A Sucker Born Every Minute

by Lia Kane

But doctors are only human. Fear is a very human emotion. I couldn’t blame them. Had I been in their shoes, I would have been afraid too. Everyone else in the world was.

  “Home sweet home,” Whitney said excitedly, as the house where she grew up came into view. A hand-painted sign mounted on a wooden post in the yard read ‘Welcome to the MacLynn Residence.’

  I parked and glanced at my reflection once more, smoothing my headrest-weary hair into place and blinking my eyes to chase away the dark circles. I smiled as Whitney’s mother, Sandy, stepped out onto the porch. Her face lit up with a grin as she wiped her hands across her apron.

  “Well, if it isn’t June Cleaver,” said Whitney.

  “You’re so mean,” I scolded.

  “You know what that apron means. She’s been in the kitchen all day, slaving away under the delusion that we’re still two starving college kids who live off of Ramen noodles and cheap delivery pizza. She’s going to be shoving food at us left and right.”

  I sighed. “If only I could eat it.”

  “What’s the story this time? Stomach bug? Can’t keep anything down? Or do you want to use the vegan story… you can’t eat anything made from any kind of animal-derived ingredients? That would come in really handy. Trust me, there’s nothing in my mom’s kitchen that didn’t involve a dead animal at some point.”

  I held up my hand in protest. “I don’t need a story. I’m just not hungry.”

  “Lame,” said Whitney.

  “I know. But it’s as close to the truth as I can get right now.”

  We grabbed our bags from the trunk and made our way to the front of the house. Sandy showered us with hugs and kisses before we detoured to the guest apartment – formerly Whitney’s bedroom – over the garage. As an only child, she had been the sole object of her mother and father’s affection. Once she got her acceptance letter to Tarheel State University and packed her bags to move three hours east to Raleigh, Sandy couldn’t bear the thought of an empty nest. She insisted that her husband, Bill, turn Whitney’s spacious second floor room into a studio apartment that they could use as a rental unit.

  Keeping it occupied with a tenant, she had hoped, would fill the void left by their vivacious daughter and generate some income to help them pay Whitney’s tuition bill. Sandy and Bill renovated during the first semester of our freshman year, adding a full bathroom and a small kitchen. They leased it to a 29-year old man for all of two weeks, then evicted him and his crop of potted marijuana plants after his first month’s rent check bounced.

  When Whitney came home for Thanksgiving break, she spent one night in the guest apartment and was so enchanted with her remodeled room that she claimed it for herself. She swore to her parents that she’d never forgive them if they rented it out. Lugging my overnight bag up the steps, I smiled to myself as I imagined how that conversation must have gone down. My best friend was privileged, bossy and spoiled beyond measure, but we all loved her in spite of it. And to be fair, she did have some redeeming qualities.

  One of which was the way she took care of me.

  Inside the apartment, she turned on the lights and we rested our luggage on the floor. Whitney dropped to her knees and retrieved a small pouch from her suitcase. She pulled out an alcohol swab, tore it from the foil-wrap packaging, then rubbed it across the fold of her arm. Next she reached for a sterile-packaged needle, which was connected to a coiled tube that emptied into a plastic pint bag.

  “You must be starving,” she said with sympathy. “It’s way past your regular dinnertime. I’ll draw fast.”

  “I’m fine,” I insisted. “Take your time.”

  Whitney removed the needle, uncapped it and aimed for the tiny crescent-moon shaped scar on her alcohol-swabbed skin. She slid it in with such skill, such grace, the flash of blood appeared instantly. She never even flinched. If there was any pain, she showed no sign that she could feel it. She taped the needle onto her arm and rested the bag on the floor. Gravity pulled the A-negative blood from her vein into the plastic pouch, assisted by the slow and steady squeezing of her fist. The motion worked as a gentle pump, helping the blood to flow smoothly and speed up the draw.

  I sat on the sofa and watched as the bag filled. My mouth began to salivate.

  “Done,” Whitney said a few minutes later. Methodically, she removed the needle from her arm and capped it. After placing an adhesive bandage over the tiny puncture wound, she bent her elbow and raised her arm to stop the blood flow. She disconnected the needle from the tubing and placed the bag in my lap.

  “Thanks,” I told her. “I’m tired from the trip, so I think I’m going to crash after I feed.” I looked at the two twin beds hugging the walls in an L-configuration in the far corner of the room. They were topped with dozens of throw pillows and matching girly rosette comforters. “What, no bunk beds anymore?”

  “I can have Dad put them back up tomorrow if you like,” Whitney joked. She turned toward the door. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to run downstairs and have dinner with my parents while you fuel up. Bon appétit.”

  “No problem. Tell your folks I said thanks for the hospitality, and I’m sorry I can’t join them for dinner.”

  “Got it. Are you sure you don’t need a cover story? Don’t you want to be a die-hard vegetarian? Or maybe you have a stomach bug? Hey, how about both? Reminds me of an old joke… you know what you call a vegetarian with diarrhea?”

  “What?”

  “A salad shooter.”

  “That’s disgusting.”

  “True, but we haven’t used that line before. No one’s going to probe for further explanation when they hear that!”

  I rolled my eyes. “Get out of here and go see your folks.”

  Whitney removed a hoodie sweatshirt out of her bag and wriggled into it to hide the bandage on her arm. “In case you’re asleep by the time I get back, then g’night.” She opened the door and bounded down the stairs.

  “Good night,” I called out to her. I picked up the bag of blood. Squeezing gently, I reversed the flow back through the plastic tubing. I sucked it in, filling my mouth full of the thick, coppery fluid. Then I swallowed. My stomach responded with a happy spasm. It took me less than two minutes to drain the bag. I stared down at the empty plastic pouch, wondering whether or not I should tell Agnes at my interview the next day that this was the reason why I was not afraid to consider working in an orphanage full of children infected with the VAM virus.

  I couldn’t contract a disease I already had.

  I went to the kitchen sink to rinse my mouth out with water. From the window behind the faucets, I had a direct line of sight into the dining room on the first floor. Whitney was feasting on spaghetti, garlic bread and sweet tea. She and her father were laughing as Sandy told a story, her hands flailing wildly with gestures I couldn’t interpret.

  The words from the billboards came flooding back into my mind.

  Whoever consumes blood will be cut off from the community.

  And without warning, hot, angry tears were streaking down my face. I went to bed, faced the wall and cried myself to sleep.

  Chapter Three

  WHEN I ARRIVED at the Blue Sky Hope House orphanage the following morning, I double checked the address on the printed copy of the e-mail that Agnes had sent. I had pictured it as some kind of institutional setup, like a sprawling, multi-building campus with pristine landscaping and a playground.

  What I saw before me was a one-story ranch-style home that was in desperate need of a paint job and several exterior repairs. No landscaping, no playground equipment in sight. Not even a sign on the front lawn. Just an old house.

  My knock on the door was answered by a sweet-faced elderly woman, who was thin as a rail and smelled like Ben-Gay.

  “Miss Jerrika Rand?” she said with a smile.

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “I’m Agnes Rhodes, President of the Hope House board of directors. Come in, dear. So nice to meet you in person.” She shook my hand and stood aside to let
me in. “Follow me. I want to introduce you to two other board members. We’ll talk with you about the position, then give you a tour around the house, during which you’ll meet the other staff, and some of the children.”

  “That sounds great,” I said.

  She ushered me into a small bedroom that had been put into use as a meeting space. A yard-sale quality wooden table and set of four chairs were the only furnishings. Two other ladies, equally frail and white-haired as Agnes, rose from their seats to greet me.

  “Geneva Brooks,” said the first one as she stood and limply shook my hand. “I’m Vice President of the Hope House board of directors.”

  “Janice Phelps,” said the other, standing to give my hand an even weaker squeeze than her two colleagues. “Member-at-Large.”

  “Our board of directors provides the administrative oversight for the orphanage,” said Agnes, as each of the ladies returned to their rickety old chairs. “Why don’t you tell us a little bit about yourself, Miss Rand?”

  “Alright,” I said as I settled into the empty seat. “I was born and raised here in Blue Sky. I left when I was 19 to attend Tarheel State University, where I completed my undergrad work. Then I stayed an additional three years to get my Masters of Social Work degree. Since I’ve been out of school for the past year, I’ve been taking continuing education classes while looking for employment. I’ve also been volunteering at the family crisis center in Raleigh. When Ms. Rhodes contacted me a few days ago about this position, I thought it sounded like a great opportunity for me.” I gave them my best shot at a confident smile and hoped that I wasn’t coming across as desperate.

  The three elderly ladies nodded and scratched notes onto their legal pads. I crossed my legs nervously under the table to keep my knees from knocking. I hadn’t anticipated being nervous.

  “Thank you, Miss Rand,” Geneva finally said. “What is it about this job that sounds like a great opportunity for you?”

  “I’ve always wanted to help people. That’s what motivated me to go into social work. I completed two internships while in school, and I really enjoyed the work I did with children in both placements. I think this job would give me a chance to make a difference in the lives of kids who have been born into some difficult circumstances.”

  The women nodded in unison.

  “So you understand the long-term commitment to each child,” said Janice.

  “I do,” I said. “I realize children born with the VAM disease have a very slim chance of getting adopted, which means that Hope House is likely the one and only home the children will have throughout their youth. I know that working here would mean not only providing a home for the kids throughout their childhood, but preparing them to go out into the world as VAM-Positive adults.”

  The three ladies took more notes.

  “Miss Rand,” said Agnes as she passed me a sheet of paper, “we know you’ve read the job description, but we’d like for you to read it once more and sign at the bottom, certifying that you’re fully aware of the roles, responsibilities and risks of the position, should it be offered to you.”

  “It’s just a formality of our interviewing process,” added Geneva.

  I sat up straight and made a show of reading the paper.

  EXECUTIVE DIRECTOR, BLUE SKY HOPE HOUSE ORPHANAGE

  JOB DESCRIPTION

  Position Overview: The Executive Director is a full-time permanent position at the Blue Sky Hope House, a small, privately owned orphanage for children diagnosed with Viral Anemic Malnutrition (VAM). Executive Director resides in the home and supervises daily operations of the orphanage. Manages staff, to include two full-time live-in family teachers and one part-time off-campus blood bank nurse. Coordinates medical care for children. Prepares and maintains reports on organizational performance. Maintains fiscal responsibility for organizational budget. Liaises with general public in community relations matters. Reports to board of directors.

  Executive Director must have a thorough understanding of the VAM disease process and etiology. Must be aware of the highly contagious nature of VAM and be willing to accept risk of acquiring VAM, although risk of transmission is minimal in this setting. Executive Director will indemnify and hold harmless the Blue Sky Hope House board of directors and staff, and all other affiliates and associates of Blue Sky Hope House.

  The three ladies watched as I signed the job description. When I rested the pen on the table and passed the paper back to them, smiles spread across their faces.

  “Thank you,” said Agnes as she collected the paper from me.

  “We’re curious,” began Geneva, “have you done any work specifically with the VAM population before?”

  I flinched when she said the word ‘population.’ “No,” I admitted. “But my college coursework did include a good deal of communicable diseases studies, a large part of which were devoted to VAM. I do have a solid understanding of the disease, and yes, I am aware of how it is transmitted. It’s not a concern for me.”

  Agnes, Geneva and Janice were prohibited by law from asking me pointed questions about my VAM status in the interview, but they clearly assumed I was negative. I saw no reason to correct them.

  “Anyway,” I continued, “I don’t believe that working with VAM-Positive children can be all that different from working with any other group of children. Outside of being medically fragile and having a different diet, the children are still human beings who need all the same things that any child does. They need adults in their lives who will be attentive to their needs, teach them right from wrong, be positive role models, build their confidence, and show them how to survive and thrive in this world.”

  “We couldn’t agree more,” said Agnes.

  Five minutes into the interview, there was no question in my mind that I already had the job. Their inability to contain their relief told me that one of two things had happened. Everyone they had interviewed prior to me had been frightened away by the job description, or no other candidates had applied for the job, period. People are scared as hell of VAM, and for good reason. Who in their right mind would take the risk – even a very minimal risk – of contracting a disease that would leave them chronically malnourished, fatigued, thirsting for blood, and only blood, for the rest of their lives?

  “If you don’t mind, I have some questions about Hope House,” I said, taking control of the interview.

  “Absolutely,” Geneva said. “Ask away.”

  “My first question,” I began, “is who owns and funds the orphanage?”

  “Well,” said Janice, “the orphanage receives government funding as a group home for orphaned children, and a small portion of funding comes from charitable donations. As far as the owner of the house and property, that’s an individual who wishes to remain anonymous. Even to the board of directors.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “That’s interesting. Why the anonymity?’

  “We can only speculate,” Janice shrugged. “There’s a lot of fear and misunderstanding about the VAM disease. It’s not hard to imagine why someone would want to stay out of the public eye after having been so benevolent toward VAM-infected children in our community.”

  “I see. Can you tell me about the previous executive director? Specifically, why she left this position?”

  “Her name is Kelly Holt,” Agnes told me. “A couple of weeks ago, she submitted a letter of resignation to the board, effective immediately, with no reason stated for leaving.”

  “It was very upsetting to the orphanage,” Geneva continued, posturing with righteous indignation. “She didn’t give any notice, so there was no planning for the transition. We got the letter, and that was it. The staff was highly upset by her leaving without any explanation and no goodbyes. And the children, of course, were devastated. They were very attached to Kelly.”

  Janice clamped her hand over her heart and shook her head. “We can’t have that happening to us so soon again. Whoever we hire into this position, we want to make sure that it’s someone who w
ill be willing to commit to the orphanage and stay awhile.”

  “I understand. As I said, I’m a native of Blue Sky, and I’m happy to be home again. I have no plans to go anywhere else any time soon.”

  They relaxed and smiled again. I had them eating out of the palm of my hand.

  “We’d like to take you on a tour and introduce you to the staff and the children, if you don’t mind,” said Agnes.

  “I’d like that.” I rose from my seat and followed them out of the board room. We passed through the small foyer of the home and ventured down a hallway that emptied into a large living room. The walls were painted a dark burgundy color, and curtains over the windows blocked out the sunlight. A single overhead lamp cast just enough light for me to make out the details of the room. There was a big screen television mounted on the wall, three long sofas pieced end-to-end together to form a U-shape, and a toy box in the corner with stuffed animals spilling out of it.

  The darkness and simplicity were the exact opposite of what you’d expect to find in a home for children. No loud, bright colors, no natural lighting, and minimal décor and objects for stimulating the senses. It was, however, a perfect environment for kids with VAM, as anemia often causes sensitivity to light and fatigue.

  “This is the family room,” narrated Agnes. “The kids gather here to watch television and share bedtime stories.”

  We entered the kitchen and dining area next. Two large stainless steel refrigerators hugged the wall, their motors purring softly. Signage on each of them read ‘Contains Human Blood Products.’ An industrial-size sink was mounted next to the refrigerators, and to the other side of it, a large hazardous waste disposal bin for spent blood bags.

  “Our kitchen, and our in-house blood bank,” said Janice, stating the obvious. She waved her arm toward a long dining room table in the middle of the room, lined with more than a dozen chairs. “And this is where the children are fed.”