Genealogy: a novel Read online

  I dumped the remains of my breakfast into the trash bin and went to greet him and his parents. I didn’t regularly go to mappings, but Jackson was special. He was my first patient—from consult through procedure—that I’d cared for at this hospital. I wanted to be there for him, for his parents, but mostly for myself. Because this was going to go right. I was determined it was.

  When I entered the room, Jackson was perched in his mom’s lap with a pacifier in his mouth, connected by a lead to the computer that Stacey, the audiologist, controlled.

  “Jackson,” his mom said, her voice quavering, looking from her son to me with worry on her face.

  “You’re not going to break him. Call to him,” I encouraged her.

  “Back on now,” said Stacey.

  Stronger, Mrs. Ursini spoke. “Jackson?”

  Jackson kept sucking on his pacifier.

  “Again,” Stacey instructed.

  “Jack, Jack.” A big, hopeful smile spread on her face, not quite reaching her eyes, which were filling with worry. “Jackson?”

  Still no response. My anxiety was beginning to rise. Because this was all a gamble. A gamble by the parents to put their baby through surgery, taking the risk that he’d make it through the procedure and that this contraption that we installed and calibrated would work. There were no guarantees. No promises. Only science, and chance, and guts.

  Stacey tinkered on the computer and I walked over to stand behind her shoulder to look at what was happening. “Yeah,” I said softly, agreeing with her as she increased the threshold.

  “Again,” said Stacey.

  “Jackson. Jackson.” Mrs. Ursini jostled him on her knees. “Jackson, Jackson, Jackson,” she kept calling.

  Jackson’s eyes grew big and his head began to swivel. Seventeen months of silence broken by his mother’s voice.

  There was no need for Stacey’s encouragement anymore.

  “Jackson, oh. Jackson, I love you, I love you, Jackson. I love you.” The words rushed out of his mother’s smiling mouth as tears streamed down her cheeks.

  Jackson’s confusion intensified and that was normal. He was plunged into a world of sound, a world he didn’t know existed. And as much as I’d like to say it was like a schmaltzy movie and he would look at his mom and smile sweetly and coo at her, the odds were that wasn’t going to happen. In fact, some would cry. Some would become agitated and scared. But it was all magic. Getting his brain to process sound was my gig. And we’d done that. Now it was up to the engineers and audiologist and therapists to get him to understand sound and language. I quietly slipped out of the room, wanting to let Stacey do her thing and the Ursini family to have this time.

  The rest of the afternoon was filled with two pediatric consults, reams of reporting to complete, and after yet another dinner at my favorite of the hospital’s cafeterias, I walked home through the darkness to my apartment.

  I woke up the next day not to my pager or the alarm on my cell, but to an actual phone call. Only a half dozen people could get through my do not disturb setting and I’d answer every one of those calls in a heartbeat.

  “Good morning, Grammie,” I said, rolling to my back and holding the phone to my ear in the darkness.

  “Ali. I’ve sent the men with the dining room table, the chairs, and the sideboard to your apartment.”

  “Grammie,” I began, wanting to tell her that she hadn’t told me about a delivery, but knowing that she didn’t need the grief. No harm had been done, except my interrupted sleep. And interrupted sleep? I made it through a residency and a fellowship. I didn’t know what uninterrupted sleep was.

  “They say you won’t answer your door.”

  I wrenched my phone away from my ear and looked at the screen. Sure enough. Four missed calls. Perhaps I should also set my door buzzer to ring through. I smirked.

  “Thanks, Grammie. I’ll let them in.”

  I buzzed in the delivery guys and looked around my apartment, trying to figure out where to put the sideboard. Shoving around a few unopened boxes from my move, whose contents were a complete mystery to me, I made some space in the living room. I could put my TV on top of it, I decided.

  Soon enough two well-built men left with my Ikea TV stand and kitchen table as a part of their tip, and I was the proud owner of a sideboard and a long mahogany dining table. For all of my formal dinner party needs.

  A text from Scott beeped through on my phone, pulling me from my daydream of a table full of friends laughing over cartons of Chinese delivery. He was asking if I was around. And for once, the stars aligned. I didn’t even bother texting back. I called him.

  “Hey,” he exhaled. Even in a single word, I felt his exhaustion.

  “Long day?” I asked, giving him the opening to dump his troubles on me.

  “And an awful one. Three hours into a total hip and the patient coded.”

  And the specter that haunts every surgeon raised its head. No one wants a patient to die on the table. Early in my residency, I’d been pulling a gallbladder and the patient went into cardiac arrest. We’d stabilized her, but it remained the scariest moment of my life. Far scarier even than the ER rotation when you never knew what was coming, because in the ER, the patient arrived in distress that you hadn’t caused and your goal was to stabilize. That moment with the gallbladder patient? I’d had a hand in that.

  “That sucks.”

  “Yeah. It does. Just got done talking with the family. So, tell me something good. Anything good.”

  “Well, I’m now the proud owner of an antique dining room suite. Grammie forced it on me and now it’s taking up about half of my apartment. It’s huge.”

  “Furniture? That’s the best you can do?”

  “I’ve got a long weekend coming up,” I said, rushing to make him happy and soothe him. “So three days together in SoCal?”

  “That sounds cool, if we can swing three days. Send me the dates and I’ll run it against my schedule.”

  If we can swing it? I could definitely swing it. Even if he was on call and got stuck at the hospital, there wasn’t a reason that I couldn’t get in a few days of sunshine, we could enjoy a few meals together, even if just someplace quick, and I could sleep in a bed that smelled like him.

  “Okay,” I said, not wanting to fight with him right now. “I’ll send you the dates. Let me know and I’ll book flights.”

  “Cool. I’m being paged. Talk to you later. Love you.”

  “Love you,” I replied, echoing his words and trying not to let his brusqueness bother me. He’d had one of the worst days a doctor can have and I shouldn’t read anything into his distance. It’d been a hard few months on our relationship as we sorted out the long distance thing and I kept looking for a permanent position near him.

  I sat down at my new-to-me dining room table, an antique chair creaking under my weight, and surveyed the delivery. I decided I should pack away the linens back into their home. Turning on a news podcast to keep me company, I started my task, unfolding and refolding the tablecloths, and embroidered napkins of all sizes, and there, on the bottom of the bin was the box of love letters. I set them aside until all the ancient linens were back in their sideboard home.

  Switching off the podcast and warming up my coffee, I opened the Frederick & Nelson box of Alice’s letters and wished I knew anything about archiving. I didn’t want to ruin them, but I supposed they were now mine to ruin. I counted. Over three dozen letters. The postmarks and stamps were mainly from the Philippines, but some were from Japan and one was from Hong Kong. I organized them based upon postmark date as best I could. September 1915 through May 1918.

  Nearly three years, and what was the story? Three years ago, my life looked very different. Scott and I met three years ago. Had moved in together about two years ago. Less than a year ago, we’d talked about getting married. Six months ago, we were California-bound. And now here I was in a one-bedroom apartment, five miles away from the house I’d grown up in, and alone except for my family and my hig
h school best friend.

  I opened the first letter and, struggling with the cursive, began to read.

  Dear Alice,

  North America is behind me, but you are at the forefront of my thoughts. We’ve just bid farewell to North America, as the Canadian coast slipped away. It’s unseasonably cool and the water is rough. I was expecting bright blue skies and smooth seas, but that is not the case. Tea, regular small meals, and walks around the deck help keep the nausea away, but I ache nonetheless.

  As much as regret gnaws at me, it won’t hold me back. I move forward now with purpose. My purpose is to build a life for us. A life that I can eagerly and honestly ask you to join. I’d have asked if you’d be willing to join your life with mine as we wandered like lost sheep through the Seattle streets on my last night with you, and the idea was always on my mind, but I have little to offer but hope and hard work. That will not always be the case. I will write the vision and make it plain to you, dear Alice…

  Three

  Elliott

  September 1915

  The sea is rough and the sky is gray, a proper metaphor for his state. He turns up the collar on his topcoat and crosses his arms, leaning back on the deck chair as Canada melts into the low clouds. It’s too late to change this path. Not even his death would stop this steamer’s passage to Japan. Body, it will carry him away from her. And his soul? Even if it is bound for some damnation, it is with her.

  He is alone on the deck. The few other passengers who stood to bid farewell to dry land have departed indoors for tea or coffee or a bit of warmth. He knows he won’t find any warmth for himself. The sun he left behind in Seattle, and the world is a horizon of endless sea.

  How he should have said “come with me” or “marry me” or any other combination of sounds that would have procured her presence on this steamer beside him.

  But he didn’t. Because five days isn’t enough to be certain enough for a lifetime, is it? A mere week ago he walked into the observation end of a train, somewhere just west of Sandpoint, Idaho. He’d missed his planned train due to a washout on his way up from Utah, and after a delay of two days, had bought a ticket for the first available Pullman berth bound for Seattle. From Seattle, to Vancouver, and from Vancouver back to his home in the Philippine Islands. Well, his home for the past five years, and one that would surely have changed during his nine-month vacation back to the States. There was no doubt in his mind that even if the place hadn’t changed, if his uncle’s house stood with his bedroom intact, even if his social circle remained the same and he still spent his nights at the club, playing bridge, that he was changed. And he’d forever be different.

  He’d caught her profile at first. She was lit from behind by afternoon sun streaming in from the plate-glass window. Her soft, dark hair folded gently into a knot at the base of her neck. The high collar of her long-sleeved white blouse tall against her graceful neck. And a pair of perfectly plump lips that curved in delight as she pulled a magazine down from the rack. He was transfixed, his own collar growing tight and his mouth growing dry. He watched her for a moment, his hands still clasped behind his back, as she settled into a club chair near another woman and devoted herself to her reading.

  It would be rude to interrupt her. Even if he did, what possibly would be appropriate, what possibly could be proper for him to say? They were strangers. There was no one to make an introduction. So he waited and watched her out of the corner of his eye from his own club chair across the car while reading four-day-old news from a Chicago paper.

  Did she have a companion? A chaperone? A husband? A friend? The world was wide and wild, that he knew, and the idea of her floating alone through it unsettled him. She looked comfortable and confident and completely at ease in the car that was filled with people reading, playing cards, and chatting as the train chugged westward.

  He’d come home with the notion that he’d be bringing a wife with him on his return, but if that was ever truly a mission for his vacation, he had failed. Introductions had been made. Addresses exchanged and letters promised. But in this moment, he thanked Providence that his notion had been folly.

  Her blue skirt flitted at her ankles as she resettled in a chair at a table, pulling out a journal and pencil. She immersed herself in sketching and he took the opportunity to fully examine her. She wasn’t tall or short. Or memorably thin or thick. There was a languidness about her posture. She was in her head, in her drawing, and no longer in this observation car and no longer even in this world. He knew that place. It was the place he visited so regularly that he didn’t need a map.

  He watched her work, her hand fluidly moving about the page. There was no band on any finger. No signifier that she belonged to anyone. He almost would have preferred to see a narrow ring of gold. To know that she had a husband watching out for her, protecting her.

  An itch to see what she was sketching crept upon him, nearly overtaking all propriety. A vase of flowers? A Western landscape? Perhaps something like Remington, cowfolk in action? Or something stylized and modern like the cover of the magazine that sat on the table next to her? What did those hands feel like? Were they as soft as silk? Did the sides of her fingers have small calluses, developed from hours of drawing? Were the focused eyes brown or green?

  He was too distracted to even pretend to continue reading the days-old news. He set his unfinished paper to the side and walked toward the outdoor observation platform, slowing his gait to a near standstill when he passed her. But no luck. She hadn’t looked up and silently invited him to say hello. The train lumbered into a turn and he wobbled, his arms flinging wide to stay himself. His right palm landed on a tabletop with a smack. He looked down and found his hand only a few inches from hers. Her arm was outstretched and one of her pencils was clutched in her fist. His eyes shot to her face and startled blue eyes landed on his. Blue. One mystery solved.

  “Pardon me,” he said to her, righting himself. He forced himself to step away from her. Two more steps and he wrenched the door to the platform open. That breath of fresh air was sorely needed.

  When he returned from the observation platform, she was gone. Through his evening meal, he chatted pleasantly with his assigned tablemates in the dining car, but she never materialized. Perhaps his mind created her. She was a vision, after all.

  Following a game of bridge in the parlor car with his dinner companions, he trundled down the length of the train a bit tipsy. When he located the number of his Pullman berth, he drew back the heavy curtain. And there she was. Wrapped in a white nightgown with wisps of frothy lace cupping her chin. An open book clutched in her hands, the electric reading light shining down over her shoulder. Once again, the big blue eyes.

  “Oh, excuse me,” he said, snapping the curtain closed. He examined his ticket. 46. He looked at the placard by the berth into which he’d just intruded, concerned that the gin may have dulled his faculties. But no, it still read 46. Rather than linger on the other side of his—no, her berth—no, it was his berth, one he’d waited two days in Idaho to procure—he returned to the parlor car and located a porter, who located the Pullman conductor, who inspected his ticket as he explained the situation.

  After being set straight that the gin had in fact impeded his ability to distinguish a six from an eight, he was directed to a neighboring berth numbered forty-eight. With the aid of the porter holding the curtain to his berth into the aisle to provide him room, he changed out of his suit and into his pajamas. Bidding the porter goodnight, he switched on his own electric light with the idea of sinking into the biography in his valise, but found his mind filled with thoughts of that moment that didn’t happen. Of his stuttered apology and quick snap of the drape. Of the woman who was a stranger to him, resting in her own narrow bed just feet away. He removed his glasses, placing them safely on the window ledge, switched off the light, curled onto his side, and waited for sleep to take him.

  Now on the deck of the ship, Elliott recrosses his arms against the cold. Pacing, as the ship con
tinues to carry him away from her, he accepts that he cannot change the decisions he has made. The decisions that brought him to this moment, being ferried away from Alice. He steps inside, locates a porter, hands over his topcoat, and requests a cup of hot tea and stationery. Settling in at a table, he withdraws his black lacquered fountain pen from his interior jacket pocket and rolls it through his fingers. Words opened the world to him before, and now they will tether him to her across the vast Pacific.

  The porter deposits a teapot in front of him, locking it to the table with a small brass arm. The teacup and saucer appear. In deference to him and the other first class passengers, the teacup sports a delicate handle. Soon a sheaf of letterhead arrives on the tabletop.

  Nippon Yusen Kaisha, S.S. Sado Maru proclaims the top of each page. The creamy, empty vastness humbles him. His eagerness of a few moments ago, his confidence that his words would bind him to Alice and Alice to him, falters as the reality of their situation intrudes.

  It will be two weeks until he can post these letters to Alice. And then two weeks at best until she receives them. It will be nearly November by then. She will be teaching her students each day and reading and painting and drawing each evening. He does the math in reverse. Even if she writes to him, it may be six weeks until her first letter could possibly make it to Iloilo. It could be as long as two months. And what of the five days they spent together? How real was any of it?

  He continues to roll the pen between his fingers, formulating a new plan because the plan has now changed. He’s certain of that. The plan was for him to vacation, potentially return with a wife, and assume operations of the family business so that his uncle could take his own trip back to America. His uncle is set to depart after the New Year and will be gone for over a year, seeing family and lobbying for investments to expand their business. Accounting for the incalculable variances of life, including those strange happenings that resulted in his path crossing hers, of the unknowns of travel and of time transitioning the business back to his uncle’s purview, he figures for another few months. May 1917. That’s the earliest he can return to Seattle. Almost twenty months. By the time he reaches his uncle’s house, it will only be eighteen months.