The Shortest Way Home

by Juliette Fay

  In the glory of God the Father, amen.

  * * *

  Sean soon learned that Dr. Yasmin Chaudhry wasn’t as young as she looked. He was twenty-nine, and she had a solid decade on him. An Englishwoman of Pakistani descent, she was well trained and had a fortitude that Sean came to admire greatly as their friendship grew.

  She was also quite clear about her lack of interest in any kind of romantic entanglement. She had a way of physically holding herself apart without seeming cold. Her eye contact was direct but not inviting. This was a relief to Sean, who was generally agreeable if one of the transient health care workers was interested in a casual interaction. He’d had a vasectomy years before and was careful about protection. But he tended to stay away from longer-term staff and older women—not because he wasn’t attracted to them, but because they were more likely to hope for an actual relationship.

  One evening Sean was walking down the deeply pocked road by the doctors’ quarters—small cement bungalows clustered together near the hospital. Yasmin’s tiny yard was overgrown with weeds and flowers. She worked too many hours, she said, to trim plants that would only grow back again. It was a warm night and she was sitting in her window and spotted him.

  “Come in for a glass of something,” she called to him. And he was happy to sit with his friend at the little table by the window and feel the breeze and smell the tangle of roses that sprawled against the house. They drank Rocamar red wine out of scratched glasses, conversation ambling through current patients, wish lists of supplies they would never see, and the various peculiarities and suspected motivations of their coworkers.

  She questioned him in her guileless way about how he had come to Kenya, and he found himself talking about his mother’s death from Huntington’s, an incurable disease passed from generation to generation, characterized by mental and physical deterioration and early death. Symptoms often came on by the victim’s early forties. His mother had died at thirty-five when he was fifteen, giving him a 50 percent chance of inheriting the disease himself.

  “I’ve heard about that,” Yasmin said. “Isn’t there a test for it now?”

  “Some people take it, some don’t.”

  She studied him for a moment, her hand resting around her glass. “And you haven’t.”

  He shrugged. “My brother and sister don’t want to know, either.”

  “Why on earth wouldn’t you want to know?”

  Sean gazed out the window, the hum of insects seeming to grow louder in the silence. It was always so hard to explain it to people. “Put yourself in my shoes,” he said. “If I were to tell you that I could say for certain when and how you’d die, and that you could linger for years, becoming an enormous burden to your family . . . would you still jump at the chance?”

  Yasmin’s night-black eyes went vague for a moment as she envisioned his dilemma. Her focus returned and she said, “There’s just as good of a chance you’ll find out you don’t have it. You’d be free to marry and have a family. You obviously enjoy the company of women.”

  He raised his eyebrows at her.

  “It’s clear as crystal,” she said flatly. “No one mistakes you for ­homosexual.”

  He laughed at her forthrightness. “Anyway . . .” he said. “For me the trade-off works. Not having to deal with definitive bad news is worth not settling down and working in some small-town American hospital, bandaging lacrosse lacerations. I’m happier than most people,” he said, taking another sip of his Rocamar.

  And he was.

  CHAPTER 3

  Twelve years later, Sean had returned to Africa, this time to Bukavu, Democratic Republic of Congo. It had been an entirely different story. The staff had worked just as hard—harder, maybe—but the civil war that raged around them caused a level senselessness to their patients’ afflictions that was nearly impossible to bear. Of course, the whole planet throbbed with suffering, but it was hard to out-suffer the women and children who clustered around the hospital, malnourished and homeless, severed from their families and any place in their culture by the unspeakable indecency of their “war wounds.”

  By this time Sean was forty-one, and he’d been thinking of the DRC as his last stop. Part of him was glad that his final stint would be as hard as any he’d experienced. But things weren’t working out as he’d bargained. No tremors in his limbs or saccadic eye movements, no memory loss—at least that he could tell. None of the Huntington’s indicators. All he had was back pain.

  “Let me help you,” a nurse’s assistant had offered quietly, when the pain had begun to show on his face more. It was humiliating. At night he’d prayed for relief, or at least for the strength to bear it without revealing himself.

  But these days when he prayed, he heard no response. This was new. God had always been with him, he felt, guiding him, injecting him with the fortitude necessary to face such depths of human suffering and provide relief. But now that it was becoming clear that all he personally suffered was goddamned garden variety back pain, divinity had hit the high road.

  And the pain of others . . . for the first time, it had really gotten to him. He’d be having his daily meal of sweet potato and fufu, a porridge made of manioc tubers, and an image would pop into his head. A boy with his arm hacked off at the shoulder. Or a gangrenous foot. His stomach would turn, and he’d give the rest of his fufu to whoever was near. There was always somebody willing to take the rest of your fufu.

  But not eating, it had become a problem. He’d gotten too thin and was losing his musculature. He could tell by how difficult it had become to hold down the bigger patients when they were being treated. Also, the attention he’d always gotten from women seemed to be slowing these days. He was used to getting checked out by the temporary medical personnel who passed through, offering a couple of months of service before they decided to head back to the States and get normal jobs. He’d slept with them occasionally, grateful for his vasectomy.

  But the frequency of longing looks and I’m-willing banter had dwindled. He told himself he didn’t care, that wasn’t what he was here for. But it was a temporary reprieve from the ugliness, and he had to admit he missed it.

  “You’re pale,” one of the African doctors had said to him one day as they’d debrided a toddler’s facial burn.

  “Yeah,” Sean had joked. “I’m not from around here.”

  The doctor had smiled, but added, “You’re too pale even for a muzungu.” A white guy.

  Sean had given a no-big-deal shrug, but inside he’d bristled. Pale? he’d thought. No freaking kidding, I’m pale. Up to my armpits in the blood of children all day, listening to one horror story after another. Can’t eat, can’t sleep, and my goddamned back is killing me. For the love of Christ, I’m supposed to be resting in peace by now, and all I’ve got is this shit!

  That’s when he knew.

  He’d seen it before—people who’d burned out but didn’t leave, who brought everyone else down, too. And he couldn’t move on to the next place like he always had in the past, because he’d only bring his bad attitude with him, as infectious as any disease.

  He’d decided it was time to cash out for a while. Take a little break, get healthy. Maybe travel for pleasure for the first time in his life. He’d always had the idea that when the Huntington’s symptoms came, he’d head to Tierra del Fuego and off himself there. It just seemed like a very cool place to see before you died. Now he could enjoy it without the distraction of impending suicide.

  He’d considered making a withdrawal from the small trust fund his mother had left him, of which he’d only ever used the interest, to splurge on a trip. He didn’t have to figure out where right away. And he’d conceded that he should make a quick appearance at home first, since, as Deirdre had pointed out, it had been a while. He’d written to Aunt Vivvy, who was still the sole trustee of his trust fund, and asked her to wire him the mo
ney for a plane ticket. As always, she’d consented without a word.

  * * *

  Resting had improved his back pain somewhat, but Sean’s brain still buzzed around the problem of his next move, and he was unable to truly rest. He figured he might as well take care of the lawn—there was no sense getting on Aunt Vivvy’s bad side this early in the visit. He went down to the shed and pulled out the rust-pitted mower.

  Yanking the starter cord was excruciating, and after a couple of tries his back was in spasms again. He dropped to his knees in the luxuriously long grass and let himself topple over onto his side, easing down until the soft green blades swept against his face. The backyard was bordered by woods, so he had no worry of being spotted by a neighbor. The smell of dirt and growing things soothed him, and he closed his eyes and relaxed for a few minutes.

  Apparently it was longer than that, because when he opened his eyes again, he felt something damp on his cheek and realized it was drool. A man was standing a few feet away, and for a second Sean thought it was Hugh. Then the man spoke, and his voice was wrong.

  “Should I . . . uh . . . like, call 911 or something?” It was too high to be Hugh’s. Oh, and . . . Sean’s sleep-addled brain reminded him . . . it couldn’t be Hugh.

  “I’m okay,” said Sean. “I just needed a quick lie-down.” His voice felt sticky, as if he had recently eaten peanut butter.

  “Oh,” said the voice. “I could call a cab. I’ve done that before. I know the number.”

  He thinks I’m drunk, Sean realized and struggled to rise, clenching his molars to stifle a groan. “I live here,” he said when he got to his knees. He shaded his eyes against the sun, trying to get a better look at his would-be rescuer. About five feet tall, he guessed.

  “Here?” The voice was incredulous. “I don’t think so. Auntie Vivvy wouldn’t—”

  Kevin. But he was huge! He’d been a little bear cub of a five-year-old the last time Sean had seen him. “I’m your uncle Sean,” he said, and the boy’s eyes went wide. “Didn’t they tell you I was coming?”

  “They don’t tell me anything,” he muttered.

  “Well,” said Sean, rising slowly. “I’m him, and I’m here.” He motioned to the mower. “I thought I’d give you a hand with the lawn, but I wrenched my back pulling the stupid cord.”

  “Shouldn’t have bothered,” Kevin grumbled, scratching a bug bite on his arm. “Even when it starts, it cuts out after a few minutes.”

  “Looks pretty old. I think maybe it’s the one I used when I was your age.”

  “She won’t buy a new one.”

  “Nah,” said Sean. “She won’t.”

  “Thanks, though,” said Kevin.

  They stood there, avoiding eye contact but trying to get a better look at each other just the same. Kevin had his mother’s silky dark hair—Sean had met her once when Kevin was about two. His skin was a warm tan color with a faint dusting of his father’s freckles along his arms and across the bridge of his nose. His eyes were exactly like Hugh’s, round and heathery-green. Sean found this both comforting and disconcerting.

  He told the boy, “Maybe it just needs a tune-up.”

  “Okay.” Kevin nodded, but Hugh’s eyes remained doubtful.

  * * *

  For the most part dinner was silent, interrupted by short bursts of comment from Deirdre. She had skipped rehearsal for Sean’s first dinner home, but it wasn’t so bad, she said, because it was the only one she’d missed, and some of the other secondary cast members had missed way more. “Mrs. Potiphar, the role I’m understudy for? She has bad allergies, and her eyes get so red she looks high or like she just had a crying fit. I keep hoping she gets a head cold.” Deirdre never actually said it, but it was clear to Sean that Aunt Vivvy had made her stay for dinner. She looked like she was sitting in an ejector seat, ready to hit the release button at any moment.

  Aunt Vivvy occasionally murmured to the dog sitting by her feet or mentioned some weather pattern and how it would affect her late-blooming lilacs. “A downpour will dislodge the petals before their time,” she said, nodding to herself. Never prone to what she had often referred to as “an unfortunate state of verbosity,” to Sean she seemed even less talkative than usual.

  Kevin said nothing. Not one word. Sean asked him what grade he was in, and Deirdre answered for him. “He’s in fifth. He has Mrs. Lindquist—remember her, Sean? She’s still there, the old bat. Did you have her? Hugh and I both did. He used to say she sent him down to the principal’s office once a week, just for good measure. Then when I was in her class, she told me, ‘Miss Doran,’ ” Deirdre mimicked this as Dooooran in a throaty twang. “I am delighted to see you don’t have your brother’s disregard for authoooority.”

  Kevin appeared not to notice. He ate the last bite of his mashed potatoes.

  “So,” said Sean, addressing him. “Middle school next year, huh?”

  Kevin gave a resigned shrug and looked expectantly at Aunt Vivvy, who murmured, “You may be excused.” The dog lifted its head, and Kevin gave it a wide berth as he carried his plate to the kitchen.

  After dinner, Sean helped Deirdre clear the table. “So, what’s with the dog?” he asked. “One of her friends get rid of it or something?”

  “No,” said Deirdre, piling so many dishes into her arms he was sure she would drop them. “She went to a shelter, for godsake. On purpose. She went in and chose that monster, and brought her home and named her George after some guy she knew a hundred years ago. The dog is female, Sean. You see what I’m talking about now? Viv’s losing it.”

  Pet ownership was hardly “losing it,” Sean thought, as he trailed after her with the rest of the platters and silverware. But he had to admit it was pretty strange behavior for Viv. Deirdre let her pile clatter into the sink. Sean had to raise his voice to ask, “What else are you seeing?”

  “What else? This is completely not her, for godsake!”

  “Look, if you really think there’s some sort of dementia starting, there’d be other symptoms than suddenly deciding to get a dog. Does she forget things or get lost?”

  “Jesus, I don’t know. She hardly goes anywhere anymore because she says her joints hurt. And she’s got me and Kevin to do all the chores.” Deirdre stopped tossing dishes into the dishwasher and turned to look at Sean. “I’ve had enough. I’ve done it alone for six years now. Not like Hugh was much help, but at least he kept things interesting.”

  “You’re planning to leave?”

  “No, Sean. I’m not planning to leave. I’m leaving.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Right, thought Sean. Because you’re such a pick-up-and-go kind of girl.

  Deirdre had lived in that house since she was a year old, except for a couple of months at Emerson College in Boston. She’d gotten into such nasty fights with her freshman roommate that she’d moved out. Emerson was an easy train ride from Belham, and living at home she didn’t have to deal with annoying roommates. She did have to deal with Aunt Vivian, Hugh, his loopy girlfriend and baby son. If she hadn’t left then, Sean figured, she wasn’t going anywhere now.

  “Hey,” he said. “I’ll finish up here if you want to go to the tail end of rehearsal.”

  Deirdre was wiping her hands on a dishtowel before the last word was out of his mouth. “That’d be fantastic.” She started to leave, then turned back. “It’s good to have you here. I mean, it’s a little weird. You were gone so long, I didn’t know what to expect. But it’s kind of . . . nice.”

  “Yeah,” said Sean. “For me, too. Weird but nice.”

  Her face brightened artificially. “Okay, well . . . Ciao!”

  “Ciao to you, too.” He smiled, thinking, Half Irish, half English, and she’s blowing me off in Italian.

  * * *

  He should have been tired. His body clock was still synchronized with Bukavu
, where it was currently about three in the morning. Plus he was worn out from traveling . . . and something else he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Maybe Deirdre’s jabbering about Viv and the dog, and grandstanding about leaving. She was a walking barrage of words, his sister.

  Not like people were silent in the places he’d lived. In fact, they talked all the time, or screamed or cried. He’d often sat dressing the wounds of some young girl who’d been gang-raped by opposition forces, or a woman who’d been beaten to shreds by her husband, as they wailed out every soul-crushing detail of the assault. He’d gotten a reputation of sorts as someone they could talk to—in English, Spanish, or the Swahili dialect he’d picked up pretty quickly. Most of the hospital workers couldn’t bear to hear these kinds of stories over and over.

  But not Sean. He could listen. And as his patients added to the catalogue of the world’s depravity, either with words or with vacant, dead-eyed silence, his mind would fill with prayers.

  Lord have mercy, Christ have mercy, Lord have mercy. You wept for your dead friend, Lazarus. Weep now for this poor girl who would welcome death. Comfort her with your peace and nourish her with your love. Have mercy and make her whole.

  Or sometimes, when he was rushing from one patient to another, a simple chant would ripple through his consciousness. Have mercy, Lord . . . Have mercy, Lord. . . .

  But Deirdre’s nattering really got under his skin. And praying didn’t work—first, because he’d started questioning where exactly all those prayers were going. And second, because he didn’t wish mercy or wholeness for Deirdre. He wished for her to shut the hell up.

  * * *

  Early the next morning an alarm went off somewhere in the house, and it woke Sean with the strange precision of its electronic beeping. A door opened and closed. Then he heard water running. The sound emphasized the pressure in his bladder and he got up. When he stepped into the hallway, Kevin emerged from the bathroom. For a moment he stared at Sean standing there in his boxers, then he blinked and slid past, his narrow shoulder skimming the wall.