by Patti Lacy
Joy scuffed her tennis shoes against spring-green grass tufts. Was that remorse heightening the lovely blush of her cheeks?
“It is the Chinese heritage.” Kai lowered her voice. She did not want to spoil this special time with lectures. “Your heritage. My heritage. Perhaps one day we will walk that ground together. Then you will understand.”
Joy nodded, as if her heart were too full to utter a word.
Kai smiled and pulled the guide from Joy’s clenched fist. “Speaking of walking, there is much ahead if we are to conquer the Freedom Road by lunchtime.” With Kai leading the way, they continued north—Bunker Hill their eventual destination.
One if by land, two if by sea. Old North Church, with its historic bell chamber, captivated Joy, who responded with wide eyes and oohs and aahs. Thankfully the flickering candles, sacred garden, and arched windows had not spawned more religion talk. Fatigue took hold of Kai as they soldiered on, Bunker Hill now in sight. Yet Joy’s exuberant arm-waving acted as a tonic. Never had the word cool sounded so good. They crossed a busy Charlestown street and entered the park.
Joy, her hand a visor, faced the famous monument. “Like, that’s amazing.”
Amazing. Like. If Kai got a dollar for every time she’d heard those words, she could buy an airline ticket to China. She glanced at Joy. Make that two.
Joy’s chatter and the lure of the granite obelisk coaxed Kai to soldier on. They browsed at a gift shop filled with flags, decals, and shirts, all in red, white, and blue. Liberty bells of a dozen sizes and prices festooned a table. One youngster clanged away, to the irritation of a harried clerk. Kai feasted on the boy’s dimpled chin and impish smile. David’s hints—which seemed to have occurred in another century—had led her to dream of marriage . . . perhaps even children. Another horizon, dimmed.
“Look, Kai!” Joy’s squeal returned Kai to reality but did not ease the strange heaviness in her chest. “We can go to the top!”
Kai suppressed a groan. Cheryl’s nagging about an exercise regimen just paid off. A thirty-five-year-old should not be this out of shape.
“Two hundred ninety-four steps! Are you up to it?” Joy grinned, showing well-formed teeth—a blessing to one born where dentistry was an unheard-of luxury.
Kai glanced at her watch. They had time before meeting the Powells for lunch. She squared sagging shoulders and mustered false bravado. “I am if you are.”
Joy heaved open a heavy door. “One, two, three . . .” Her pattering echoed in the tight-spiral staircase. “See you at the top!” rang in Kai’s ears.
Kai took a deep breath and gripped the handrail. Maybe next year, she bit back.
“A hundred ten, a hundred eleven . . .”
Kai’s chest hammered, echoing in her ears along with Joy’s counting. She stopped twice to wipe sweat from her face, to ease the burn in her lungs. The stairs wound so tightly, she could only see one staircase segment at a time. Perhaps that is a good thing . . .
No longer could she hear Joy calling out the step number for the buzzing in her ears. Surely Joy neared the top. Will I make it?
Her legs screamed, as did her lungs. She changed tactics and approached each step as an old friend, caressing it with the sole of her shoe, lingering as if it had something to teach her.
“Kai! I made it! Are you down there?”
Joy seemed to be calling from China.
Kai leaned against musty stone and summoned the strength to utter, “Um-hum.”
“C’mon! It’s so cool!”
Then I must hurry. Fortified by Joy’s wondrous tone, Kai clambered on, her gaze nailing each weathered step. She began to mentally count the steps, for the breath to utter numbers had evaporated.
Around ninety-nine, an image of Father flicked in Kai’s mind . . . along with a horrid thought. Perhaps Cultural Revolution indignities had not caused Father’s stroke. Perhaps the Chang line had been cursed with heart disease as well as PKD.
Kai’s chest heaved, both to fuel her movements and to expel the horrid thought. Mental counting—mental anything—stopped. Finally a rectangle of light carpeted the step above her foot. Though her lungs burned protest, her spirits rose. Joy. A view. The top.
Huffing, sweating, she stumbled onto the final step.
Joy whirled about. “Look! There’s four of these!” Sun rays beamed through an oblong window and tinted Joy’s hair brown-pink. “You can see north, south, east—” Her eyebrows crunched. “Hey, you don’t look so hot. Are you okay?”
Kai nodded, not able to speak. To divert attention from her poor conditioning, she slogged to the south window.
The harbor unfolded. Squinting, she spotted the masts of Old Ironsides, which were solid, sure, still standing even after a war. Sunlight glittered the water. Kai’s breath slowed. She rested her palms on the Plexiglas, drawn to this city—this country—that had opened its harbor to her and unlocked the treasure chests of education and career.
“When I look out there”—Joy’s voice echoed across the space they were fortunate enough to see by private viewing—“I can almost believe there is a God.”
Kai leaned forward, bent her knees, and arched her back until the window supported her. Religion had dogged them the distance of the Freedom Trail. Could she not escape it?
“You never said what you think about religion.” Joy’s words smacked Kai’s back.
So we will discuss it, whether I wish to or not. Her face pressed against the cool window, Kai closed her eyes and envisioned Old Grandfather. Though it felt awkward, she begged him to help. Slowly she turned, shifting the support of her body to her arms, which were propped against cold stone. With all the honesty she could muster, she met Joy’s gaze. “Like you, when I look out there”—she nodded toward the window—“I want to believe there is a God.” Emotion swelled her achy chest. “When I make the rounds at the dialysis unit, I want to believe there is a God.”
Joy stepped closer. Neither of them blinked.
“When I look at your face and see both the hope of tomorrow and what was good about our past, I want to believe there is a God. When—” Her throat closed. There was nothing left that language could express.
A breathy lunge brought Joy into her arms. With abandon, Kai drew her close, felt sobs against her breast, felt tears trickle down her face.
“Thank . . . thank you.”
Kai drank in the priceless elixir of Joy’s words. She had erected no new wall with religion talk. Perhaps she had further cleared the path to intimacy with this sister. Another miracle.
For the first time since discovering that word miracle, Kai did not question its reality. As she reveled in Fourth Daughter’s embrace, two questions tugged at her consciousness: Was the Christian God the author of such miracles? If so, how could she thank Him?
21
They’d reunited with a rosy Gloria, a jovial Andrew, and ate what Joy called a “yummy lunch” at a Bunker Hill bistro. The cabbie had pulled by the Stanford to drop off the Powells and then weaved and honked his way past mounted police, a funeral procession, and harried motorists.
Kai checked her watch. Two hours until the consult with the Powells and Dr. Duncan. With Joy waving her arms and laughing, with the delightful spring breeze, Kai had convinced herself the seizing of her breath on Bunker Hill was stress-related. She had always enjoyed excellent health. If heart disease ran in her family, likely it would take years to develop. She walked more often than she rode, favored a vegetarian diet—
The cabbie screeched to a halt at a light, avoiding a collision with careless pedestrians.
Kai sat up straight. No. She would not take a chance. Father had had a stroke at age forty. Perhaps a genetic predisposition was a nasty accomplice to sadistic prison guards to foil Father’s health. Those genes might doom my plan of action for Joy. I must know. Now.
The atrium’s beauty failed to soothe her as usual. Kai hurried in the back way, a rare avoidance of the waiting room. She stowed her handbag under her desk and checked her m
essages. Nothing pressing. Good.
Not bothering to change into scrubs, she pattered to the nurses’ station. By the counter stood Deanne. Another miracle, though minor compared to the others she had experienced. Kai shoved down the anxiety that tickled her throat. “Good afternoon.”
“Back at ya, Doc.” Deanne jotted on a chart and stuffed it into an examining room rack. “I wondered if you’d ever come in. You’re gettin’ wild and crazy in your old age.”
Kai grinned. This month, she had taken more vacation than in two previous years.
“Guess that happens when you meet a long-lost sister,” Deanne continued.
Not wanting to talk about Joy, especially not now, Kai continued a silent smile.
“She’s a doll,” added Deanne, with a cheerful yet perceptive glance, then returned to her work. Your sixth sense, Deanne. Another reason you are my favorite.
“Thank you.” Kai stepped to the counter and waited. It would not do to interrupt a nurse, especially with a personal request.
Deanne slung files into the out-box, called a pharmacist, then took a message for Dr. Salvadore. Again Kai yearned to claw her hands.
“Doc, can I help you, or are you looking over my shoulder, waiting for me to mess up?” Deanne’s curls proved as lively as her wit. Kai chuckled to keep up a gaiety charade.
“You should be looking over my shoulder.”
“Aw, c’mon,” gushed her favorite nurse. “Spit it out. Whaddya want?”
“When time permits, could you check my blood pressure?”
“Time permits.” Deanne cocked her head and gave Kai the once-over. “Now.”
That’s what I hoped you would say. Kai followed Deanne into check-in, partitioned from the nurses’ area by a glass-block wall topped with pots of ivy. Kai sat at one of three vitals stations. Vines curled toward skylights and added texture and color to soothing gray walls. A prestigious architecture firm had designed their offices to nurture and heal via this organic, fluid design.
The design did nothing to calm the stiffening of Kai’s muscles. Please, Mr. Christian God, help me, ran through her mind.
Deanne moved a monitor stand close to Kai. “So what’s this about?” Big brown eyes probed and poked. Better than needles.
Kai crossed her leg. “You nurses know us best.” She adopted a jaunty tone. “Physicians do not heal themselves.”
Deanne craned her neck, as if checking the hall for big ears. “C’mon.” She wore the expression of an irritated professor. “You gotta tell me more than that.”
“I am sure it is nothing.”
Deanne snorted, as if irritated to be excluded from a secret.
“How is Daniel?” To soothe the nurse’s ruffled feelings, Kai asked about Deanne’s son, diagnosed with Asperger’s. “Still building model airplanes?”
“Seventy-six and counting.”
A little boy, shut off from so many, yet desperate to fly. Kai managed a melancholy smile. “That takes perseverance. Intelligence. You should be proud of him.”
Blinking, Deanne nodded as she adjusted the pressure cuff, took a reading, snorted, readjusted the cuff, and took another reading.
“Have you decided about his schooling?” The pressure-building silence caused Kai to talk, just to talk. Day by day I become more American.
For an answer, Deanne ripped the Velcro cuff from Kai’s arm and tossed it on a counter. “What’s normal for you?”
Kai gripped her knees. “I haven’t checked in years.”
“Physician, heal thyself.” Absent was Deanne’s usual humorous tone.
“110 over 78.” Kai donned the mask of flippancy. “Something like that.”
“Something like that, huh?” Deanne clucked her tongue. “I just took it twice. Both times it was 140 over 110.”
Kai’s arm ached, as if she still wore the cuff. Her pressure could be indicative of a problem. Essential hypertension, renal artery stenosis . . .
Deanne ran her hand through her curls. “You’d better see that heart doctor.”
Kai winced as if she had been slapped. Of course they knew about David. Some had joked. Fished for nibbles. She had never bitten, had just given what David called her Cheshire cat smile. If any queried her now, she would continue to evade the question, unwilling to discuss the truth: There was no heart doctor now.
“Let’s check that pulse.” Deanne rested one hand on the back of Kai’s chair, the other on Kai’s wrist. She cast her eyes on a wall clock. “Hmm,” she finally said. “Low, but I guess that’s good.” Deanne looked her in the eye. “I don’t need to tell you . . . or maybe I do. Get this checked out.”
“I am fine,” Kai lied. “It is just the stress from traveling, of making arrangements for my sister. I have never done well with travel,” she again lied. David hated her save-face lies. But David wasn’t here. . . .
Deanne brushed her hands together, as if ridding herself of this matter. For now. “Fine or not, check this out. Hear me?”
Kai forced a smile so this competent nurse would leave her with her sorrow. “I hear you loud and clear.”
Deanne left the room. Kai remained sitting in the cold, hard chair, her third lie cozied up next to her.
She had not heard Deanne loud and clear, for those numbers had nearly drowned out the nurse’s voice. 140 over 110.
High blood pressure. Father’s genetics. Kai rubbed the arm that had been cuffed. It made sense that she might inherit such a problem, but that did not assuage the blow.
She buried her face in her hands. High blood pressure blacklisted her as a donor. She knew the words, had written the words, had chosen the neat, scientific font for the transplant procedures manual. Unless Deanne, one of their practice’s most competent nurses, had botched her job, she would never qualify as a donor for Lily. Never.
As she rose, a wildfire swept through her and crackled rage. She had so carefully planned for every contingency, so sure that she, with the resources of MRA, could transcend obstacles erected by—whom? If not fate, whom could she blame? Her foot flexed with an urge to vent her fury on the indifferent blood pressure stand.
“Dr. Kai, you have a call on line two,” intoned Betsy over the intercom in an irritatingly efficient manner.
You are a doctor, she told herself as she returned to her office and sat at her desk. Perhaps you will learn today that Joy will not need your help.
She stared past the blinking phone button to her wall of certificates and diplomas, whose golden seals and loopy calligraphy now mocked her. They were all meaningless. For the first time since she had discovered the Healing Right Hand, Kai doubted she could heal anyone. Not the five patients scheduled to see her today. Not her sister Joy, who would come in for her consult and test results. Not herself. Especially not herself.
She’s clinging to her daddy in her old happy-go-lucky way. Gloria trotted to catch up with Andrew and Joy, who were following Kai down a hall lined with examining rooms. And I’m about to bite off my nails.
A sharp right took them into a conference area dominated by a gleaming oval table. A serene seascape hung next to botanical prints. Tasteful. Soothing. Moneyed. Except for the presence of two doctors, it could’ve been a boardroom in any successful corporation—not the MRA office where they would learn if their Joy had PKD.
Kai rose, her mouth tight. Dark strands escaped her bun, usually so sleek and styled. Tension increased. Had Joy’s diagnosis swept Kai into a tempest?
“Sit down, please. Make yourself comfortable.”
Joy hurried to the chair by Kai. They exchanged secret smiles. Sister smiles. A perfect antidote for worry. Gloria sat next to Andrew, leaned close, and inhaled his comforting fresh scent. Oh, God, get us through this. Whichever way it goes.
Dr. Duncan nodded at Kai, who rose, closed the door, and returned to her seat. Though an Oriental rug muted the sound, every footfall thudded worry. At times like this, God seemed capricious, as if He relished holding lives by a thread. Death. Life. Sickness. Health. Gloria bit he
r lip. She sounded like a heathen.
“Here you go.” Dr. Duncan passed out stapled copies of a report. The report.
Gloria recalled the station adjustment. Joy’s life, again reduced to papers.
“Thank you for the privilege of examining Joy,” said Dr. Duncan.
“Oh, we thank you.”
Chattering teeth kept Gloria from voicing thanks, as Andrew had. She appreciated the VIP treatment, but enough was enough. PKD or not? She picked up the paper, studied rows of numbers, and set down the medical mumbo jumbo. Tell me, before I scream!
In her uncanny way of sensing emotions, Kai darted an encouraging smile. “We have good news, though there is one more avenue to be explored.”
“But it’s good news.” Dr. Duncan rubbed his palms together. “Good news.”
Recessed lighting seemed to brighten and halo the paintings. A soothing breeze swept through Gloria. For the first time in weeks, she breathed, really breathed. No PKD? Say it, then! Scream it! The retorts sizzled on the tip of her tongue.
Joy leaned against Kai, a childlike smile on her face. Tears misted Kai’s eyes and made her look fragile, older, despite her classic Asian beauty. Though she does it silently, she has been worried sick about Joy . . . just like me.
“Well, that’s . . . great!” Andrew’s voice swelled. The papers in his hand rattled. “But . . . what exactly does it mean?”
Gloria longed to high-five him. Exactly!
“We did an exhaustive battery of tests.” Dr. Duncan pulled glasses from his scrubs pocket and put them on. “First the basics. WBC, CBC. BP, 110 over 85.”
Gloria ran her finger along the columns of data.
“BP—toward the middle of the first page—sends up a flare.” Deep-set eyes peered over half-rims.
A flare. Gloria poked the nasty number with her fingernail. Doesn’t sound like good news to me.
“Something we’ll check out.” With a wave from Dr. Duncan, the flare was extinguished. Air whooshed from Gloria.
