Orphan #8

by Kim van Alkemade

  “It’s better to face reality than to nurture false hope,” Nurse Shapiro said. “From the look of her, I expect the girl will be with us for some time.”

  “I expect so.” Turning to the receptionist, Miss Ferster asked to use the telephone. First she’d let the Orphaned Hebrews Home know that Samuel Rabinowitz would not be leaving them, then she’d call Miriam back at the agency to ask if any other siblings had come in who needed a foster placement. There was no sense letting a perfectly good home sit empty for months on end, waiting for Rachel Rabinowitz to recover.

  Chapter Four

  I CARRIED THE TRAY OF BROTH AND THE SYRINGE OF MORPHINE to Mildred Solomon’s room, set them on the nightstand, and cranked the bed. As her back lifted, the old woman squirmed with pain.

  “It hurts.”

  “I know, I’m sorry. Let’s have something to eat first, then I’ll give you your medication.” I spooned broth into her mouth, noting the effort it took for her to swallow. I studied her face, but it was so changed from what it would have been—thirty-four, thirty-five years ago?—that I recognized nothing. It seemed to me there was something familiar about her voice, her gestures, but I didn’t trust that these impressions were real.

  The broth revived her. When she was finished, she pushed the bowl away with more force than I would have thought she could muster and nodded at the syringe. “It’s time for my morphine, isn’t it? Not too much, but some, I need some. That doctor prescribes too much. I told him, just enough for the pain.”

  She certainly sounded like a doctor. I examined her chart again, searching for some indication of the medical degree she claimed, but there was none. I wondered if the nurses preparing her chart had thoughtlessly stripped her of her profession.

  “He said I complain too much, can you believe that? I’m the doctor here, Mildred, he said. You’re not the only one, I told him. He didn’t like that. He said he’d send me up to Fifth if I didn’t cooperate.” She licked her lips and looked around the room. “Is that where I am, on Fifth?”

  “Yes, you’re on the fifth floor of the Old Hebrews Home. I’m your nurse, Rachel Rabinowitz.” Would she remember my name? I peered into her eyes but saw no spark of recognition there. I reached for the IV line to inject the morphine, then stopped myself. All I had to do was ask. Ask now, before the morphine sent her into dreamland.

  “Doctor Solomon?” I worked very hard at keeping my voice steady. “Do you remember if you ever worked at the Hebrew Infant Home?”

  “Of course I remember. I’m not senile. It’s just that damn morphine, he prescribes too much.” Dr. Solomon closed her eyes against the pain in her bones. She seemed to be looking for something behind the closed lids. Her mouth pulled into a smile.

  “I did my residency in radiology at the Infant Home. I was responsible for all of Dr. Hess’s radiographs—for the scurvy experiments, his work on rickets, the digestion studies. He hadn’t used barium X-rays for that before. Dr. Hess was still putting gastric tubes down children’s throats. I conducted my own research, too.”

  So, she was my Doctor Solomon. An electric charge jolted through me, shaking loose fragments of memory. Images began popping into my head like camera flashes. The bars of the crib I was lifted into at night, like a baby, even though I was almost five. Holding someone’s hand as I slept, though I couldn’t imagine who that might have been. A number embroidered on the collar of my nightgown—I remembered tracing the raised threads with my fingertip. There was so much I wanted to ask, I didn’t know where to begin.

  She was looking at me now, eyes eager. “Have you read my article about the tonsil experiment I conducted? Is that how you know about the Infant Home?”

  “No, nothing like that. I was there. When I was a child, I was in the Hebrew Infant Home. I think you were my doctor.”

  Mildred Solomon flinched. I assumed it was a jolt of pain. She obviously needed that morphine.

  “What study were you in?” Her voice was tight in her throat.

  “I don’t know anything about a study. I know I had X-rays, but I don’t know what was wrong with me.”

  She snorted, her head collapsing back against the pillow. “All the children got x-rayed, that was routine, doesn’t mean a thing. The important work was our research. The article I wrote got me my position in radiology, ahead of a dozen men. After the Infant Home, I never had to work with children again.” A twinge of pain pulled her mouth into a taught line. “Enough talking. I want my medication.”

  I checked the time: quarter to two. A full dose now would leave too much in her system when the next round of meds came at four. I knew Gloria wouldn’t alter the next dose without a doctor signing off, but he didn’t usually come around until after five. She could call him up, of course—if there was an emergency, she wouldn’t hesitate to do so—but if he came early he’d want to get his rounds over with, and that would throw off the whole schedule. I knew what the schedule meant to Gloria.

  I pushed the syringe into the valve in the IV line and depressed the plunger. I stopped halfway, just enough to keep her comfortable, and quiet, until four o’clock rounds. Mildred Solomon’s face relaxed as her eyes fluttered shut, a drug addict savoring her fix. “That’s a good girl,” she whispered.

  Withdrawing the syringe, I decided Gloria didn’t have to know anything about it. At the nurses’ station, I found an empty vial near the autoclave. I pierced its rubber cap and emptied the syringe of morphine, then dropped the vial in my pocket before calling Gloria over to initial Mildred Solomon’s chart. I could see she was pleased. Fifth was on schedule, all opiates accounted for.

  “It turns out she really was a doctor,” I said. “Mildred Solomon. I knew her, once. She was one of my doctors at the Hebrew Infant Home.”

  “Infant Home?” Gloria peered at me over her glasses. “I never knew you were in an orphanage. When was that?”

  “Back in 1918.”

  Gloria considered the date. “Did your parents die in the Spanish flu?” I made a sad sort of shrug, which she interpreted as a yes. “So, this Doctor Solomon, she took care of you?” Touching my hair, I nodded. “And now you can take care of her. That’s fitting. I doubt she has anyone else. For a woman to be a doctor, in those days? She couldn’t have been married. I guess you were all like her children.”

  “I suppose so.” Something had come to me, an image so clear I wondered where it had been all these years. “When she came to get me for my treatments, Dr. Solomon had such a smile, you’d think it was only for you in all the world. She always told me how good I was, how brave.”

  “What were you being treated for?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Of course not, you being so young. But you could find out, I suppose. Aren’t there records?”

  “She said she wrote an article.”

  “There you go then.” Gloria pushed up her glasses, satisfied my problem had been resolved. “I’m sure they have those old journals at the Medical Academy library. You’re off tomorrow, why not go find out?”

  HEADING HOME, I practically collapsed into my seat on the sweltering subway. Once the train was above ground, across the river, the open windows helped ease the heat. I stretched my neck to catch what wind I could. We reached the end of the line at eight o’clock, the sky still light from the late summer sun. Avoiding the crowds, I walked the back streets to my apartment building, Gloria’s question rattling in my mind.

  Why hadn’t I ever found out? I only knew I’d had X-ray treatments because Mrs. Berger always said it was a shame what they had done to me, but I didn’t actually remember getting them. I blamed my ignorance on the way we were raised. At the orphanage, questions were usually answered with a slap from one of the monitors; even Mrs. Berger was evasive if I asked about my hair or where my father had gone. Doing as I was told hadn’t come naturally to me as a child, but eventually I’d learned. Learned to stop asking questions. To eat everything on my plate. To open my mouth for the dentist. To stand with arms outstretched for
punishment. To strip for the showers. To snap into silence.

  I checked the mailbox in the entryway, my name and hers snugged together on that tiny label like any pair of roommates: widowed sisters, cohabitating spinsters, cost-conscious bachelorettes. I was hoping for one of her postcards scribbled with complaints about the Florida heat, but there was nothing. I imagined her lounging by the pool, too preoccupied to write. Disappointed, I rang for the elevator. As I pushed the button for my floor, I heard Molly Lippman’s voice calling out to hold the door, but in my moment of hesitation—that woman can be so tedious—it shut, leaving me feeling a bit guilty. Upstairs I hustled to get into the apartment before Molly caught up to me. How many minutes of my life have I wasted with her while she went on and on about Sigmund Freud and that psychoanalysis club of hers? I might have been more abrupt if she didn’t live right next door.

  I went straight to the bathroom and started a cool shower. If Molly did knock, at least I’d have a good excuse for not answering. I shed everything head to toe in seconds, desperate to be naked, dying to feel the water on my limbs and scalp. I was clean in a minute, the Ivory slick against my skin, but I stayed under the cool spray until my toes began to wrinkle. Only when I pulled back the curtain did I realize I’d forgotten to take out a fresh towel. Reaching up to grab one from the linen closet, I felt that twinge again, a slight strain from lifting a patient out of bed a few months back. I’d thought it was better by now. No matter.

  Dry and powdered, I went into my room, pulled clean pajamas from a drawer in my dresser. I noticed a layer of dust had settled on the collection of jade carvings arranged there. How had I gotten behind on housework, with nothing else to occupy my days off? I got a duster from under the kitchen sink and came back, flicking feathers at the stone animals until they shone. As long as I had the duster in my hand I wandered around the room, stroking the spines of my old medical texts, shooing away the particles that had settled into the clasps and hinges of the steamer trunk I kept at the foot of my bed. I dusted the framed pictures, too, a skimpy collection that substituted for missing images of family. Two girls at the beach, their legs dissolving in surf. A kindly old doctor with wire-rimmed glasses, stethoscope slung around his neck. The portrait of a young soldier, proud of his new uniform. Retying the black ribbon that slanted across the frame, I thought, as always, he’d been too young for war. Hadn’t they all, though? The whole world had been too young for what the war unleashed.

  Satisfied with my efforts, I went back to the kitchen. There wasn’t much to eat in the apartment—I was so used to her doing all of the shopping, I kept forgetting to stop at the store—but I found a can of tuna and made a quick salad that I ate with crackers and ginger ale out on the balcony. The lights along the boardwalk began to flicker on as sunset drained the last light from the sky. I’d meant to call her as soon as I got in, never mind the long-distance charges to Miami. I’d wanted to tell her about Mildred Solomon, but it was getting late and I was too tired now. Better to talk tomorrow, after the library, when I actually had something to say.

  I shouldn’t have bothered cleaning. Dust rose up and churned in the air as soon as I turned on the fan. Sneezing, I got into bed, pulling up the thin sheet. Her room might have been cooler—she had a north-facing window—but it felt strange to sleep in her bed while she was gone. With the window wide and the fan blowing on me, I hoped I’d be comfortable enough to get a good night’s sleep.

  The dream began as it always did, its familiarity my first sensation, even though it had been a long time, maybe years, since I had had it last. I am a little girl, and Papa has brought me to the park to ride the carousel. Somehow I know it is a Sunday. I pick out the horse I like the best, one with fiery eyes and a black mane, and Papa lifts me into the saddle. Oh, that weightless feeling! He stands behind me, his hands on my waist to hold me steady. His thumbs meet in the small of my back, his fingertips touch across my belly. As the carousel starts to move, the horse bobs up and down, its cadence steady and reassuring.

  It’s not just a dream. It’s a visitation. Here is Papa, strong and alive and mine all over again. I want to ride that carousel forever, stay a little girl and have him near me. But as I turn my head to show him my smile, he slides into the shadows.

  The horse rises and falls more quickly now, like it’s really galloping, leaping forward faster and faster, the pull of the carousel threatening to yank me from the saddle. The horse looks back at me, its eyes huge and wild, as if its pace is beyond its control. I wrap my hands tight around the bar, tighter, but I can feel it slipping through my fingers. I call out for Papa to make it stop. But somehow Papa is gone and Doctor Solomon is there.

  In past dreams, I’d believed it was Mama who replaced him, but now I knew it had never been her, it had always been Mildred Solomon. She is young and healthy as she was back at the Infant Home. She is riding the horse with me, her arms reaching around for the bar. I feel her chest against my back, her chin against my ear as she tells me to be a brave, good girl. In her hands there is a huge needle threaded with yarn. This is the only way to be sure you won’t fly off, she says. She begins to sew my hands together, stitching them around the pole. I feel nothing, but the sight of needle and yarn passing through my skin sickens me.

  Then the carousel is gone, and the horse is a real horse, running free on the beach, and I am not a little girl anymore, but me as I am now. I am alone. No Mildred Solomon. No Papa. There is a shining moment of relief as I laugh and feel the ocean spray on my face. I urge the horse to gallop faster. In my dream I ride with confidence and abandon, though in reality I’ve only ever awkwardly balanced on a rented mare on the bridal path in Central Park. Looking down, I see my hands are tightly grasping the mane of the horse. I look more closely. Not grasping, no. They are held in place with horsehair, the mane threaded through the skin of my hands. Horrified, I try to pull my hands away, but the horse misinterprets my gesture and veers toward the sea. It gallops into the waves until the water is up to my waist, its flaring nostrils straining for air. The surf roars in my ears as the water covers the horse’s head and rises to my chin.

  I woke with a strangled scream, bolting up in bed, my heart thudding against my ribs. I rubbed my hands together, fingers sliding over the smooth, unbroken skin. With no one to distract or comfort me, I obsessed over the dream, unable to make sense of its horrible images. I glanced at the clock—it was nearly five. I knew I’d never be able to fall back to sleep, so I got out of bed, put up a pot of coffee, took a quick shower while it was perking.

  Out on the balcony, the coffee uncomfortably hot in my hands, I watched the bright glow of the sun rising up over the ocean. I wished I was on the beach, my bare feet on the freshly raked sand, my view of the horizon unobstructed by apartment buildings and roller coaster tracks. As its rays lit up my skin, I felt the sun’s heat. It was amazing to think of its energy traveling millions of miles to finally touch me. It made me think about that Japanese fisherman, the one who died from the radioactive fallout of the hydrogen bomb even though his boat was eighty miles from the test site. It had been upsetting to read about such a terrible weapon that could kill from so far away. The newspapers said not to worry, that Eisenhower would never let things escalate to the point of using the H-bomb, but I hadn’t been able to shake the idea of a detonation powerful enough to wipe out all of Manhattan.

  I supposed it was the bad dream that had turned my thoughts so morbid. Anyway, I was starting to sweat, so I retreated inside. Even after I’d gotten dressed and tended to my hair, I still had an hour to kill before I could leave for the Medical Academy. I didn’t want to sit like an old lady watching the clock, so I gathered up my stale clothes from the hamper and headed to the laundry room. At least the basement would be cool.

  I had just started the washing machine when Molly Lippman came in, lugging a wicker basket in her fleshy arms. “Oh, Rachel! I wondered who else was up at this hour.” She was in her housedress, its garish flowers clashing with the pink curlers in h
er dyed hair. “I suppose once you’re in the habit of waking up early for work, it’s no good sleeping in.” She loaded the other machine and got it started. I hoped she would leave—most us of went back to our apartments during the long wash cycles—but no, she settled down on a folding chair and fanned herself with a magazine someone left lying around. “It is your day off, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, but how do you—”

  “I saw you coming in last night. I was too slow to catch the elevator, though.”

  “Oh, yes, I’m sorry about—”

  “So, what are you doing today? Going to the beach with the rest of New York?”

  “No, I have something to do in Manhattan. In fact, I should pop upstairs to—”

  “Let me tell you, Rachel dear, I wouldn’t have minded sleeping in myself this morning, but who can catch a wink in this heat? It gives me interesting dreams, though, or maybe sleeping badly just helps me remember them.”

  “That’s funny, the same thing happened to me.” As soon as I saw the eager expression on her face, I wished I could take back my words.

  “Oh, why don’t you tell me about it, dear? We can do a dream analysis. It’ll be an interesting way to pass the time.”

  I hesitated but couldn’t see how to back out of it. I wasn’t in the habit of revealing much about myself, but I didn’t see how anything in my dream could tip her off. Besides, it had been bothering me all morning. Maybe it would help to talk about it. So I told her, leaving Mildred Solomon out of it—that would have been too much to explain. It was the only time I can remember Molly not interrupting me.

  “Fascinating, Rachel. Simply fascinating.”

  “So, Molly, what does it mean?”

  “Oh, that’s not for me to say. Dreams are the vehicle through which our subconscious mind speaks to us. That’s why the analysis can only come from a deep exploration of our experiences and feelings, our fears and desires.”