Your filthy bare feet leave footprints. Shoes. You need shoes. Amanda was taller and heavier than you, but you wore the same shoe size. Eleven. Wearing boxes without topses.
You take the stairs to her room and find a severe blue dress with a belt and a pair of black flats. You try to wash your face, but the water has been turned off, so you spit upon a towel and scrub at the worst of the dirt. Then you lie down on Amanda’s bed.
But before you sleep, Peter visits. He stands by the window, blocking the moonlight. What did you do? he asks. Why did you do it? He has been digging in the garden. His knees are black with wet earth. He is holding one of Fiona’s most brightly colored snails in his palm. In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread, till thou return unto the ground; for out of it wast thou taken. You are sweating. Enough, you say. But he is gone, replaced by Amanda. She sits on the edge of the bed. She takes your hand. Hers is whole, unblemished. You are relieved: It was all a dream, then. All a dream. And finally you are able to sleep.
You are awakened by a crack of thunder, the sound of drumming against the window, on the roof. Outside the window you see gray and wet, but it is still warm. You see that you are already dressed, shoes even. You must have been on call.
Those days as an intern, learning to jump up from the soundest slumber, ready to slice. No transition from oblivion to hyperawareness. You are aware of an empty stomach, but when you go downstairs the refrigerator is dark and empty, and a sour smell emanates from it. In the pantry some dry cereal, stale. Rat droppings on the shelves, holes chewed in the bags of pasta, the cracker box.
You catch sight of the clock still ticking above the sink. Eight forty-five. The clinic opened at 8 am. You are late. You stuff some cereal in your mouth, run to the front door. You do not have your car keys, you must take a cab. You walk swiftly down the street toward Fullerton, where the cabs stream past day and night.
You are already soaked from the warm rain. The first two cabs are occupied, but then you are in luck: The third one stops. To the New Hope Clinic, you say. Address? he asks, but you can’t remember. He punches the name into a small machine mounted on his dashboard. Chicago Avenue, he says. Okeydoke.
He is dark, handsome. A Palestinian flag is draped over the front seat. His cell phone rings and he spits out a string of guttural sounds, hangs up. You brush off the water as best you can and try to relax. Chicago the gray lady. You don’t mind.
Sometimes you want the outside world to match your interior reality, you said to James once, trying to explain why you loved thunderstorms. Another boom overhead and a streak of lightning on the right. Awesome, says the taxi driver, and catching your eye in the rearview mirror, he smiles.
The taxi pulls up in front of a low gray building. Seven seventy-five, the man says. You reach for your purse. You begin searching around the backseat, you pat your pockets, you are frantic. The man looks more concerned than alarmed. You work here? he asks. Or a patient? You are a doctor, you explain, and the man nods like he expected as much. Perhaps you can borrow it, he suggests. I will wait.
You run through the rain to the front door. The waiting room is full of people, many more people than there are chairs. Jean is at the front desk, checking in a woman with a crying infant. When she sees you she looks startled. Dr. White! she says. What a nice surprise! Aren’t I on the schedule? you ask. Then, without waiting for an answer, you say, No matter. Clearly you need me. I’ll be ready in ten minutes.
You walk into the back area and are surprised at all the strange faces. A medium-size dark-skinned man stops you. I’m sorry, he says, staff only here. His name tag says dr. aziz. It’s okay, you tell him. I’m Dr. Jennifer White. Apparently there was a schedule mix-up, but it looks like you could use the help.
Dr. White? he asks, but you are already at the back sink, washing up. You go to the wardrobe, take a white coat, button it over your dress. What do you have for me? you ask. The other doctor hesitates, then shrugs. Room three, a rash, could be shingles, could be poison oak, he says. The chart is on the door.
You give a quick knock for courtesy, then enter the room. The woman is perhaps thirty, African American, a fine strong frame. But she is holding on to her left side and her face is in pain. Let me see, you say, and she reluctantly lets go. You pull back the blue hospital gown to see an angry rash with raised red bumps and blisters that have erupted on the skin in a band that reaches across her belly and around her back.
Does this hurt? you ask.
Yes. It started out as a kind of tingling. But now it hurts. Badly.
You look. Some of them have become pus-filled, others are still in the early stages of formation. You motion for her to turn over. Nothing on the other side, just this broad swath down the right side of her body, her hip, thigh, and buttocks.
What is it?
Herpes zoster. Known more commonly as shingles, you say. I’m going to prescribe one of the antivirals. Acyclovir. It should decrease the duration of skin rash and pain. I hope we’ve caught it early enough. Also apply cold compresses to the rash three times a day. Above all, do not scratch or you risk infection.
How did I get this? You called it herpes. Did I get it from my boyfriend?
No, not at all. Shingles is caused by the same virus that causes chickenpox. You know, what you had as a child.
You are looking for your prescription pad. It’s not in your pocket. You excuse yourself and go out into the hallway.
Excuse me?
Yes, Doctor?
I have misplaced my prescription pad. Can you get me one? You turn and nearly bump into another woman wearing a white coat. She does not have a name tag on. She looks frazzled. She examines your face with curiosity. Are you Dr. White? she asks.
You nod, yes.
I recognize your photo. I didn’t realize you were still involved in the clinic. I thought you’d retired. Dr. Tsien still talks about how much you are missed at the hospital. She frowns, opens her mouth, closes it again.
You don’t follow all of this. I come here every Wednesday, you say.
But today’s Thursday.
You pause, think. I must have had a conflict this week, you say.
Everyone has been very grateful for your help. That a doctor of your caliber would work here pro bono has always meant a lot to us. Not to mention the other contributions you’ve made, of course. She still has a bemused look on her face, as if trying to remember something.
You turn to go. You face a bewildering mass of doors. Where were you? You pick a door at random and go in. An older man is sitting in his underwear. He looks surprised. Is something wrong, Doctor? You tell me, you say. What brought you here today?
The man looks uncomfortable. As I told the other doctor, I’m having trouble going to the bathroom.
Does it hurt? Or do you have urgency but no voiding?
The second one. I think. I try to piss and nothing comes out. It hurts.
Any erectile dysfunction?
Excuse me?
Do you have trouble maintaining an erection?
No, of course not. The man doesn’t look at you when he says this.
Liar, you think.
How long have you had this dysuria? you ask.
This what?
This urgency but no voiding.
About a month. It comes and goes.
Any blood in the urine?
He hesitates, then says flatly, No.
Any pain or stiffness in the lower back, hips, or upper thighs?
Maybe.
My guess is prostatitis, you say. Then, after seeing his reaction, you add: Relax, it’s not cancer and it will not lead to cancer.
Is it curable? he asks.
Sometimes. Sometimes not. But we can almost certainly relieve the symptoms, you tell him. We’re going to start by taking a urine sample to rule out bacterial prostatitis.
There is a slight knock at the door. A woman is standing there. Dr. White? she says. There is a cab driver who says you owe him money. He’s kept the meter runn
ing, so it’s up to sixty-five dollars now. What should I do?
I didn’t take a cab, you say.
He says he drove a doctor here, a woman, and he described you. Perfectly. What should I do? He won’t go away.
I’m busy here, I have roomfuls of patients to see, can’t you take care of this?
He’s really quite insistent.
Very well. You turn to the man. I’ll be right back.
You follow the woman out of the room and nearly bump into a dark-skinned man going in.
Doctor?
Yes?
Was there some reason you were in with my patient?
To examine him, of course. He needs to provide a urine sample, have some blood work done.
Yes, I know. I’m surprised you found it necessary to interfere. I didn’t ask for a consult.
There is a dark young man wearing a T-shirt and blue jeans standing at the counter, surrounded by people.
There she is, he says. He addresses you directly. You said you would borrow the money. Now the fare has increased. It would be even more if I were keeping the meter running now. I turned it off. Can you please pay me? It is now sixty-five dollars.
I don’t know what you’re talking about, you say.
I picked you up at Fullerton and Sheffield. In the rain. You left your purse at home. You said you would borrow the money.
The dark-skinned doctor is now standing behind you. Is there a problem? he asks.
This lady owes me sixty-five dollars. I don’t know why she is lying. If she really is a doctor, she can afford it. If I lose this fare my boss will take it out on me.
The dark-skinned doctor reaches into his pocket. I have fifty dollars. Will that be enough?
The cab driver considers. A phone rings, he picks up his cell phone and flips it open, and speaks in an unintelligible tongue.
Okay. Fine. But I am very upset with this. You’re lucky I don’t call the police.
I’m glad that’s settled, you say, and return to the clinical area.
You are examining a five-year-old complaining of a stomachache when someone knocks on your door. Come in, you call. In walks a heavyset woman, short dark hair. A blazer. She is holding something in her hand.
Dr. White.
Yes?
You are scribbling instructions to the lab, trying to concentrate. The child’s mother is asking questions in a language you don’t understand, the child is whining, and your stomach is complaining from hunger.
Please get the nurse. I need a translator.
Dr. White, you’ll need to come with me, please.
I’m not done.
You consulted the clock.
I’m here until four pm. I can see you then.
Dr. White, I am Detective Luton of the Chicago police.
Yes? You don’t look up.
You and I have met before.
Not that I can remember, you say. You finish writing, hand the slip to the mother, and open the door to usher her and her child out. Then you turn to face the woman directly. No, you say, we have never met.
I understand that you believe that. But we actually have what you could call a relationship. At least I consider it so. Her brown eyes are so dark that the pupils are almost indistinguishable from the irises. She seems to be on edge, yet is speaking in an even voice.
What is this about?
A number of things. The most immediate is that you’re practicing medicine without a license, since yours expired. Then there’s some other outstanding business.
Such as? You lean against the examining table, cross your arms and your ankles. A posture that inevitably intimidated your residents. This woman doesn’t appear in the least disconcerted.
There’s the fact that you went AWOL from your residence yesterday afternoon. Your children have been frantic. The police have been looking for you for more than thirty hours. Funny, we never thought of looking here.
Why the police? you ask. I am an adult. Where I go and what I do is my own business.
I’m afraid not, the woman said.
That’s ridiculous. I just saw Amanda this morning, you say. We had breakfast together. At Ann Sather’s, on Belmont. Every Friday, it’s our time.
Amanda O’Toole has been dead for more than seven months now, Dr. White.
Impossible. She was sitting opposite me eating Swedish pancakes this morning, you say. She complained about the coffee to the waitress, as usual. Then left an overly generous tip. A very typical meal on a very typical day at the end of a very typical week.
You need to come with me, Dr. White.
Faces are crowding up behind the woman’s from the hallway. Faces curious and not particularly friendly. You unfold your arms, stand up straight. All right. But you are interfering with some important work. A lot of the people you saw waiting in the front office won’t get seen today because of you.
To this the woman says nothing, but gestures toward the door. You hesitate before exiting the room in front of her. You feel her hand on your shoulder, guiding you. The people part as you walk silently out of the clinic.
You’re in the front seat on the passenger’s side of a small brown car with faded upholstered green-and-cream plaid seats. The seat belt is jammed, so you just hold it across your lap. The woman looks over and smiles. Hope we don’t get stopped, she says. That would be something. She puts the car into reverse, backs up, nudges the car behind, then puts the car into first and inches away from the curb.
Your daughter has been worried about you, she says as she pulls out into traffic. It’s now getting into late afternoon, rush hour has started, and Chicago Avenue is clogged in both directions.
Fiona? you ask. Why? She knows where she can find me. I’m here every week.
Nevertheless, the woman says. She is drumming her fingers on the steering wheel. She is in the right lane, behind a red Honda minivan when she puts her blinker on, sharply turns the wheel, and pulls into the left lane. Horns blare.
Are we going to the hospital? you ask. Have I received a page?
The woman shakes her head. No, she says. She picks up a small phone lying next to the gear box. She pushes a button and brings the phone to her ear, waits and then speaks loudly into it. Hello? Fiona? This is Detective Luton. I found your mother. The New Hope Clinic—she was treating patients. I need you to come to the precinct. Call me when you get this.
And she hangs up.
Fiona is in California, you say.
Not anymore, says the woman. Just Hyde Park.
This isn’t the way home, you say.
The woman sighs. We’re not going there. Just to the station. You’ve been there before.
The words make no sense. She is your sister, your long-lost sister. Or your mother. A shape-shifter. Anything is possible.
The woman is still talking. There’s no going back to your former facility. She gives you a quick sideways glance. You’ve deteriorated quite a bit since the last time I saw you.
There is such pity in her voice that you are jolted back into a more solid world. You look around. You’re on the Kennedy now, heading south. This woman drives too fast, but expertly, taking a long off-ramp that swings around to the left and straightens out before passing directly underneath a long stone building spanning the highway. Left, then right, then a glimpse of the lake before a sharp right turn, and down into an underground garage and into a parking stall with a screech. A sudden and absolute silence. A damp smell.
You both sit in the dim light for a moment without speaking. You like it here. It feels safe. You like this woman. Who does she remind you of ? Someone you can depend on. Finally she speaks. This is highly irregular, she says. But I’ve never been one for following the rules. Neither have you, by the sound of things.
She leads the way to the elevator, pushes the up button. Something just wasn’t right about this from the beginning, she says. Nothing fit.
When the elevator comes, she shepherds you inside and punches the number 2. The doors are dented and pocked,
and inside it smells of stale smoke. The whole compartment trembles and shakes before slowly beginning its ascent.
When it opens, you blink at the sudden bright light. You are in a long, cream-colored hallway humming with activity. Pipes run across the ceiling and down to the floor. Posters and flyers are tacked to the walls, ignored by the people streaming in both directions down the hall. The woman you’re with starts walking, jingling a ring of keys, and you go on for some time, getting jostled by men and women, some in uniform, some dressed as if for the office, many casually, even sloppily attired. You wonder what you look like in your white doctor’s coat, but no one gives you a glance. The woman finally stops at a door marked 218, inserts a key into the lock, opens the door, and gestures you inside.
Cool gray walls. No window. A gray steel desk, nothing on it except a cylinder holding a number of sharpened pencils and some photographs. The subjects range from faded black-and-white daguerreotypes of grim-looking men and women in clothes from a century ago to contemporary men and women, many of them holding children and many in uniform. No pictures of the woman herself, except one in the exact middle of the collection, of her and another woman, slim, with long ash-blond hair, standing next to each other, their shoulders slightly touching.
Sit down, the woman says. She pulls out a hard wooden chair. She then opens a corner cupboard, pulls out two bottles of water. She hands one to you. Here, drink this.
You gulp it down. You hadn’t realized how thirsty you were. The woman notices the bottle is now empty, takes it from your hand, and offers you the other one. You are grateful. Your legs and feet ache, so you slip off your shoes, wiggle your toes. A long day of surgery, of holding steady, of not allowing your attention to flag.
The woman settles herself on the opposite side of the desk. Do you remember anything at all of the last thirty-six hours?
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