Kindred (17 page)

After a few minutes, Emmett rises. “I need to get back to the shop,” he says. It hasn’t been an hour yet. I tell Mo and Jason I’ll be right back and hurry out after Emmett to thank him for coming.

“I don’t think I was much help,” he says.

I can see Mo and Jason through the window. Jason seems to be animated, talking about something that has Mo nodding in interest. This is the first time I’ve seen Jason speak to someone. I’m anxious to get back and hear what he’s saying.

“You did better with him than I did. I can’t believe that Mo’s hitting it off so well with him.”

“Your brother is …” He pauses, searching for the right word.

“I know,” I say before he can find it. “We’re twins.”

Emmett shakes his head. “The mysteries of the world never cease.”

“A lot of people say we look alike.” I’m always defensive and protective of Mo. Besides, I don’t want to have a long discussion right now about my brother’s personality.

“There is a family resemblance. But it’s not his looks I was thinking about. Though either one of you could hold a long, involved conversation with a brick wall.”

“Hey!” I punch his arm; the muscles are flexed and hard.

He grins and dodges the next swing. Then he catches my hand and holds it gently. “But you’re sweet,” he says, and leaves the rest of his thought unspoken.

By the time I reenter the shop, Jason is pitching his drink into the trash can and the two of them are heading out.

“You guys leaving?” I say stupidly.

“Things to see, people to do,” Mo says, kissing my cheek.

Jason doesn’t bother answering.

I watch them leave the café, heads bent together like two old friends, talking excitedly about God knows what. Come to think of it, He probably does know what, but I have no idea. I have a feeling that when I question Mo tonight about it, he’ll be vague and I’ll be no closer to knowing what finally drew Jason out of his shell.

I try to ignore the very bad feeling in the pit of my stomach that this was not an accidental meeting. I keep waiting for
Mo to bring up the real reason he’s here. But he’s never hinted at anything about another mission. Maybe after successfully finishing his task, he’s been left alone. Maybe. But that’s only wishful thinking, and hope isn’t much of a strategy.

Mo’s sudden rapport with Jason feels bad. I just don’t know who will suffer for it in the end: Jason, Mo or me.

T
WO DAYS LATER
, I’m prepping for my colonoscopy. I’m not supposed to eat anything and only drink clear liquids, and nothing red or purple. I stock up on Sprite, orange Gatorade, and chicken broth. That’s the extent of the hardship until the afternoon, when I’m to drink the “tidal wave,” a solution guaranteed to get my colon squeaky-clean.

I’m so humiliated by all this that I haven’t told a soul—not Mo, not even my parents, definitely no one at work.

I head to the newsroom, sipping on a drink all morning. I heat a cup of broth for lunch and no one realizes I’m up to anything. I can’t decide what I’m going to do in the evening once the waves start, since I don’t want Mo to know. I told him that I have an assignment all day tomorrow and not to expect me.

The doctor did say I wouldn’t be able to drive myself
home after the procedure, but I figure I’ll call a cab, come home and crash.

Self-pity is too close to the surface, and the less I think about it, the less I have to deal with my new reality. And there’s this abiding sense of shame. A feeling that I’m being punished for being bad. Maybe once I have a diagnosis, I’ll talk. Then again, maybe I won’t.

Fortunately, I don’t have to make up a reason for Mo to leave the apartment. He isn’t there when I come home from work, and as the solution kicks in and I’m racing to the toilet every twenty minutes, I don’t have time or energy to wonder where he is or what he’s up to.

After what feels like days, weeks—after everything I ever ate or ever will eat is cleared out—I realize two things. One: this would make a very effective method of torture. Two: any celebrity who voluntarily undergoes a colonic should be committed to a mental institution.

The next morning I drive to the clinic. There’s a large waiting room, but I’m quickly called to the back by a nurse, who leads me to a changing room. I strip, placing all my clothes in a large plastic bag, put on a drafty gown and pad out in my socks. The nurse, a tired-looking middle-aged woman, takes my worldly possessions and stuffs them on a rack under the hospital gurney. I clamber onto it, holding closed my flapping gown, trying not to flash anyone. The nurse waits until I settle in place and then puts in an IV. It’s cold in the room, and I hug myself with one arm as I shiver, keeping the IV arm straight.

“Poor little thing,” the nurse says when she notices. “I’ll
see if I can find you a blanket or something. They do keep it mighty cold in here.”

The IV is hooked up to a saline bag that drips cold, clear drops at a regular interval, chilling my whole arm. My stomach is completely empty: no solid food since the day before yesterday, nothing to drink since last night. My teeth are nearly chattering. But really, it isn’t the cold.

I’m shaking with fear.

After a twenty-minute wait, I’m wheeled to a small room jammed with various machines. I’m pale, and on the monitor counting my heartbeats, I see my heart is shuddering at ninety-five beats a minute.

Dr. Messa walks in, with two assistants close behind him. The tiny room, no bigger than a walk-in closet, is now packed. If I wasn’t on the gurney, I wouldn’t fit.

“Well, Miss Abbot-Levy, let’s see what we’ve got here, shall we?”

I manage to pull my lips up in a ghastly semblance of a smile.

“Lay on your left side, sweetheart,” the nurse says. “Now pull your knees toward your chest.”

I follow orders, gritting my teeth. I breathe through my nose, fighting to stay calm. My heart rate is now over a hundred beats a minute. Curling on my left side makes the gown fall open in the back. I fight the urge to grab for it. I fight the urge to hop off the gurney and make a break for the door. I’m completely exposed, and the position causes what my yoga teacher would call “the blossoming of the seat.”

I see Dr. Messa take a syringe and plunge its contents into
the IV line. I feel a hand on my back as the nurse pats me reassuringly and places an instrument on the bed behind me and then … a rush of static in my brain … and nothing else registers.

An indeterminate amount of time later, I wake up in a tiny, curtained-off cell. I hear people murmuring near me, so there must be others waking up from procedures all around me. I feel very relaxed and a bit light-headed, but in a good way. I’m not hungry, just very mellow.

After I pass a few minutes placidly staring at the stripes on the curtains, a nurse peeks in. It’s not the same one from before.

“You’re awake,” she says. “How do you feel?”

“Sleepy.”

“That’s normal,” she says briskly. “The doctor will be here soon. Who’s coming to pick you up?”

“Just take a cab,” I murmur.

“Oh no,” she says loudly, riled up. “You can’t do that. Didn’t you read your packet?”

Some of the mellowness is fading in the face of her ire, but I’m determined to hold on to it. This is the best I’ve felt in weeks.

“It said I’m not supposed to drive,” I say calmly. I’m not going to let this skinny, frizzy-haired woman take away this blissful peace any sooner than it has to go.

“No ma’am,” she says. “We cannot release you to a taxi. It’s against the law. You have to have someone you know and trust drive you home. You could get robbed, or God knows
what.” Even in my mushy state, I know that what she says isn’t enforceable. They can’t keep me here against my will. And what if the taxicab driver was my friend? But it’s too hard to muster up a fight.

“Don’t you know anyone who’ll come get you?” Her tone implies that I must be even more pathetic than she first thought. As much as I hate condescending endearments, I suddenly realize they are not the worst thing after all. I could use a “sweetheart” or “honey” right now. I want my mom.

Mo doesn’t have a car.

“Call Emmett,” I say. “The tattoo shop on East Cannon.”

She humpfs at me and leaves, twitching the curtain closed behind her.

I shut my eyes and try to drift back to that sweet, mellow state, but it’s already fading.

When I hear the curtains sliding, I assume it’s the nurse again, but when I open my eyes, Dr. Messa is rolling a stool over to sit next to me. He’s holding a folder and he looks serious.

“Miriam, how are you feeling?”

“I’m fine,” I lie. My heart rate has picked up again. This won’t be good news.

“The findings from the scope, the evidence of ulcers and inflammation, along with your symptoms, mean that I am now confident in my diagnosis. I’ve taken biopsies, which I’ve sent to a lab, and those will take a few days to come back. But it’s safe to say you have Crohn’s disease.”

He places the folder on his lap and opens it. There are
bright color photos of what, even to my untrained eye, are obviously pictures of the inside of my colon. I feel myself blush. I want to cover them, for decency’s sake.

Dr. Messa doesn’t notice my distress. He discusses various parts of the photos, explaining what a normal lining looks like, showing what mine looks like. Pointing out the individual ulcers—the cause, apparently, of all my misery. They don’t look awful. They don’t look like they should cause sleepless nights of agony.

He’s talking, but at some point I don’t hear the words anymore.

Eventually, with no questions from me, Dr. Messa closes the folder and rises.

“You might not remember everything about this conversation,” he says. “If you have any questions, call the office. In fact, go ahead and call tomorrow and make an appointment. I’m writing a prescription right now for Asacol, which you’ll need to take in the morning and at night. It might be that’s all we need to keep your symptoms in check. If you don’t see an improvement in two weeks, we’ll discuss further options.

“I’ve included some packets for you to read about your disease. They should help you understand what’s going on, and the implications of this diagnosis.” He pauses, looking expectantly at me. I nod, though I’m not sure what he wants from me.

“I’m told your ride will be here soon. You’re free to go as soon as he arrives.”

He pats my hand, the first humane gesture he’s shown me, and then walks out, leaving the curtain open.

The same frizzy-haired nurse comes in. She takes out the IV and wordlessly bends down, reaching under the gurney and yanking out the bag with my clothes. She hands me the bag, and after making sure I can stand on my own two feet without collapsing, she leaves, pulling the curtain behind her.

I dress slowly. Every movement careful, like a drunk or someone afraid of falling. Putting my own clothes back on helps ease the sense of disassociation, but still, I’m lost.

I have Crohn’s. I am a crone. I’m sick. I am diseased. Medicine. Implications
. Every word feels heavy and nauseating.

I want my mellow numbness back. I want to sleep forever.

“Miriam, can I come in?”

Emmett’s deep voice is incongruent here.

“Sure,” I say. But my voice cracks and I have to say it again. “Come in.”

He pushes the curtain aside, filling up the space with health and strength.

“What a fun morning you’ve been having,” he says. “I can’t believe you almost didn’t invite me.”

It’s the perfect thing to say. I smile.

“Are you ready to split?” he asks.

I nod.

“Then let’s go.”

I walk very slowly, but he seems in no hurry. For some reason, I can’t make my legs move quickly. After a moment, without asking, he takes my hand and I grip his tightly. I don’t look around. I don’t care where I’m going. I just follow him down some corridors, past various doors and finally outside to the parking lot.

He opens the car door for me, closes it once I’m inside, then gets in and drives without asking questions. I close my eyes and doze.

When the car comes to a stop, I realize we’re at the back of his shop, at the entrance to his apartment.

He catches my look.

“They said you shouldn’t be left alone today. Easier to keep an eye on you if you’re here. If that’s okay?”

“Okay,” I say.

Some of the mellowness has returned. I want the name of whatever Dr. Messa put in my IV. It’s wonderful.

I climb up the stairs, with Emmett right behind me. Without waiting for an invitation, I kick off my shoes and crawl into his bed. The sheets are cool and they smell like him.

I dive into sleep like an alcoholic stepping into a pub. This is where I need to be.

I sleep for maybe an hour. When I wake, my neck hairs are standing on end and I know immediately I’m not alone. But Emmett’s not here. His steady, caring gaze is gone. Someone, or rather something, else is here.

Miriam!
a voice booms in my head.
Miriam! Arise and look before thee!

I sit bolt upright, clutching the sheets as Emmett’s room disappears. My ears are ringing from the command and my eyes widen as I realize I’m looking at a courtroom with a trial in session. I catch a fleeting glimpse of Jason in the defendant’s chair, his face stony, his whole attitude cold and sneering as he leans back. He is wearing a brand-new coat and tie. Then I see Judge Bender presiding from his seat on high. The
courtroom is packed with spectators, and it takes me a moment before I realize the judge is sentencing Jason.

I’m woozy with motion sickness, or something like it. I cannot tell where my body begins; it’s almost as if I’ve lost it during the transfer here. The vision, if that’s what this is, isn’t clear. It’s like looking at something underwater. Sizes shift, magnified and minimized, blurry and clear, like someone’s adjusting the focus. I see the avid, hungry looks of the spectators, like a mob at a witch trial. Then I hear the judge. I focus on him; his face is florid against his long black robes. His eyes gleam with righteous satisfaction. The picture warps less now that I’m looking at him. My view of the judge makes me think that I am sitting in the jury box. But there is no jury, just me.