Origin

by Diana Abu-Jaber

  “So, you were close to them,” I prompt.

  She sips her tea. “They helped raise me. Their house was filled with dye samples from the plant. Aunt Casey spun and dyed her own wool and my uncle made paper. Beautiful, beautiful objects. At Christmas, they decorated it like Santa’s workshop. So when I started my research, I thought of them. I’d read about the chemicals dumped in Lake Ontario, all the cadmium they’d discovered in our well water in Lucius, popping up in the tomatoes in people’s backyard gardens. And I realized it was perfect—the most natural method. By that time, my aunt and uncle were both dead—they’d passed on from the same cancers. But they’d left me their lovely colors.” She rubs her nose and makes a snuffling sound that, I realize, is a soft chuckle. “Oh, and your friend—that Marshall . . .”

  “Do you mean Mr. Memdouah?”

  She tilts back her head. “Such an inspiration.”

  “Did Mr. Memdouah tell you to kill the babies?”

  She laughs delightedly. “Oh goodness, no! He wanted to overthrow the presidential bourgeoisie and the Republicans—”

  “The technocrats, I know.”

  “Yes. He’s a bit, oh, irreverent—but weren’t all the great church fathers? A great, unencumbered mind. He helped me to focus my thinking—to sharpen it. He reminded me of how angry I am.” She stretches. “Sometimes it’s just so good to feel so angry!”

  “You poisoned him with that little gift you left for me.”

  “Well, I told him not to touch it!”

  I rub my arms, chilled, and the chill grows into a perception of movement. I sense something outside the room, like a shadow thrown forward. I want to turn but can’t break the focus in the room: I lift my cup, there’s an herbal, earthy bouquet. I touch it to my lips, but there’s also another note contained inside the herbal fragrance, something astringent—metallic. I put the cup down.

  She sighs and fluffs at her hair. “It’s been so difficult to get everything to go right,” she says. “I had to look everywhere to find nice hem-stitched blankets. I bought all the blankets, took them home, and dunked them in the cadmium and chromate bath. A nice long soak. That brought out their colors—very bright and pretty. I went to the pet store and bought two parakeets. Then I covered the cage with the blanket and within a few hours, both birds were feet up on the bottom of their cage.” She sits back, eyes glowing. “Very clean.” She folds her hands before her on the table. “My babies’ families were easy to track down—most of my babies had stayed local. I found two through their high school alumni associations. I even picked a baby at that other agency—New Beginnings—to throw you off.” She smiles. “I sent them baby shower presents. And once or twice I slipped in the back door, just for fun.”

  “You’re on one victim’s baby monitor videotape.”

  “Am I?” She seems pleased. “Then why didn’t you recognize me sooner?” She grins. “People are so easy to trick—I told you there was a strange nurse that came into the hospital—remember? I told Laeticia and then everyone was talking about it. They even thought they’d seen her—some of them gave descriptions!”

  “I remember,” I say. “What did you do with the other blankets?”

  “You’ll never find those.” She fingers the chain around her neck. “You’re not listening to me. And how many times do I have to tell you? They’re not victims. I didn’t know how any of this would turn out. I was delivering tools and letting nature take its course. I’m not here to give or remove. I learned that with Thomas. I’m just trying to rectify things.” She looks at me. “And I knew that if enough babies died fast, you might investigate—and come to me. But you were so slow, so slow!” She laughs brightly. “So I visited once or twice,” she says coyly.

  “Oh?”

  She looks pleased with herself. “I really tried. I’d chased you all over the city, and eventually, there you were, right there. God brought you to me. That’s how it works.”

  “You think so.”

  She turns her head and looks at me out of the corners of her eyes. “Oh my!” She laughs again, more brightly this time. “I think you’re upset. Well, you lived, didn’t you? God let you live. I could’ve slipped something more powerful into your IV or soaked your bedsheets longer. I could’ve even dunked something in your tea,” she says slyly, and I retract my fingers from my cup. “But I didn’t. You must learn to be grateful for things, Lena. God decided you weren’t worth taking back!”

  I want to press her, pursue her reasoning: Why this form of death? How many others? But there’s an emptiness behind her eyes—she looks as keen as the winter bird in the window behind her. Only she’s missing an essential link or tether to things. Mr. Memdouah might be crazy, but he has moments of lucidity. Opal, on the other hand, seems lucid—but it’s all an illusion.

  Opal regards me warily. “Aren’t you even going to try a sip of the tea I brought you? I came out all this way. . . .”

  “I think the tea is poisoned, Opal,” I say, tilting the bright green liquid toward her. “In fact, we’ll need to get you to the Poison Control Center right away.”

  She looks stunned by this information, as if she had nothing to do with it. She stands up from the table unsteadily. “I think I’ve forgotten something,” she mumbles, shaking now as if her joints are separating. “I’ve got to do something. . . .” She stands and moves toward me, her ropy nurse’s hands extended and trembling.

  “Opal?” I try to stand, but my chair gets caught in a tuck of the carpet; I wrestle with it, trying to disengage. She moves quickly, grabbing the back of my head and bringing the teacup up. “You have to drink,” she pleads, knocking the ceramic lip of the cup against my teeth. “It’s very fortifying!”

  I twist my head away and slap the cup out of her hand as Keller enters the room. He intercepts her as she tries to break for the door. “You don’t want to go outside, Opal,” he says, grabbing her arms. “It’s really cold out there.”

  She swings around, face white with astonishment. “Where did you come from?”

  “Sleeping in the next room,” Keller says; he looks at me over her head. “The walls in this house are thin.”

  “Oh, oh my goodness,” she says. Then, as she seems to catch her breath, she begins to relax. She moves shyly into his arms, her head tipping forward against his shoulder. “Thank heavens, thank heavens. My Andy’s come for me.”

  OPAL FOLLOWS KELLER into the car. She sits beside him in the front seat and I slip into the back, holding her purse and coat. “We’re going to take you to the hospital now, Opal,” he says, slamming the car into reverse. “There’s gonna be police there too.”

  “Oh, that’s good,” she says in a feeble, old-womanly way. She’s starting to cry, her teeth chattering, though it isn’t that cold out. “I must say, I’m not feeling very well.” She peeps over the seat back. “Did I do something wrong? I was trying so hard to make things right again. Did I make a mistake?”

  “The doctors will help you sort that out,” I say tersely, recalling in vivid detail the symptoms of my own poisoning. “Them and the police.”

  “Well, then,” she says and turns and faces out the side window into a smear of morning rain. “They know I’m innocent.”

  Keller slaps a portable light on top of the car and we roll through several stops.

  We pull into the semicircular drive of the Upstate emergency room. Keller and I help her out of the car. She clutches her stomach, her body now racked with spasms, and an attendant with a gurney is on his way out the big sliding glass doors. Opal stops for a moment and I think she’s going to resist going in. Instead, she pulls the necklace off and hands it to me. “You’re going to need this more than me,” she says. Then she takes my hand, squeezing hard, as the gurney approaches.

  CHAPTER 47

  THERE’S A SENSE OF BEING WITHOUT DIRECTION AFTER A BIG CASE is concluded. The dete
ctives and Lab examiners and police all stop for a moment; the air in the corridors seems to grow still, and sometimes investigators may find that they wish that the criminal hadn’t been caught . . . not quite yet.

  For Keller and me there are depositions and witness reports—we may be called on to give testimony if the case goes to court. Opal was released from emergency care in stable condition and under a suicide watch, and is now being held without bail. Opal’s attorney has entered a plea of insanity. The convent where she worked—St. Rose’s—has received bomb threats; they’ve refused all interview requests from the media. But a Manhattan-based news program recently broadcast an episode: The Sanctuary—or TERROR CELL—Next Door? featuring a shot of the convent’s front door and shots of nuns scurrying past, hiding their faces.

  It emerged, after her arrest, that Opal Jamieson had a criminal history, including a number of suspected arsons. A week after her arrest, a letter comes for me at the Lab. It’s handwritten on cream-colored stationery. I notice a scent as I open the envelope: lavender sachet.

  Dear Ms. Dawson,

  The sisters of St. Rose’s Convent and myself wish to express our deepest sorrow and regret to you personally for the actions of our sister Opal. Words can not adequately express the depths of our grief over the suffering she has brought to so many. During her lifetime, our Mother Abbé tried for years to control and protect Opal from the darkness in herself. But sometimes it seems we poor mortals are at the hands of larger, more mysterious forces. This letter is not intended in any way to try and exculpate Opal for her heinous actions, but simply to let you know that we are all thinking of you and your family, as well as the others whose lives she has afflicted. We will be holding additional masses for you and the families of the lost infants and would welcome you most sincerely to our gatherings at any time. I understand that you were, in fact, the one who was able to identify Opal as the culprit, and all of us at the convent give thanks that you were blessed with such powers of perception. We are praying for your full recovery every day.

  Very sincerely,

  Mother Mathilde Lewis

  I dial the number on the stationery letterhead and an answering machine message says that St. Rose’s is a “quiet convent” and that Mother Mathilde returns messages between the hours of one and two, Tuesdays through Thursdays. As I’m calling late on a Thursday afternoon, I expect it will be a while before I hear from her, but she calls back almost immediately. Her speaking manner is soft and filled with pauses—as if she’s not much used to conversation. She inquires about the state of my health and asks repeatedly if there is anything, “anything at all,” the convent can do for me. I tell her there is one small, unanswered piece of the investigation that has haunted me. She says, “I pray that I have the ability to answer it.”

  I ask her about the tooth on the string.

  There’s a pause. Then she says, “I do know about that. It was a practice of Mother’s Abbé’s, I believe. She had a number of these necklaces that her nephew bought as party favors. She’d tell the little ones in her ward that they were lucky charms and if they behaved they’d get to wear them. All the sisters who worked in the ward were supposed to wear them.” There’s another pause, then she adds, “I never cared for them, myself. They seemed so . . . pagan.”

  There isn’t much more for us to discuss after that. The tooth necklace has been entered into evidence and I tell Mother Mathilde she may be called on to give testimony. She assures me that she will do everything in her power to assist. Before we hang up, she asks if it might not be possible for us to meet someday. “I would like just to talk with you,” she says in her mild way. “I’d very much like to know you.”

  I tell her that I’d like that as well.

  A separate investigation will be conducted into Mother Abbé’s ward and allegations of baby trafficking. Though most of the nuns that were involved with the ward are elderly or deceased. One by one, the mothers of the murdered babies have learned that they were adopted (indeed, purchased) by the people they assumed were their biological parents. Myrtle has been taken in for questioning. And on my latest blood screening the amounts of heavy metals and other dye toxins were much reduced. My doctor tells me to exercise and eat right, to avoid taxing my liver. She says I may just live a full, healthy life after all.

  All charges against Mr. Memdouah were dropped. His daughter Hillary is energetically looking into bringing suit against the city for unlawful arrest and pain and suffering.

  AFTER DELIVERING OPAL to the police, I develop a fondness for the television. Not the evening news or the shows about cops, crime syndicates, or forensic superheroes. I like the cooking shows—the placid, measured combinations—adding one ingredient to another, the stirring and stirring—that don’t remind me of anything and don’t make me feel anything. I sleep late in the guest room. We eat Chinese takeout on the living room coffee table in front of the evening news (for Keller), and every night as we carry takeout containers back into the kitchen I glance at the dining room table, the folders that Opal brought to me still neatly stacked in place.

  And then there is a Saturday morning, several weeks after Opal’s arrest, when I notice a scent of earth and moisture in the air. I’m tired of takeout containers and sleeping in guest rooms. I stand at the rectangular table and sink into the chair that Opal had been sitting in. I stare at the folders.

  Behind me, I hear the sound of Keller’s bare feet on the floorboards. He’s wearing cotton pants, T-shirt—both gray and hazy with washing—and there’s a sheen of stubble across his lip and face, his smile slight yet definite. “Gonna take those on?”

  I put my head in my hands. “There’s too many.”

  Keller sits; he takes half the pile. I nod and open the first folder:

  Name: Infant, Female

  Length: 15 inches

  Weight: 7 pounds, 2 ounces

  Symptoms: Jaundice, colic, fluid in lungs, fever, croup

  Blood Type: B+

  Parents: Unknown

  Guardian: Mother Abbé Marie

  I browse through three files: one baby has bruises and contusion, another has a broken leg and rib, another shows signs of chemical dependency. The folders hold a city of lost infants. The pages themselves are old but in pristine condition: never reexamined. The nonexistent past.

  Keller reads bits of things aloud: “Newborn female; three weeks old . . . four pounds, six ounces . . .”

  I sit back and rub the corners of my eyes. It’s strange to think I might be reading about myself, a state of unreal equanimity, like floating in a lake while dark things glide by just underneath. Which, it now seems, I’ve been doing all my life—seeing and not-seeing, as if I’m the black spot at the center of my own vision.

  “This is impossible,” I say. “They’re all the same.”

  Keller tips his nose down and peers at me over the top of his glasses before looking back at the papers in front of him. “They’re not all the same, Lena. Some of them are sick, some have broken bones, some were abandoned by the parents, some brought in for adoption. . . .”

  “And then I think about the other babies—I mean, adults, now—who were bought and sold by Myrtle—all those people who had no idea they were adopted.” I flap down the folder I was reading. “Now it’s like not only did they lose their babies, they’re losing their parents too—the people they thought were their own flesh and blood.”

  “Aah, flesh and blood is overrated,” Keller says. “Besides, maybe this news will be liberating for some of them. A shock at first, but then it might just clear up a few things, you know? Like, why they never looked like the rest of the family.”

  “I’m cold.” I stand and take my ceramic mug between my hands and retreat to the living room couch. I curl up in one corner of the couch, my hands wrapped around the cooling tea. I feel around for the TV remote and hunt through the channels
until I find the image of hands chopping an onion.

  Keller comes out of the dining room, an open folder in one hand, a paper in the other. “Come on, Lena. We can figure this out—we’re trained to do this.” He grabs the remote and snaps the TV off. “Jesus.” He looks back at me, then unfolds the afghan on the top of the couch and wraps it around me. He sits next to me; I’m turned on my side and stiffen in anticipation of his touch. He puts his arms around me and takes my hands. “Okay? You good?”

  I nod.

  We’re lined together like a shell inside a shell. He holds the top of my head with his free hand, tipping it back a little, his breath moving through my hair. “Okay,” he says.

  “I don’t have parents. I think that no one gave birth to me ever.”

  He encloses me between his forearms. His breath is close and soft as crushed velvet and I feel a great drowsiness reach over me—more than that—a wish for deep, sense-deadening sleep. But Keller brings his face close to mine. “You want to quit?” he asks. “Just say so. We can toss these fucking folders in the fireplace. I don’t care.”

  “Let’s do it. Let’s burn them.” I sit up on the couch. “I don’t want to read any more of these. It’s all bad news, concluding with the information that I’m some kind of mental case. Me and my rain forest,” I say, gesturing to the windows. “Lena in the trees.” I drop my hand. “There was no rain forest. And I was raised by people who purchased me.” My breath rakes in and out. “What do I do with that?”

  Keller gets to his feet, goes into the dining room, and comes back with the folders. He stacks them on the grating in the fireplace, then picks up the box of matches on the hearth. “This is fine by me,” he says. He takes a match from the box. “This what you want?”

  I nod.

  He lights it: the acrid burst of sulfur. He holds it near the top folder.

  “No, wait,” I say quickly. I feel a dim grief for those unknown babies. My own clan. I don’t want to give them up. My eye falls on the dead TV screen: a brilliant, gem-toned chameleon with diaphanous scales starts to creep across the void. I close my eyes and think, Go away, and when I open them the TV is blank again. I tell Keller, “I want to go back.”