Genealogy: a novel

by Mae Wood

  “So, back to Alice,” I said, again steering the subject away from Scott or how tired I looked on the cusp of my thirty-fourth birthday. “The man who wrote the letters was Elliott Keller. And I think I’ve found his descendants. My friend Caroline did some online genealogy research and found a woman named Gail Keller Copley who lived in New Mexico and I’m trying to contact her. I sent her a message on the computer and I haven’t heard back, so I’m going to send her a letter in the mail, if that’s okay with you.”

  “You should. They’re your letters, Ali. They aren’t mine. And if you want to give them back to his family, you don’t need my blessing.”

  When the recruiter called a few days later, asking me if I’d be interested in joining a group that was forming in Orange County, I hung up on her. I didn’t have the bandwidth to have a normal conversation because that conversation was months late. Seven months ago, right after UCI told me they were passing, it would have been different. I would have been over the moon at the opportunity to be in California with Scott regardless of what job it was. I scolded myself for being childish.

  “Okay,” the recruiter said, a little too patiently, when I called back and apologized. She was sweet to me, and let us pretend that her call had just dropped, but I knew she was reminding herself that she got a paycheck from placing jackass doctors in their dream jobs. “So any Orange County is out unless it’s got a strong research component?”

  “Yeah. I’m sorry. That’s really non-negotiable. No Southern California.”

  “That’s a one-eighty from the direction we’ve been moving.”

  I could tell she was frustrated and fishing for an explanation, but I wasn’t going to give her one. “I know. Let’s see what else is out there.”

  “What’s your top want in your next position?” she asked. “Other than a permanent position. I know you want that, but if you’ve changed your mind and want another locum tenens contract, that’s easy to do.”

  “No. I still want something permanent.” That much I knew. Another year of the in-between wasn’t what I wanted.

  “Okay, so tell me what your top wants are. Maybe that will help me get you some good options.”

  It was a fair question and one that I hadn’t thought about since I was seventeen, applying for colleges, and dying to get away from home. What I want… What I want… Not what I have to do, not what needs to be done, but what I want.

  “Ummm…” I didn’t have a good answer because there wasn’t a good answer. Caroline. My parents. Grammie. Even my siblings and their families. I liked the hospital, the staff, my patients. Did I want to stay here? Did I want to leave? “I’m not sure,” I finally answered truthfully.

  “That’s fine. A change of pace is a good thing. You’d prefer the West Coast still? If no California, what about Seattle? The children’s hospital system there is massive and needs folks all the time. I can put feelers out there. Or Portland. Everyone’s dying to move to Portland these days. Or maybe you go back east? Have you thought about North Carolina? Charlotte is hopping and—” She tried her best to sell me, but it was if I was getting over a stomach virus. Nothing sounded appetizing.

  Eighteen

  Ali

  October

  <
  To: Ali Waller>>

  Dear Ms. Waller,

  I don’t know who you are, but I ask that you leave my mother Gail alone.

  Sincerely,

  Ben Copley

  That was not the email I was expecting. Out of surgery and on my way to clinic, I pulled up my personal email to check in with the world. This was the third day since Grammie’s move and she’d been short of breath and had some swelling in her ankles. We knew the care was better at the assisted-living facility, but the stress of the change was the unknown in the equation. And with her retaining fluid, we all were sweating whether we’d made the right call to move her or whether we should have kept her at home. I didn’t have time to deal with Ben Copley or the mystery of Elliott, and so I moved on to the morning message from Grammie’s nurse. Grammie had lost almost two pounds in twenty-four hours, which was an excellent development. She was breathing easier too.

  Relieved, I shoved my phone back into the deep pocket of my white lab coat and walked through the clinic. A quick knock on the exam room door to announce myself, and I stepped through. “Mr. and Mrs. Ursini,” I said. Jackson was in his dad’s arms and swiveled his head to look at me. “And hello, Jackson!”

  “He knows his name now!” his mother told me as she planted a kiss on her toddler’s round head.

  “That’s so great. I’m so glad that he’s responding well.”

  I pulled up Jackson’s file on my computer and flipped through the reports. Everything looked promising. Good, even. I asked about concerns while I examined the surgical site. Three months post-op, and I was a little surprised to see them on my schedule.

  “No concerns. Not at all,” Mrs. Ursini said.

  “Yeah. Couldn’t be better. But,” Mr. Ursini said, jostling Jackson on his knee, “let’s talk about going bilateral.” His eyes were bright with expectation and hope.

  I nodded and launched into my spiel. “Having two ears helps normal-hearing listeners distinguish speech from noise in two ways—spacial separation, and redundancy where the auditory system gets two ‘looks’ at the sound,” I said. “And, like we talked about before, doing the procedures closely together will hopefully allow his brain to better develop pathways to both systems rather than become more focused on the first installed system.”

  “Sign us up,” said Mr. Ursini, raising Jackson’s arms in triumph.

  I looked over at his wife, who was staring at her son. “I guess the risks are the same,” she said after a beat.

  “Yes. No procedure is without risks. The good news is that Jackson managed the first procedure well. I have no reason to believe the outcome will be different, but you never can be certain.” The couple looked back and forth at each other and at Jackson. “How about you guys call my office and we’ll set up another visit in a week or so? Give you time to discuss it.”

  “We’re ready now,” Mr. Ursini said, pressing on, overriding his wife’s concern.

  I looked at her. Every so often, I’d see this. One parent being too bullish on the future and the other, often the mom, wanting to be conservative, not wanting to press their luck.

  “Really, honey, let’s get us on the books,” he urged her.

  She nodded and I typed notes in my chart to schedule them for an office visit without Jackson. A nod from her wasn’t enough. This was elective surgery and Jackson would live a rich life without it. I needed buy-in from them both before we booked an OR.

  That night at home, I was curled up with a glass of wine on my sofa, some mindless home renovation show on, when I remembered the email from the Ben guy.

  I grabbed my computer out of my bag and read his message again. Sure enough, the dude was telling me to stay away. Had I been pushy or rude? No, I assured myself. I’d sent the Facebook message into the great void of the internet only to have no response. Scott was probably right that it’d gotten caught in a filter. I’d sent letters to several Gail Copleys because Caroline and I couldn’t find addresses for any Gail Keller Copley. So I sent letters to all the Gail Copleys we could find who we thought were in the right age range to be Elliott’s granddaughter—New Hampshire, Atlanta, San Diego, San Jose, Santa Fe, Mesa, and one to a suburb south of Seattle.

  And even though Santa Fe was most likely where she lived, I liked the idea of Gail somehow living in Seattle, of her walking the same streets that her grandfather did. Maybe Seattle would be a good option for me. Grammie would definitely approve of me going back to a “home” that had never truly been my home, and there was no denying that it was a gorgeous place to live.

  Dear Ms. Copley, I’d written each time by hand, using my best, most legible, non-doctor handwriting on the monogrammed stationery that Grammie had given me for a birthday present years ago.<
br />
  My name is Ali Waller. I believe that your grandfather Elliott Keller wrote love letters to my great-grandmother Alice Hirshhorn when Elliott was living in the Philippines in the 1910s. I have these letters, and if you are interested, I would be happy to share a copy with you. I look forward to hearing from you. My contact information follows.

  Sincerely,

  Ali Waller

  I read through Ben’s snippy email again and wrote back, channeling my best bedside manner and angling for polite and professional.

  <
  To: Ben Copley>>

  Mr. Copley,

  Thank you for writing me. I really would like to share these letters with you or your family, if you are interested. Please let me know.

  Sincerely,

  Ali

  I hit send, and found a happy email from the recruiter letting me know that Children’s in Seattle might have needs. I was excited, but tamped it down. No way that’s happening, I told myself. I mean, I had the credentials, but that system was world-class and if I couldn’t land any position in California, why would they even want to talk to me?

  What you can do is often simply a matter of what you will do. I heard it in my head, said to me a million times by Grammie, and I knew it came from some children’s book—and one that I’d likely read at some point—but I couldn’t remember which one. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, I said to myself before I typed back. Sure, Seattle would be awesome. Let’s make it happen.

  When I woke up in the morning, I had a message from the recruiter saying she was going to do her best to get me an interview if they did have an opening. Do your best, fairy godmother. Also in my email was a bit of bile.

  <>

  I don’t know what kind of scam this is, but stay away.

  Scam? My hackles shot up. I set my laptop down and snagged my phone. Stomping over to the sideboard, I pulled out the letters and snapped some pictures, taking care to capture Elliott’s signature and return address, complete with his Philippines post office box number. I immediately tapped out a reply on my phone. This time I couldn’t muster polite.

  <>

  Mr. Copley,

  This is not a scam. Here are some pictures of the letters. If I’ve reached the wrong family, I apologize and will leave you alone. But I assure you this isn’t a scam. Your mother is perfectly safe. I’m not some Nigerian prince. I’m a physician in Kansas City. Google me. My grandmother gave me the letters and I’d like to find Elliott’s family.

  Sincerely,

  Ali Waller, Real Person

  A few minutes passed, and I thought that if I’d scared him away, that was entirely fine. If it wasn’t meant to be, it wasn’t meant to be. But at least I tried and I could run down the other Gail Copleys, if I could figure out which of the Gail Copleys had a son named Ben. Another sleuthy request for Caroline’s tot time library adventures. I fixed another cup of coffee and had begun scrolling through the morning news when my computer dinged.

  <>

  Dr. Waller,

  Very nice résumé. Consider improving it by adding another title. If not Nigerian royalty, Duchess of Kansas City?

  To be honest, when two letters arrived for my mom within a few weeks of each other, it was very odd. Who sends handwritten letters anymore? It seemed off. And one was forwarded from an old address. Then she mentioned how she’d been on Facebook and someone had tried to contact her there about some old letters as well, but she’d ignored the message.

  I’ll talk with my mom about your Elliott Keller. Yes, that’s the name of my great-grandfather. But before I share anything about us, do you have any more details about your Elliott that I can use to crosscheck against my Elliott?

  Sincerely,

  Baron Ben von Copley

  P.S. Ten thousand gold doubloons can be yours, if only you advance my loyal footman ten silver drachmas.

  <>

  Baron Ben,

  Or should I open with Your Grace or My Lord or something? Not sure of the etiquette.

  Based upon the letters, “my” Elliott is from Burr Oak, Michigan, but I believe he spent most of his childhood in Indiana. He graduated from the University of Michigan and taught school in the Philippines during the American occupation (or whatever the appropriate word is for that. Colonization? I don’t know.) He left teaching and worked with his uncle in a pharmacy. They were based in Iloilo. “My” Elliott eventually took a job with what I think was a division of Standard Oil in the Pacific. He met my great-grandmother Alice on a train to Seattle, where she taught school.

  In addition to the letters, I have a few photographs I’d be happy to share with your family as well.

  Sincerely,

  Countess of Kansas, M.D.

  P.S. Drachmas set to arrive by passenger pigeon on the 30th of February.

  Satisfied with myself and the potential progress on finding Elliott’s family, I stared at my screen a bit before hitting send, then turned to scroll through social media updates. A minute later, my laptop dinged again.

  <>

  Dr. Waller,

  Yeah. I’m not sure about the Philippines thing, but he worked for an oil company. Pretty sure that’s us.

  Let me talk with my mom.

  Ben

  Nineteen

  Ali

  October

  “Oh, a real phone call!” Caroline teased for a second before her voice dropped to a serious tone. “Are you breaking up with me? Over the phone? Not a text message?”

  “Of course,” I deadpanned, though the slight sting from the way Scott and I actually ended it lingered. Only Jess knew the hows and the whys. “Only jerks break up with their best friends by text, but I don’t like you enough to want to see your face, so phone it is.”

  “Excellent. What are you doing?”

  “Not much. Laundry, errands. Going to check in on my grandma. Might go to the gym. Might go read in a coffee shop. I’ve got the day off.”

  “Oh good! If you see your grandma, you’ll be out our way, then. Come have lunch with me and Bess.”

  “You don’t have to bribe me with Bess, you know. Lunch with just you is fine.”

  “Trust me. I love her, but I’d really love for her to have someone else to climb all over while I eat.”

  “So, I should wear my finest silk blouse and other dry-clean-only clothes?”

  “Absolutely. And I’m demanding that we do KC right. Barbecue ribs.”

  “I’ll wear my finest yoga pants and rattiest sweatshirt, then. It’s not Bess I’m worried about. You always make such a mess.”

  At noon, I was back in the suburb where Caroline and I had grown up, sitting at a table that I’d undoubtedly sat at during some point in my more than thirty years on this planet, but this time, I had a squirmy seven-month-old in my arms.

  Caroline tucked into a slab of ribs and a giant side of mac and cheese, justifying the plate to herself by muttering something about nursing and her extra calorie allotment. I didn’t care what she ate or if my sandwich and fries went cold because I was happy to feed Bess some Cheerios while I updated Caroline on my job search and how Providence was now on my radar thanks to a med school classmate.

  “Can’t you just stay here?”

  I made a comically large frowny face.

  “Really.” She laughed. “It’s not bad. I didn’t think I’d come back after college, but I did. KC’s not glamorous, but it’s a good place to raise a family.”

  “Because, oh, look!” I exclaimed in mock surprise. “I’ve got one of those family things in my back pocket! Huh, wonder how it got in there?”

  Caroline stuck her tongue out at me. “You know what I mean.”

  “I do,” I said, taking a break from my silliness. “And KC will always be home, but it’s not what I want.”

  “What do you want?”

  “That conversation is way too deep for barbecue,” I said. “That chat r
equires drinks. I’ve got an interview in Seattle next month. I don’t want to say more because I don’t want to jinx it.”

  “Understood. How’s your grandma?” Caroline asked.

  “Good, I think. Her vitals are trending better and she’s settling in well. It’s a nice place. It doesn’t feel like assisted living,” I said, bouncing Bess’s diapered bottom on my knee. “It’s more like a swanky hotel. They have a concierge and two different dining rooms. Laundry service. Room service, if you like.”

  “How do I sign up?”

  “Yeah, I thought the same thing.”

  “Say hi to her for me,” she said, returning her focus to her meal.

  “Will do,” I said, taking my opening for the big news I’d been wanting to share with her in person. “I’ll also say hi to Ben Copley, son of the mythical Gail Keller Copley.”

  “You found the family?” she said around a mouthful of mac and cheese. “Shut up!”

  “I know! The internet and your librarian are magic. I sent out handwritten letters and then this guy emailed me. Thought I was running some sort of scam on his mom,” I said with a laugh.

  “Yeah, you’re like the least scammy person ever. Hey, remember the saga of you trying to return the lipstick when Sephora sent you an extra tube?”

  “Let’s just forget that,” I said, blushing at the memory.

  “No, really. Let’s not. It was hysterical. The saleswoman thought you were insane and you were being all earnest about it, how you hadn’t paid for it and you needed to return it. ‘It was the company’s mistake,’ she kept saying. ‘I wouldn’t worry about it, if I were you.’ And you kept saying no and she kept saying that she couldn’t take it back without giving you a refund and you kept refusing. I was cleaning out a closet during Bess’s nap the other day and found that lipstick at the bottom of an old purse. Looks good on me, doesn’t it?”