Ward’s love of humor. “Yesterday.”
Andrew’s chuckle traveled all the way from Cowtown to douse the last of her tension. “We Texans don’t time travel, but I’ll get on the stick. How about we shoot for next Wednesday? I’ll let you know ASAP. If you’re not busy, I’ve got someone here about to have a conniption.”
Kai pictured waving arms and purple hair. With a smile, she lifted her cup and finished her tea. This phone call gave her an escape from talk about David and the Christian God, which only muddled her emotions. Something she didn’t need if she was to focus on Joy.
“Kai?” It was that lovely high-pitche
d voice. Joy! “Did you hear? Like, I’m coming to Boston! Could I take rounds with you? Oh, and I forgot to tell you this morning. I quit smoking!”
Kai smiled. Strangely, a conniption with Joy was exactly what she needed.
19
Cold coffee’s the pits. And the pit is where I’m dwelling. Gloria searched for nourishment in her daily devotion book, her inky coffee, their cozy breakfast nook. Her appetite for spiritual food—along with the church family’s casseroles, her thoughtful neighbor’s cinnamon rolls—had died.
Just like . . . her baby.
She dragged along, wearing her robe and house shoes, then clicked a smile in place when Joy and Andrew returned . . . from work, school, the counselor’s. They didn’t need tears and a mopey face.
Every phony comment and lying smile sucked out more of her insides. If she didn’t do something soon, she’d melt into a puddle on this grimy kitchen floor.
She cringed. Would she ever see a puddle as anything but red?
With a push off the table, she rose to her feet and stepped to the window.
Outside, birds sang and crickets chirped, surreal against the sorrow in her soul. She gripped her middle, massaged with deeper and firmer strokes. Not even a twinge. How could that be? A baby had lived . . . and died in there.
Andrew and their old hand-me-down bed bore her grief. Never had he cuddled with her so gently, prayed for her so long, shed so many tears to match her own.
Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday. Sunday.
She turned from the window and smoothed her dress, the only thing, besides pj’s and her robe, she’d worn since the miscarriage. This was the Sabbath, God’s day, Andrew’s day. It had always been so. It had to be so. At this moment, God and Andrew were holed up in the study, nailing down their sermon bullet points.
Would she be able to sit through it without falling apart?
She rested her elbows on Formica, let the weathered wood cabinet support her shaky frame. “God, get me through this. May I be Andrew’s helpmate. He’s sure been here for me. Get me over—” She bit her lip against the venom that roiled up, just thinking about that baby and why He would gift such a miracle, then snatch it away.
“Mom?” Joy stood before her, eyes wide, hands clasped.
Gloria winced when her hip banged the counter edge. Joy could read her with a glance. How could she allow such thoughts with Joy in the house? “Can I get you breakfast?” She sweetened her voice, just as she’d sweetened that cold coffee with spoonfuls of sugar. “How about oatmeal? There’s a cinnamon roll—”
“Mom, I’ll grab something.” Joy pulled Gloria into a hug and the smell of bubble gum.
Gloria gazed at Joy, who wore a simple cotton blouse and a skirt patterned with zebras. Her hair had been pulled to the side and pinned with an ivory clip.
Gloria smiled. Joy, her Joy, looked like a million dollars.
Money. Shoplifting. A tremble began, deep in Gloria. “You look wonderful, Joy. Um, I’ve not seen that outfit before, have I?”
Joy’s eyes narrowed, but there was no malice in them.
Talk about a change.
“No worries, Mom. Dad dropped me at the thrift store after school. He gave me an advance against my job.”
Relieved, Gloria leaned back. While she’d recuperated in a Harris hospital room, Joy had visited the gift shop . . . and the business office. “They already called you?”
“Uh-huh. I start right away. Only fifteen hours a week. But it’s a start.”
“That’s why you’re all dressed up. At least you don’t have to wear scrubs.”
“Actually, I do. I got those too.” Joy wrinkled her nose. “It’s kinda gross, wearing used work clothes. But it’s all I can afford, at least for now.”
“We could help you out. . . .”
“No, Mom.” Joy’s hands performed their dance. “It’s something I have to do on my own. Like go to church with you today.”
Tears sprung into Gloria’s eyes. Joy hadn’t set foot in church since . . . had it been two years? She tried to remember what had incited Joy’s last exodus, but it jumbled into incidents of snubbing and sanctimony and legalism. “Joy,” she finally managed to say past the expansion of her heart into her throat, “you don’t know what this means to me.”
“I think I do.” Suddenly Gloria was staring into a gaze like Kai’s. Level. Steady. Compassionate. Just what I need.
“So get your Bible, Mom. I’ll tell Dad we’ll meet him there.”
By the light of a red Boston sunrise, Kai sat at her desk and pored over preliminary findings of a daring clinical trial. Which MRA patients might benefit? She thumbed back a page, searched for the inclusion criteria. Mrs. Connally. Mr. Devries. Near the end, barring a miracle. Words blurred as she searched for contact information and scribbled it on a pad.
Kai continued to read. Sunbeams blazed swaths across her gray carpet. The faint notes of birdsong penetrated closed windows. Hope despite so much despair. Kai rubbed her eyes. It was barely six a.m., and she’d zipped through files, plotted out her Monday. Amazing how a desk could be cleared when there was no David to occupy her time.
She shoved away a pang of sorrow and scribbled a plan of attack for Joy. By Wednesday, precious Fourth Daughter would be ushered into MRA with the fanfare they’d accorded that civil rights leader/patient . . . who had passed away last fall.
PKD.
Again.
Kai clenched the pen and stared at dust motes floating, helpless against the whims of physics. Here one minute, gone the next.
What every human faced, sooner or later.
“Kai?” Dr. Duncan, the forty-five-year-old founder of MRA, stuck his head into her office. “You’re here bright and early.”
Wearily, Kai rose. “Yes, with the birds.” She affected cheeriness for her boss. “Good morning, Doctor.”
Gaunt even in scrubs, with the hollowed-cheek look of a long-distance runner, Dr. Duncan waved her back into her seat. “What’s it gonna take for you to call me Paul?”
Kai ducked her head to hide what surely were blazing cheeks. This man had hired her over a rumored pool of five hundred applicants. Imagine, such a legend, choosing a nearly penniless Chinese woman over the world’s best young doctors . . . then asking her to call him Paul! “I do not think it will happen, Doctor.”
Dr. Duncan slapped a file folder against his leg. “One a’ these days, we’ll loosen you up, Kai. Hope I’m around to see it.”
She smiled. “I hope you are around too.”
Another guffaw informed her that she had said something funny. It happened constantly with her American friends. Though Kai was puzzled, she delighted in lightening their hearts, especially healers like this man, burdened with issues of life and death.
Dr. Duncan handed her a folder. “Here’s the agenda. Sorry I didn’t get it to you Friday. I had a ‘take a look-see’ that took . . . till midnight.” A grin showed he didn’t mind. Imagine, MRA’s senior partner, still on weekend rotation, helping colleagues. An idea pricked. She tried to set it aside, but it wouldn’t be dismissed. “Our meeting is at eight, correct?” This must be done carefully. One step at a time, as David always said.
“No, Kai. 8:05. If you don’t behave, I’ll tell Janine.” They chuckled at the office manager’s techniques to keep them punctual by scheduling meetings at odd times . . . like 8:05. MRA’s efficiency soothed Kai’s frazzled edges. She, Chang Kai, belonged to a practice where every hire oozed passion . . . or was told to clean out his desk.
“I am not keeping you from work?”
Dr. Duncan put his hands on his hips. “Whaddya want, Kai? Spit it out!”
Kai was tempted to dig at her hands, as Gloria did when “put on the spot”—another American phrase she’d conquered. “There is a personal matter I wish to discuss.”
Did his dark eyes widen? Surely he wished at this moment to flee what could be news of a tawdry affair, plagiarism, scandal. Something she would never inflict on this hallowed
institution. She could not blame Dr. Duncan. He did not know her heart. “Yes, Kai. Of course.” He pulled close the chair where her patients normally sat. Now her desk—and ethnicity, culture, experience, gender—separated them. Kai again fought Gloria’s strange habit of punishing her hands. Am I making a mistake by confiding in him?
Dr. Duncan leaned back. “What is it, Kai?” Deep-set eyes crinkled, as if preparing to hear the worst. Not surprising, in their profession. She hoped to pleasantly surprise him.
“It is my sister.”
“Your sister? I thought she was in China.”
Kai looked out the window. The sky had been painted blue and spoke of hope. The blossoms of magnolia trees, planted in neat rows, braved the brisk spring breeze. She could trust this man with Joy. She must.
“I have three sisters. Two live in China. Years ago, our youngest sister was placed in an orphanage. She was adopted by Americans. Just two weeks ago we were reunited down in Texas.”
“Congratulations” came out in a guarded way. Of course Dr. Duncan would dissect each word, for he did not yet know what she would ask of him.
“Yes, it was a Joy.” She smiled at what David called a play on words, then cleared her throat when Dr. Duncan did not so much as blink. “But there are complications.”
Skin stretched across that grizzled face, again preparing for the worst. She would not let him worry an instant longer.
“PKD runs in our family. She has displayed symptoms.”
Dr. Duncan groaned. It was surely a groan for the millions afflicted—dear Mrs. Rodriguez, who could no longer leave her bed; precious little Sarah, whose body had rejected her donor kidney. It was condolence for the patients whose files bulged their cabinets. It was the doctor’s response to a killer until a weapon was found to obliterate PKD from every people group, from every country. Until then, they would fight. Yes, they would fight. Though the numbers, perhaps the early hour, was numbing her brain, she straightened to refocus on Joy. “I will meet my sister and her parents Wednesday at Logan.”
