The Lesson

by Cadwell Turnbull

  Patrice decided that she needed to get out of the house. Get some air. It occurred to her that it had been a long time since she was in a room with enough air for her lungs. She passed by the kitchen on her way out. She grabbed her mother’s keys from the counter as she did.

  Alice was still cooking, stirring fresh vegetables in a large frying pan. It was a lot of food for just two people.

  “Are you hungry?” asked Alice.

  “No,” Patrice said. “I’m good.”

  • • •

  She stopped at her father’s apartment. He opened the door and smiled at her. It was familiar and warm, and only then did she realize she missed it.

  “Took you long enough to come see me,” he said. It was a chastising statement with no sign of animosity. Sometimes, it felt as if she could do nothing to upset him.

  “What were you doing?” she asked.

  “Work.” Patrice assumed that meant work on his book. He looked down at her belly and said, “You ’bout to blow.”

  She glared at him, but a smile quivered at the edges of her lips. She hadn’t told him about her pregnancy. Even this didn’t seem to upset him. “So no lecture? That sucks.”

  He laughed and let her in. She walked ahead of him, so she couldn’t see his face when he said what came next.

  “Lately, life’s been nothing but curveballs. I’m not about to be losing my head over the unexpected appearance of a grandchild.”

  “Okay,” Patrice said. She looked back at him to find his face completely serene. “Should have told you sooner, then.”

  “You should have,” he said, and in that was a hint of something like judgment. Then he smiled, and it was gone.

  Her father’s apartment was filled with empty beer bottles. He had always liked his beer, but this was too much. He looked healthy enough, but he had a belly, and bags under his eyes from lack of sleep. He was bulkier in the arms, which surprised Patrice. He must have been working out more to curb his anxiety. He was lying about how easily he was handling all the changes in his life. No number of push-ups could hide that.

  They sat at the dining room table. Patrice had to push some of her father’s books off the chair and onto the floor.

  “Careful,” he said. “Those aren’t mine.”

  “What?” She kicked away some of the books near her feet and grinned.

  “You think you funny, eh?” He laughed, which made Patrice feel warm. She needed this.

  “So what you been up to?” she asked. “It can’t all be work.”

  “Yes, it is,” he said. “What else is there?”

  Again she caught no sign of pain in the statement, but there had to be some there. Only people with a large hole in their lives filled it with nothing but work. But then, how did she explain the hole she felt? She didn’t even try to fill it with anything. Perhaps having a hole was the normal thing, the default state of all beings.

  “Nobody in your life?” she asked.

  “What you mean?” His smile died then, which told her he understood the question.

  “Mom’s with someone,” she added. “Shouldn’t you be moving on, too?” This was dangerous territory. They both knew that Mom had someone, but they never talked about that.

  “I’m not ready for that,” he said. “Maybe someday.”

  In her father’s eyes, Patrice could finally see what he was trying to hide—that knot of pain and bruised ego inside. She empathized with it, understood it the best she could, but she also reserved another, opposing feeling.

  “You must get attention from women all the time,” she said. “You sure you don’t want take someone up on their offer?”

  He watched her then. It was a hard stare. In it, Patrice saw a man, not her father or the man fitting himself into that role. He seemed to be turning the words around in his head, which she wanted. Anger curled his brow, which she was okay with. But then it went away, replaced with resignation.

  “You blame me for what happened with me and your mom,” he said softly.

  “I blame both of you.” Then she sighed with the same resignation. “I blame you more.”

  Her father got up and got a beer from the fridge. As he popped the cap, he started talking. He took a sip and held it out for Patrice. She made a face and shook her head, pointing at her belly.

  He laughed, but it had none of the usual luster. It was just a weak attempt at easing the mood in the room.

  Patrice didn’t say anything. She waited for him to finish his thought.

  “I love your mother. And I was faithful to her even when I didn’t want to be.” He paused to let that thought sink in.

  Patrice smiled thinly, nodding for him to continue.

  “And your mother was good to me for a very long time. She just wanted different things. I have to be honest. I was angry about that, but I’m not”—he paused to consider—“I’m trying not to be anymore.”

  “Good for you,” she said.

  “Your mother is happy. You can’t hate her for making a decision that makes her happy. And you can’t be mad at me for not fighting her.”

  “I’m not,” Patrice said, but her father was ready for her. He gave her a knowing look, tilting his head down and raising his eyebrows. You sure about that? the look said.

  Patrice swallowed the rest of her defense. She had the urge to pop his Zen bubble, tell him that the effect of the divorce on him was obvious to her, but she swallowed that urge, too.

  She put up her hands in defeat and got up.

  Her father laughed. “So you’re leaving now?”

  “I gotta be somewhere,” she said.

  “You’re escaping,” he said simply.

  Patrice didn’t take the obvious bait. She pushed in her chair, knocking around more books.

  As she was walking out, he said loudly, “Girl, one day you gon’ run yourself right off a cliff.”

  • • •

  Patrice decided to go down to Yacht Haven Grande after grabbing a sandwich from the Frenchtown Deli. She and Derrick used to go down to Yacht Haven all the time when they were dating. She would call him up, at odd hours sometimes, and sneak out of the house, and they would get in his car and drive down there. They would go to the catwalk that overlooked the yacht dock and sit down at one of the metal cocktail tables and talk or stand and hold hands and watch the yachts from a distance, their lights revealing their beautiful interiors and giving the water beneath them a ghostly glow.

  This was often when her parents were fighting all the time, and even more often when they stopped and the house was as quiet as a crypt. They wouldn’t even notice that she was gone. One day, her dad packed a bag and came into her room to say he had found an apartment to live in. He told her that he loved her and that he would be calling her, and to let him know if she needed a ride to school, or anything else.

  She asked him why, and he gave the bullshit answer you gave children when you believed they couldn’t handle hard truths. He told her they just needed to take some time apart and not to worry, that things would work out.

  “Sure,” she said, knowing that things didn’t just work out. Some things weren’t mended with distance. They atrophied further. Their fibers stretched and tore.

  Patrice assumed that it was her father who ruined the marriage. She overheard enough to know that he had gotten into his head that he needed to travel, that he wanted to work abroad for a while after she graduated from high school. She thought this was crap. She thought there was another woman and that her father was too much of a coward to say so.

  Then she noticed how often her mother stayed away from home. She would come home from track practice to find an empty house with food in the oven. It was like this for months. Then one day, she came home and Alice and her mother were having dinner and watching TV. Patrice introduced herself, and Alice greeted her with a smile. She sat and watc
hed the television show with them. Olivia Pope had finally unearthed the alien conspiracy. She stared into Fitz Grant’s eyes long enough to see the nictitating membrane. Olivia gasped, and so did her mother.

  Her mother reached for Alice’s hand, squeezing it before letting go. The move was so fleeting, Patrice wouldn’t have caught it if she hadn’t looked away from the screen at just that instant. A quick smile curled Alice’s lips and slid away. Patrice noticed how close her mother and this woman were on the couch, how comfortable and familiar it all was, as if they had done this many times before.

  Later that night, she called Derrick and they went to Yacht Haven and stared out at the yachts, and she held his hand tight against her as though she would lose it if she weren’t careful.

  This time, there were no hands but hers. She locked them together tight and watched the yachts, watched a group of women laugh their way across the dock to a yacht where two men waited. She listened to their talk but couldn’t make out much of it.

  The catwalk was parallel to the yacht dock, which was a few feet out into the harbor. The two were connected by a narrow bridge with a large locked gate at the end. You had to be a yacht owner to get access. The water between the walk and the dock was relatively calm, slapping weakly against large rocks beneath. Lights under the walk gave the water the same cloudy blue glow. Patrice liked to watch the water, liked to search for the dark silhouette of some sea creature snaking its way through the murk. Most times, she was unsuccessful. Tonight appeared to be one of those times.

  She would be having the baby soon. In two and half months, she would have another life besides her own to look after. Right now it was still under her skin, wrapped in membrane.

  She hadn’t told her mother that she had already sold most of her belongings. That she had collected a few hundred dollars from selling her stuff on Craigslist and eBay, to help cover those first few months of diapers and baby clothes. And that she had not booked a return ticket to Pittsburgh, though the fall semester was just a couple of weeks away. She wasn’t sure she’d be returning, wasn’t sure she would be able to survive up there on her own. She had to confess that she had wanted her mother to make the offer she did. She had wanted to be saved.

  From Yacht Haven, she could see the Ynaa ship. The disk sat on top of a long, thin stem, blaring dizzying white light into the night sky.

  A lot of people believed that the Ynaa would save them. Their arrival was so promising. Patrice never believed that. When she saw that thing come down, she felt only menace. And she was right. There were no saviors coming from space. Only intimidation and death. And there was no good news from heaven, either. The celestial bodies didn’t shift a minute of a degree at the thought of the humans’ plight on this spinning Earth, enduring this long occupation.

  No, she decided. She was done with saviors. If she wanted to be saved, she was going to do it herself.

  Patrice heard a splash below her. She looked down just in time to see the tail of something dark breach the surface and then disappear again. It was so quick, it could have been a trick of the eye, a phantom, a twin soul.

  A Third of the Stars of Heaven

  Henrietta followed the receptionist down the empty hall of Schneider Hospital. The woman’s keys jangled as she walked, mixing with the echoing clicks of Henrietta’s blue church shoes. No other noises greeted them.

  Henrietta watched her shadow stretch into each unlit room, her form made large by the ultrabright fluorescents of the hallway. One of the lights in the hall blinked on and off. She pinched her eyes shut to ward off dizziness. Her lower belly throbbed, and she stifled a groan.

  To calm herself, she rubbed her hands together. The action did little to ease her nerves or the pain blooming in her belly. Two weeks ago, at least five patients occupied rooms on this floor. Where had they gone?

  “Here we are,” the receptionist said when she reached a door with a printed name etched deep into gold plating, the letters thick and dark so they could not be mistaken: dr. anna caldwell.

  “All right,” Henrietta said softly. “Thank you.”

  From inside, someone said, “Come in,” and the receptionist opened the door. Dr. Caldwell was sitting behind her desk, waiting. Just then the phone down the hall rang.

  “Go ahead inside,” said the receptionist as she shuffled back to her desk, keys jangling all the way. “Busy day today.”

  Dr. Caldwell stood up behind her desk. “Please come in.”

  “Yes, well,” Henrietta started, still lingering at the door. She took another look down the empty hallway. “I’m just a little nervous.”

  “Nothing to worry about,” the doctor said.

  Dr. Caldwell had a rather large smile. Large white teeth behind obscenely red lips. Lips that red were hardly appropriate for a doctor. Henrietta stepped inside and closed the door.

  “Please sit,” said Dr. Caldwell as she took her own seat. This bothered Henrietta; surely the doctor should have sat after she did. It was only good and right to do so when you had a visitor.

  Dr. Caldwell was a stout woman. She looked to be in her forties. She had her hair pulled back in a shiny bun and wore big gold hoop earrings that looked tacky. After shaking Dr. Caldwell’s hand graciously, Henrietta sat down. She clasped her hands on her lap and stared expectantly at the young doctor.

  “It is a pleasure to have you in today, Mrs. Smith.”

  Henrietta squinted. She didn’t know how to take this. Was this going to be a pleasant conversation? Weren’t they about to discuss something quite serious? Henrietta crossed her legs. She swallowed hard. Her mouth felt terribly dry. She gave a polite smile and nodded.

  “Oh, sorry,” Dr. Caldwell said. She bent over in her chair to reach for something near the edge of her desk. Henrietta heard the sound of something slamming shut before the doctor sat back up with a Dasani bottle in hand. “Please have some water.”

  “Thank you,” Henrietta said, taking the water. “I was very thirsty.”

  “Yes, I can imagine,” said the doctor. “You must have had some difficulty doing so much walking to get up here.”

  “I took the elevator.”

  “Yes, still. At your age …” Dr. Caldwell smiled, saying nothing else.

  Henrietta stared, blinking twice. She was not in the mood for this woman. She wished she would just get on with the actual conversation.

  “The walk was fine,” Henrietta said. “Just my nerves.”

  Dr. Caldwell had a manila folder in front of her. She opened it and looked through it, turning a piece of paper every few seconds. Henrietta saw the hideous red polish on her fingernails, gleaming even brighter than her red lips, and had to resist the urge to say the Lord’s name in vain.

  “Sorry,” the doctor said, not looking up. “I’m just making sure I got this right. You took some tests last week, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Pap test, was it?”

  “Yes.” Henrietta was confused. Didn’t the receptionist say the doctor was expecting her? Wasn’t this appointment written down somewhere in her notes? She should know the details of all this already. The last time she was here, it was a different doctor who ran all the tests.

  “Excuse me,” said Henrietta. “Where’s Dr. Moses?”

  “He moved away.”

  Henrietta waited quietly for more information. Dr. Caldwell looked up and noticed the look on her face.

  “He left St. Thomas to go stateside. Seattle, I think. The hospital has been downsizing since the Ynaa arrived. Not a lot of demand for doctors.”

  Henrietta nodded.

  “Okay,” Dr. Caldwell said, closing the manila envelope. “You have cervical cancer.”

  Henrietta nodded again. She uncrossed her legs. She uncapped her bottle of Dasani water and took a sip. Of course it’s cancer.

  “Not to worry,” Dr. Caldwell said. “We can simply proceed
with treatment. We do injections here.”

  “I not taking no injections,” Henrietta said, all formality gone in an instant.

  “Or you can visit a clinic and get it in capsule form. We don’t have it here. We’re terribly sorry for the inconvenience.”

  “I not taking no capsules, either.”

  “Sorry?” Dr. Caldwell said. There was clear confusion on her face.

  Henrietta said nothing.

  “If you are concerned about the nano-synths, they don’t stay in the body long. Once treated, they die and you flush them out.”

  Dr. Caldwell’s voice was soft, too gentle, as if she were speaking to a child. Under all this, Henrietta could hear the island girl in her. She had gone off to school and gotten herself a Yankee accent. Now the doctor used it to talk down to her patients.

  “Don’t care what they do. I not going through with any procedures.” Henrietta’s St. Thomian accent was thick now, biting.

  “Ma’am, I don’t think you understand what you’re saying. We don’t have the facilities for chemotherapy. And even if we did, your cancer is rather far along. You will die if you don’t receive this treatment.”

  There she went with the “ma’am” stuff. Henrietta took a deep breath, placed the bottle of water on Dr. Caldwell’s desk, and stood up.

  Dr. Caldwell stood as well. “Ma’am?”

  “Perhaps you would have more to do in this place if you took the time to consider the individual needs of your patients.”

  “No one has ever turned down the treatment.”

  “I find that unfathomable. Who want that stuff in them?”

  “Sure, people show some discomfort. But with the threat of death—”

  “What? They compromise they integrity?”

  “Integrity? What you talking about?” There she was. The island girl no amount of schooling could get rid of. Dr. Caldwell’s eyebrows arched obscenely, her grotesque red lips hanging open in realization of something. “Is this a religious thing?”

  Henrietta turned away from the woman. “Thanks for your time. I will take the stairs back down to the main floor.”