The Valeditztorian

by Alli Curran

  One afternoon, when I was about eight months pregnant, Pam took me out to Friendly’s for dinner. Halfway through my unhealthy dinner of deep-fried chicken and French fries, she snapped my picture with a Kodak Instant Camera.

  “Oh, my goodness, kid,” she said, “This is the funniest picture. Here you are, shoving food into your mouth, with your enormously fat belly sticking out of your pants.”

  “Gee, that’s hysterical,” I said.

  “Want to see it?” she asked.

  “I guess so.”

  Pam handed me the picture.

  “Wow. You’re right,” I said. “This is a funny picture. My stomach looks bigger than a beach ball.”

  “Don’t feel badly about it, though,” said Pam. “At this point in the pregnancy, you’re supposed to look humungous. Say…would you mind if I mailed this picture to your mom?”

  “No…but why do want to send it to her?”

  “I just want her to see how you look. Your appearance has changed so much over the past few months.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  A few days after Pam sent the photograph, my mother called me; this was the first time we’d spoken since I left home.

  “Hello, Emma,” she said when I answered the phone. “How are you?”

  “Fine. How are you?”

  “I’m alright,” she said.

  “What’s going on?” I asked, curious about the reason for her call.

  “Emma,” she said, getting to the point, “I wanted to let you know that I’ve been doing some thinking, and I’ve decided that I’d like to take care of the baby, at least until you finish school.”

  “But Mom, I don’t want to….”

  “I’ll take a leave of absence from work, or maybe hire a nanny to watch the baby during the day.”

  “I’m sorry, Mom,” I answered. “I’m not ready to become a mother.”

  “Emma, you’re making the wrong….”

  “But it’s my decision to make, not yours.”

  For a while we argued, and eventually she hung up on me.

  Thereafter she called a few more times, repeating her offer with slight variations, almost to the point of begging. Yet no matter what she said, I couldn’t envision raising a child in this manner—allowing my mother to take charge, while I visited intermittently, on weekends and during vacations. If I was going to be a parent, I wanted to do it the old-fashioned way—fulltime and in person. This simply wasn’t the right time for me to enter the world of motherhood.

  A few days before my due date, when my belly was so swollen I could barely breathe, she scolded me over the phone.

  “Emma,” she said, “you’re behaving like a blockheaded idiot. Just wait. You’re going to regret giving up this child.”

  Naturally I ignored her.

  One week later, following a relatively easy delivery, I gave birth to a six-pound nine-ounce baby girl.

  “Oh, she’s so beautiful,” crooned a nurse in the delivery room.

  Though my daughter was a gorgeous infant, I didn’t change my mind about putting her up for adoption. With no regrets whatsoever, I handed her over to the nursery staff who would care for her and complete the adoption process. Blinded by the fantasy life I’d constructed for this child, I never worried about the competence of the adoptive parents.

  Nor did I tell Red about the baby. As much as I cared about him, I didn’t want to marry him, especially not at that time in our young lives. Given his recent immature behavior, I doubted his ability to competently assume the role of either husband or father.

  Postnatally, I managed to resume a somewhat normal existence. While living with my aunt, I graduated from high school with honors, subsequently completing four years at Columbia College. Red and I occasionally exchanged e-mails or phone calls, but our lives moved in very different directions. He finished college, found a great job in the computer industry, and married a nice local girl who wanted a big family right from the start. As Red began having children, I took oral contraceptives, managed to avoid getting pregnant again, and eventually started medical school. When the opportunity arose to travel to Brazil and simultaneously straighten out my head, I jumped at the chance.

  In all those years after giving birth, I never once considered the possibility that my child might end up unhappy. The idea that she could be neglected or mistreated, even unintentionally, simply didn’t occur to me. Thus deluded, I initially failed to recognize Aimee for who she was—my emotionally disturbed daughter. Nearly 10 years later, the moment I recognized Aimee, my mother’s warning finally rang true.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Little Pitchers

  “I promised your mom I’d bring you straight home after we finished with the computer,” I say.

  Aimee kicks the floor with her foot, a gesture she seems to use frequently when frustrated.

  “But we need to get the medicine now,” she says.

  “Aimee,” I say, grasping her shoulders, making direct eye contact, “you need to trust me. I’m going to do everything I can to help your father, as quickly as possible.”

  She nods, still looking doubtful.

  “Good. Now, I don’t want your mother to worry. Since I promised to take you home, that’s where you’re going.”

  Aimee pouts unhappily.

  “Oh, alright,” she says. “I just hate waiting around. No one ever tells me what’s going on.”

  “Would it help if I promised to call periodically, to let you know what’s happening?”

  “Okay,” she says begrudgingly.

  As we begin walking toward the door, my feet suddenly freeze. Then she tugs my arm.

  “Emma, come on,” says Aimee. “Why are you just standing there?”

  “Umm, can I ask you a question that’s going to sound strange?”

  “I guess so.”

  “During our first tutoring session, when you were walking around at home with bare feet, I noticed something interesting about your toes.”

  This is the first time I’ve lied to her, and I hope it will be the last.

  Aimee smiles.

  “Oh, yeah. My toes are really strange. My mom is always saying that I must’ve been a mermaid in another life.”

  “How come?”

  “You know, because the second and third toes on both of my feet are stuck together. You saw them, right? They’re webbed, like a mermaid’s tail.”

  “Mermaid, huh?”

  “Do you want to see them again?” she asks.

  “No thanks,” I say. “They might be stinky from running around all day.”

  Aimee giggles a bit.

  “Also, I remember how they look.”

  Only not from our tutoring encounter last week, but from the one and only time I was brave enough to hold her—for a few seconds in the delivery room.

  “Let’s get you home now,” I say.

  After dropping Aimee off with Maria, I head straight to Memorial. As luck would have it, Joan Riley is busy zooming around her lab.

  This time I give her some warning.

  “Hi, Joan,” I say loudly, but not too loudly, as I enter.

  “Emma!”

  She spins around, but thankfully doesn’t lose her balance.

  “Nice to see you again. Oh, my. What happened to your hair?”

  “Oh, I totally forgot about that. This morning I had a little problem with some dye. No big deal. How are you?”

  “Fine, thanks. What brings you here on a Saturday afternoon?”

  Joan smiles and crosses her arms politely, with just a touch of impatience, waiting for my reply. She looks like a busy woman with a whole a lot more work to do. Since this is no time to be shy, the words start tumbling out.

  “Well, it’s a bit urgent, actually. There’s a patient on the fifth floor, room 509, who’s very sick…dying, probably. He’s got metastatic melanoma, but not just any melanoma. I think he’s got the Mts mutation, the one I worked on in Brazil.”

  Joan raises her eyebrows. She�
�s probably wondering where I came across this information, and I’m hoping she won’t ask for any detailed explanations.

  “I was wondering whether you might have enough medicine to treat him. I know you received a bunch of vials from Alvin, but I’m not sure whether you have enough for an adult. I don’t even know if administering GrR to a person is allowed at this point. By the way, I’m related to the family, so I’m really hoping you can help them.”

  “I’m glad you brought this to my attention, Emma,” says Joan. “You’ll be interested to know that a couple days after you delivered the fungal samples, I convinced one of my pharmaceutical colleagues to begin purifying GrR. Yesterday I received a highly concentrated form of the drug, possibly enough to treat a grown man. Would you like to see it?”

  The look on her face is pure excitement.

  “Sure.”

  Joan zips over to one of the small refrigerators and removes a 10 cc syringe.

  “Voila,” she says, holding it up for my perusal.

  The fluid in the syringe is purple, similar in shade to my hair.

  “Whoa. Why is it purple?” I say. “Alvin’s solution was clear.”

  “To avoid confusing the more concentrated drug with the original, we’ve added a dye. Emma, the drug in this syringe is one hundred times more potent than the original sample. Given the amount needed to treat your average mouse, we might have enough here for a human. Until we test it, though, we can’t be sure.”

  “Can we try it on the patient upstairs, then?”

  The tone of my voice is a bit too high pitched. I’m trying, and failing, not to get as excited and impatient as Aimee.

  “No,” Joan answers, “at least not yet. As you probably know, getting a new drug approved by the hospital isn’t a simple process. First we need to complete an IRB proposal. I actually started working on one last week, but I’ll need a few more days to finish it. Then we’ve got to run the proposal through the IRB itself, and their next full committee meeting is three weeks from this coming Wednesday. Realistically speaking, the earliest we could possibly hear from them is next month.”

  “Next month?”

  I nearly kick the floor with my foot.

  “Yes.”

  “But the situation upstairs is a bit…fragile,” I say. “The patient might not last another month. Is there any way to expedite the IRB review?”

  “I could try calling an emergency meeting, but at the moment, that’s going to be tricky, since one of the IRB directors is on vacation. I’ll do what I can, but for now you’re just going to have to wait.”

  I must look unhappy, because Joan adds, “Emma, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but you need to remember that there’s a reason we have the IRB. Previously untested drugs are potentially dangerous, even lethal, and our first job as physicians is to do no harm. As frustrating as it may seem, the IRB process is immensely important for patient safety.”

  “I understand,” I say. “Will you call, or send an e-mail, when you have some news?”

  “Of course,” she says. “I’ll be sure to keep you updated.”

  “Thank you. I think I’ll go upstairs now and speak to the family.”

  As I turn to exit, a tremendous clanging noise reverberates through the hallway, as though someone has just dropped a hundred pots and pans all at once. Joan and I rush outside to investigate. Lying on the floor, rubbing his head, is a cute, young researcher wearing a white lab coat.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  “I think so,” he answers, looking bewildered.

  “What happened?” says Joan.

  “It all happened so fast, I’m not really sure,” he says. “As I was pushing my cart away from the autoclave, some kid almost ran into me. She came out of nowhere, running really fast, and I had to swerve to avoid hitting her. When the cart tipped over, I banged my head against the wall. But I’m okay. At least I think I’m okay.”

  While Joan helps the poor guy to his feet, I right the cart and begin loading the fallen beakers and flasks. Mistrusting my ability to handle pieces of broken glass, I purposefully grab only intact objects.

  “What did the kid look like?” I ask, hoping that I’m wrong about what I’ve just been thinking.

  “Hair in braids…pointy ears. She moved so fast, she looked just like a leprechaun. Gee,” he shakes his head, “maybe I did hit my head too hard.”

  Joan glances curiously at me for a moment.

  “Do you know any kids who fit that description?” she asks.

  I shrug my shoulders, finding myself at a complete loss for words.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Like Mother, Like Daughter

  Rather than heading straight upstairs, I peek into the stairwell, but there’s no sign of Aimee. Next I make a side trip to the hospital cafeteria to revive my brain, which is feeling sluggish and nonfunctional. Normally I avoid caffeine, but this is an emergency.

  While downing a carbonated, highly caffeinated, mentally electrifying beverage and some fortifying chicken soup, I try, with difficulty, to process everything that has occurred over the past few hours. As my neurons still aren’t cooperating, I pull out a cafeteria napkin and record the following:

  Aimee:

  -my biological daughter!

  -smart…mentally unhealthy

  -followed me?!

  -overheard my conversation?

  -exact location unknown

  GrR:

  -unavailable for one month

  -only tx for Aimee’s dad

  -possibly deadly

  -illegal to steal/use…will steal/use anyway

  My mother was right. I am a blockheaded idiot. Yet before committing larceny and possibly murder, I need to discuss the situation with Mr. and Mrs. Santos.

  Soon afterward I enter room 509, where Roberto is snoring softly in bed, and Aimee’s mother is seated on the couch, reading the New York Times. The tiny room, well lit for evening, feels surprisingly calm…domestic even.

  When I clear my throat, Mrs. Santos puts down the paper.

  “Hi, there,” I say.

  “Oh, hello Emma. How’d things go with the computer?”

  “Great, actually. I still can’t believe it, but I think your husband has the same type of melanoma that I studied in Brazil.”

  “So there’s a chance your drug will work?”

  “Yes, but getting the drug approved is going to be complicated. A whole IRB process needs to be completed first, and that’s going to take some time. Before we even discuss that, though, we need to talk about Aimee.”

  “Oh?” she looks at me quizzically.

  “About an hour ago, I dropped her off at your apartment. When I came back to Memorial to speak to the oncology researcher who’s studying the new medication, I think Aimee followed me.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Well, just as I was leaving the lab, a technician nearly crashed into a little girl in the hallway. There was a big commotion and a lot of broken glass. Though I didn’t see her, the tech’s description of the girl sounded just like Aimee. I think she was eavesdropping on my conversation with the researcher and didn’t want to get caught.”

  “I’m sure that was her,” says Mrs. Santos. “Do you know where she is?”

  “No idea,” I say. “I stopped by the cafeteria before coming upstairs. I was hoping she’d be up here by now, with you.”

  In a gesture that reminds me of my mother, Mrs. Santos places her fingertips over her temples and closes her eyes.

  “That child is going to drive me to distraction.”

  “Do you want me to help you look for her?” I ask.

  “Sure. That’d be great.”

  She opens her eyes.

  “I want you to know, Emma, that I really appreciate everything you’re doing for us.”

  “I’m happy to help,” I say.

  I wonder, for a moment, whether this would be a good time to discuss my true relationship with Aimee. Then I reconsider, sensing that I’m not re
ady to broach this particular topic. In fact, I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready to talk about it. Perhaps it would be better not to tell them anything at all. Currently I’m too confused to think rationally about any of this. Maybe later, when things have settled down, I’ll try speaking with Helen to get some objective advice.

  “First we need to decide where to start looking,” says Mrs. Santos.

  “Should we let security know that she’s missing?” I ask.

  “No, not yet,” she shakes her head. “Aimee has disappeared before, but she usually turns up quickly. She never stays away from her father for too long.”

  We both turn to look at Mr. Santos, who’s still sleeping in the hospital bed. His body, which is difficult to distinguish from a corpse, lies tethered to a morphine drip hanging from an IV pole. I’m glad he’s dying comfortably.

  “Aimee and her father have always been very close. They’re like two peas in a pod, inseparable whenever they’re together.”

  “So where do you think she is?” I ask.

  “I’m not sure. Part of me thinks that if we just stay here, she’ll show up before long.”

  “I think we should try the cafeteria.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “There’s a lot of junk food down there—you know, in the vending machines.”

  Mrs. Santos’s facial features soften, and she laughs a little.

  “So, you figured out that Aimee is a junk-food junkie?”

  I nod my head and shrug, trying not to give too much away.

  “The cafeteria is a good idea,” she says, “but I think we should start where you saw her last, in the lab you mentioned. Can we go there now?”

  “Sure thing.”

  Given that the lab is just one flight below us, I lead Mrs. Santos to the stairwell. Though the woman is probably in her mid-forties, she moves like someone in her twenties. Beneath the fabric of her jeans, her legs appear lean and muscular.

  “Are you a runner?” I ask. “You look like you’re in great shape.”