Bitter Paradise

by Ross Pennie

  He stepped into the other bedroom and closed the door. After several gulps of the lager, he pulled his earplugs from the drawer and stuffed them into his ears. While the Beasley neighbourhood was surprisingly quiet, the interior of their townhouse was often bedevilled by the brain-piercing screech of Leila’s equipment. It bored through the flimsy wall between the garage and the kitchen five and a half workdays a week. Leila and her various part-time helpers took only Saturday afternoons and Sundays off. A friend had helped Hosam with the plumbing, and they had purchased the supplies, tools, and equipment Leila needed on eBay for a reasonable sum and no questions asked. He had hated to see her pawn the diamond ring that celebrated their tenth anniversary. But she said the equipment was a good investment and she knew she would earn the ring back.

  What she was doing was not strictly legal. Well, it was and it was not. It was a question of paperwork, not Leila’s skill. She was providing a desperately needed service at a reasonable cost. What could be wrong with that? Her growing list of grateful clients was proof enough of the quality and value of her work. She could not be expected to sit around wasting her skills when they were so much in demand.

  Besides, Leila’s income was going to allow them to put together the four thousand dollars the authorities charged to determine his suitability to practise surgery in Canada. If they accepted his degree from the University of Aleppo, and if he came up with their exorbitant fee, they would let him sit their three-day Medical Council of Canada Qualifying Exam, the MCCQE. It was an especially tough exam for a doctor fifteen years out of medical school. It demanded answers to comprehensive questions about a host of conditions a busy surgeon had not thought about in a decade: cystic fibrosis, mucopolysaccharidosis, leptospirosis, hemochromatosis, trypanosomiasis, leishmaniasis, hypochondriasis, thalassemia, myxedema, polycythemia, chikungunya, fragile X, maple syrup urine disease. If he passed the exam, they might give him a chance to prove himself on a team of carefully supervised junior surgeons.

  He considered himself a surgeon to the core, and surgeons belonged in the operating theatre. He was going to do whatever it took, hurdle by hurdle, to return to the sacred table under the bright lights. He opened his $180 copy of Toronto Notes, the entire curriculum of the University of Toronto’s medical school reduced to a nutshell. It was one highly concentrated nut. He turned to the chapter entitled “The Essentials of Essential Hypertension: Pathophysiology, Investigation, and Management.”

  Minutes later, or perhaps it was an hour, he felt a hand on his shoulder and a dark presence by his side. His heart stopped. His stomach dropped. His throat closed. He couldn’t breathe. For a moment, the world went black.

  “Father, it’s okay. It’s just me.” The touch of the hand on his shoulder, he realized, was tentative rather than angry.

  The lights came back on, but his head was still spinning. “Son of a dog, Omar.” He yanked out his earplugs and took several slow breaths. “I was sure you had come to kill me.”

  “Sorry, Father.” The boy held a large sandwich in his hand. It smelled of garlic and tahini.

  “I have told you before —”

  “Didn’t you hear the doorbell?”

  Hosam held up his earplugs. “I was concentrating.”

  “Someone slipped a note through the mail slot. I found it on the carpet.”

  “Something from the Church People?” Hosam’s gaze shot in the direction of Leila’s room. It was quiet. Omar must have given his mother the warning knock when he heard the doorbell.

  The family’s resettlement as refugees was being sponsored by a local Christian church, First New Canaan Baptist. A committee of always-smiling volunteers had procured and furnished the townhouse and was paying the rent for the first year. It was extremely generous and well-meaning. And intrusive. From time to time, a volunteer or two appeared at the front door unannounced just to be sure everything is okay. The Church People wished to inspect their investment and find out more about the strange family who were born and raised so close to their Holy Land. After all, one of their key Bible stories took place centuries ago on the road to Damascus, a place the Church People were hearing so many terrible things about on their television news. Hosam and Leila, deeply grateful for the Church People’s generosity, did their best to present a welcoming face when they dropped by. Omar usually stayed in his room.

  But it would be a disaster if they started asking questions about the noise coming from the garage. Hosam and Omar were always quick to give Leila the warning knock at the first sign of a smiling volunteer. On the door leading to the garage from the kitchen, Hosam had mounted a plaque that said Prayer Room غرفة الصلاة. The sign worked better than any lock at keeping out the curious. Canadians, he had come to realize, were extremely paranoid about offending Muslim immigrants by intruding on their religious rituals. The mysterious, backward-reading Arabic cursive added to the taboo. It didn’t matter that the Khousas never visited a mosque, or read the Qur’an, or said any prayers. Millions throughout Syria had done all three without fail, and look where it had brought them.

  At each visit, the Christian volunteers were patronizingly complimentary about the family’s fluency in English and how well the three of them were adjusting to your new lives in Canada, the new Land of Canaan. Some of them were disconcerted that Leila did not wear the hijab and that Hosam kept a few cans of Moosehead in the refrigerator. When you did not fit their Muslim stereotype, even the most benevolent souls could prove more than a little confused. And judgemental.

  “Definitely not from the Church People,” Omar said.

  He dug into the back pocket of his blue jeans and brought out a crinkled, letter-sized envelope. Across the front, in thick black ink, it said Hosam Khousa, Father of Omar, Husband of Leila. The script was roughly scrawled Arabic.

  Hosam felt the blood drain from his face. “Did you see who it was?”

  “Um . . . I got a quick look at his back, that’s all. Then he took off. A small Toyota.” Omar swallowed a large bite from his sandwich. “But I did see the bowie knife on his belt. Are those things legal here?”

  Chapter 8

  “But Tasha, I have your favourites ready.”

  “I know, Mummyji, but we just can’t make it. Not tonight. Not after what Max, Zol, and Travis went through today. Zol and the boys need to veg quietly at home.”

  “Never mind them. You’re still a single woman. You come. You have to eat sometime.”

  Her mother had a point. The three guys would be fine on their own. And more comfortable at home. It would have been a tense meal with her parents. She pictured her father desperately engaging in small talk to draw attention from the disapproving looks clouding her mother’s face. The only time Mummyji had met Travis, she hadn’t been charitable in her opinion of his mutism. Still, Travis would have joined them. With his mother away on a three-month Canadian Forces training course on preventing suicide amongst its ranks, he was staying with Zol and Max. The arrangement felt completely natural. Even when the Reverend Colonel Andersen was at home, the boys were almost inseparable.

  “Okay, Mummyji, give me a couple more hours.”

  “Everything will be cold by then,” said the woman who was never satisfied, no matter how much you gave in to her.

  Natasha wanted to remind her that murgh dopiaza, dum gobi, and cho chori heated up beautifully in the microwave. But there was no point in wasting her breath. Mummyji was adamant that proper Indian cooking could only be accomplished over a gas flame using traditional pots and utensils. It wasn’t that Mummyji was afraid of the microwave. She used it to heat up Dad’s mac & cheese and Scottish oatmeal.

  Natasha returned her cellphone to her purse and walked through the wide, automatic doorway into Petz Haven. She’d never been in one of these pet megastores before and was amazed at its size — larger than her favourite supermarket and much brighter. There were four such outlets in Greater Hamilton. Companion
animals were obviously as big a business as children. Or bigger. Mrs. Simon said they purchased their fish, starfish, and supplies exclusively at Petz Haven. The owner grew up in the Beasley neighbourhood and gave the school a generous discount. A phone call to the branch on Upper Wentworth Street revealed that only one of their stores sold fish and aquariums. It was this one, on Queenston Road.

  After a long search of the aisles for an employee who might help her, Natasha found a tired-looking woman with salt-and-pepper hair tied in a ponytail. Her navy apron showed the store’s logo in letters too large to miss. She was hefting jumbo bags of dog food from a cart onto a display.

  At Natasha’s approach, the woman wiped her large hands on her apron. “Can I help?”

  “I’m looking for the store manager.”

  The woman chuckled without smiling and wiped the sweat off her forehead with the back of her hand. “At this time on a Friday night, that would be me. The only one here over eighteen.” The name badge pinned to her apron said Terry.

  “I’m wondering about your starfish.”

  “You wanna buy one?”

  “Not exactly.”

  Terry looked like she’d heard that response many times before and pointed to the rear of the store. “The fish and sea creatures are in aisle thirty-two.” She patted the walkie-talkie clipped to her apron. “You got questions, get one of the girls at the cash to call me.”

  “I’d prefer we looked at the starfish together.”

  Terry pushed a stray strand of dull hair off her face and gestured to the almost-full cart. “I’m kind of busy here. You wanna watch the sea life in our aquariums, help yourself. We’re open till nine. But I tell you, starfish are kind of boring. Don’t move much.”

  Natasha pulled one of her health-unit business cards from her purse. It listed her title as Field Epidemiologist. No one ever knew what that meant, but the Hamilton-Lakeshore Public Health Unit logo was usually impressive enough.

  The woman glanced at the card then pulled her glasses from her apron and read it more carefully. “From the Health Unit, eh? Somebody do something wrong? With the starfish?” She took a step back and held up a hand. “Look, I’m here only part-time. Evenings and weekends.”

  “No one’s done anything wrong. I’m not here as an inspector. I just have a few questions about the starfish.” Natasha never used the words epidemic or quarantine when she was looking for information; they put people off by making them think of the bubonic plague. And she was afraid if she mentioned polio, Terry would be scared into silence, no matter how world-weary she seemed. Natasha used the stock phrase that rarely alarmed and usually opened doors: “We’re working on a small project at the Health Unit.”

  “A project on starfish at . . .” The woman checked her watch then looked Natasha up and down. “At seven o’clock on a Friday night?” Her voice sounded skeptical, but her eyes showed she was intrigued. “Okay. Let’s have a look at them.” She gestured at the heavily laden shelves surrounding them like the loot in Aladdin’s cave. “There’s more than enough dog chow on display in this place, anyways.”

  Terry parked her cart at the end of an aisle and the two of them walked to the rear of the store. Against the back wall, dozens of brightly lit aquariums were bubbling away. From a distance, the wall was a mass of small, colourful fish, some swimming, some darting, some resting.

  Terry stopped in front of one aquarium that was much larger than the others. Natasha recognized a sea anemone and its clownfish, and thought of Hamish. “This one is seawater, isn’t it.”

  “Yep. Most of the smaller tanks, though, are freshwater. Your guppies, your tetras, your mollies. A few freshwater snails.”

  Inside the tank, Natasha could only see two starfish, both bright orange. One seemed to be prying a live clam open with its long arms and tiny suckers. “You have only these two starfish in stock?”

  “We introduce newcomers into this tank one at a time,” Terry said. “Everything has to be kept in balance. It’s our show aquarium, and it took us a long time to get it perfect.” She beckoned to Natasha to follow her. “Starfish are more aggressive than you’d think. They’re carnivores.”

  At the end of the line of aquariums was another large tank. It was bubbling like the others but was dimly lit. Nothing appeared to be moving inside it.

  “We keep the new starfish in here.”

  Natasha pressed closer to the glass. When her eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, she could see orange starfish throughout the inside of the tank. Many were stuck to the glass walls, revealing their white bellies and tiny feet, or whatever the undersides of starfish were called.

  “Did these arrive together?”

  “Same batch. We take delivery every few months. Takes a while to sell them all. As I said, people don’t find them exciting.” A glint of humour flashed in her eyes. “Though if you were a live seashell, you’d be terrified.”

  Natasha tried to smile, but her shoulders shuddered. “When did you get these?”

  Terry shrugged and looked into the distance. “Exactly?” She shook her head. “Can’t remember.”

  “Can you find out?”

  “Maybe Monday, when the back office opens. I don’t have the key, and Mr. Petz is away this weekend. Las Vegas. He loves his baccarat.”

  “This is kind of important,” Natasha told her, trying not to sound desperate. “Are you sure you can’t remember?”

  “Well,” Terry said, twisting her ponytail and gazing upwards again. “It was the Monday or Tuesday of . . . of a long weekend. Yes, that’s right. They were shipped on a Tuesday and supposed to arrive on a Saturday at the latest. But they got delayed in transit because of the holiday. The boss, Mr. Petz, was furious. He was sure every one of them would be dead by the time they got here.”

  Natasha took out her phone and studied the calendar app. “The last stat holiday was . . . Easter. Good Friday. Does that sound —”

  “That’s it,” said Terry. “It was Easter weekend. I worked that Saturday when the boss was having his hissy fit. But I had the Sunday off, for a change. The grandkids came over and smeared chocolate bunnies all over my good sofa.”

  Natasha checked the calendar again. If Terry’s memory was correct, these starfish arrived four and a half weeks ago. Mrs. Simon said the new starfish had been at her school for about a month. The timing worked.

  “Do you know where this batch came from?”

  “Mexico. Cabo San Lucas. I know that for sure. Mr. Petz made umpteen calls to some office there, trying to locate the shipment.” Terry laughed. “His Spanish is nonexistent and Easter is a big deal in Mexico. He couldn’t get hold of anyone in charge. No one knew anything.” She laughed again and wiped a tear from her cheek.

  With Terry now in a good mood at her boss’s expense, it was time to break it to her: the starfish had to be quarantined immediately. They needed to be taken to a back room and left strictly undisturbed. Natasha would put on her Tyvek suit, mask, and gloves and retrieve four or five starfish from the tank. She had a small container in her car that met the standards for shipping hazardous materials. She’d already phoned the Winnipeg lab and convinced them to bring someone in on the weekend to test the starfish for parvovirus. They’d thought she was crazy until she reminded them of the time she’d convinced them to follow her hunch about orf virus, milking goats at a petting zoo, and a kindergarten full of kids with a nasty rash.

  She’d have to get the starfish to Winnipeg by overnight courier. The timing was tight but doable. The courier’s eastern hub was close by, at Hamilton Airport. If she worked fast and drove the starfish to YHM herself, she’d just make tonight’s nine o’clock deadline.

  But before she had a chance to pull the heavy and order the starfish into quarantine, Terry’s smile morphed into a suspicious frown. “Are these guys making people sick?”

  Natasha didn’t know what to say. The truth was,
she had no idea. Weird things happened in the medical field. And in her profession, you had to follow every lead until you came across the unexpected nugget that solved the case. But a polio outbreak arising from starfish imported from Mexico sounded truly far-fetched. One for the books. But stranger things had happened. She, Zol, and Hamish had once cracked a case of high school students poisoned by herbal chewing gum imported online from China.

  Terry looked Natasha straight in the eye. “You don’t need to answer. It’s written on your face.” She pulled a pen from her apron pocket and clicked it nervously. “There’s a girl who comes after school and cleans the tanks. I sent her home today. I called her an Uber as soon as she got here. She looked awful — flushed and feverish, complained of a terrible headache, and the back of her neck seemed to be bothering her. She kept on rubbing it.”

  Natasha felt sick. Terry had just described polio’s early symptoms so vividly that it was as if she’d memorized the textbook. “Did she clean the starfish tank?” Natasha asked her.

  “Of course. She does all the tanks.”

  “Can you give me her name and address?”

  “I know only her first name. Jamila. She goes to Sir John A. Macdonald High School. Nice girl. Polite. Speaks with an accent. Gorgeous long eyelashes and covers her hair with that scarf thing.”

  “A hijab?”

  “Is that what you call it? Goes with her religion, she told me.”

  “What about her last name? And her phone or address?”

  Terry shook her head. “No idea. And, as I said, the office is locked until Monday.”

  “I need to speak to her this evening. Might the girls at the cash know her name?”

  “You’ve got to be kidding. Those dimwits barely know how to spell their own names.”