The Many Daughters of Afong Moy, page 31
With her hand aching, Dorothy immediately regretted coming here. She didn’t have an appointment until well after the storm, but she was desperate and didn’t know where else to go for help. She’d turned her phone off for fear of being tracked by the GPS. Then used an old phone card and left a series of messages for Dr. Shedhorn that she was now embarrassed by, as each one was a bit more frantic than the last. She came to the office hoping that someone would be here, prepping for the storm, moving things, or at least that there might be an IN CASE OF AN EMERGENCY sign with an after-hours number she could call, less frantically.
Dorothy rested her forehead against the door’s cold metal, admitting to herself that in addition to wanting to help Annabel, she came here looking for someone, for the familiar strangers whom she saw during her treatments, the people who kept appearing as residual memories, the neurological ghosts who haunted her, spoke to her. Danced with her. She came here because she missed them and she didn’t know where else to turn.
She kicked the door one last time, then jumped when she heard it unlock from the inside. She stepped back as it opened, feeling as hopeful as she felt ashamed when she saw Dr. Shedhorn. Her hair was down, almost to her waist, and she wore a cable-knit sweater instead of her usual lab coat.
“Please, come in. I was expecting you,” Dr. Shedhorn said.
“You were?” Dorothy hesitated, then stepped inside as the doctor closed the door behind her and locked it. “I didn’t think anyone got my messages, I’m…” Dorothy felt a wave of anger. Louis and his mother—one of them must have called, maybe both—they could be on their way. Or they might even be here, waiting.
She turned to leave.
“It’s okay.” Dr. Shedhorn touched Dorothy’s arm. “You’re safe. It’s just us. We’re alone. You have my complete and undivided attention. I’m here for you.”
The doctor led Dorothy to a couch and asked her to sit down, which she did, though she kept her raincoat on. The doctor pulled up a chair next to her.
“I did get your messages,” Dr. Shedhorn said. “And your partner, Louis, called.”
Dorothy went to stand up.
“It’s okay, Dorothy. Please, try to relax. Breathe,” Dr. Shedhorn said gently. “I told him that I don’t treat couples, and when there’s an outside partner, my obligation, my confidentiality, my priority, is with my patient. He doesn’t know you’re here.”
Dorothy covered her face with her hands. Louis’s mother wants custody of Annabel and they both think I’m losing my mind. “What if he tries to take my daughter?” Dorothy asked, looking up. “What if he subpoenas my records here as part of a custody fight? Uses them to try to prove that I’m unstable, that I’m an unfit parent?”
“If anyone wants to look at your records, then they can get in line, because we’ll be in Tribal Court. Even if he manages to get a county judge involved, I would go to jail for contempt before I ever surrendered my patients’ records. Okay?”
Dorothy relaxed enough to take a deep breath.
“Before we talk about you, is your daughter safe?”
Dorothy explained that Annabel was with friends, she was safe, well away from the flood zone. Dorothy also shared that the memories from her treatments were becoming more dramatic, more real. She wasn’t sure if she was having a psychotic break, or a therapeutic breakthrough. She felt at peace but restless, confused but liberated, happy but longing. She never felt more alive than when she was someone else. But whatever was happening, it was happening to Annabel as well. Dorothy worried that it would only get worse. What would happen if Annabel followed these memories into oncoming traffic or over the railing of a bridge? What would happen if she dissociated so much she couldn’t function in school anymore, in social settings, in life?
Is that what happened to my own mother?
“What you’re feeling is normal,” Dr. Shedhorn said. “Though I’m sure it’s quite confusing at times. There was a famous mathematician named Norbert Wiener, the founder of cybernetics. He used to say that ‘We are not stuff that abides, but patterns that perpetuate themselves.’ That’s what people are and that’s what epigenetics is all about. That’s what I’m trying to do here. Recognize a pattern of behavior, of repeated cycles of trauma and loss, and then rewrite the script by reconciling those memories that are floating around your limbic system. Your condition, however, is the most acute I’ve ever seen. In retrospect, this might be a situation where we’d only continue your treatments on an inpatient basis, over several weeks or even months.”
“And my daughter?” Dorothy was too ashamed to share what had happened on the ferry. But too concerned—too scared—to ignore that horrible moment.
“Believe it or not,” Dr. Shedhorn said as she rubbed her chin, “children usually outgrow this behavior. They forget. They give up their imaginary friends. Their stories are relegated to childhood fictions as their minds become occupied with making memories, not remembering them. The present becomes more interesting than echoes of an epigenetic past, though these things typically manifest in other ways later in life. But she’s not the only reason why you’re here now, is it?”
Dorothy closed her eyes. She listened to the sound of the rain and then looked around as though waking from a dream. “I haven’t been able to sleep. I can’t eat. I’m getting lost in memories. Every part of me wants to keep going, my treatments…”
“And I wholeheartedly agree,” Dr. Shedhorn said. “But there’s a typhoon bearing down on the city as we speak. I’m sure you can understand how it would be wildly irresponsible to resume your treatment right now, under these conditions, even if we were staffed up, which we aren’t, even if I could, which I can’t. There’s just no way I can safely put you under while people are literally evacuating the lower-lying areas. We could lose power midstream. If things get really bad, we could be hit with a storm surge, any number of things. I have a solar-powered backup system, but honestly, it wasn’t designed for catastrophic weather. I don’t have any data on what would happen if the batteries failed before your session was complete, before I could bring you out gently, safely. I can’t imagine it would be a pleasant experience.”
“Please,” Dorothy pleaded. “I need to finish what we’ve started.”
Dr. Shedhorn shook her head as she took Dorothy’s hands. “There’s something you need to know. Even if I could treat you right now, even if the weather was all blue skies and rainbows, I can’t. Or at least I shouldn’t. Because your partner, Louis, sent over a court order halting your medical care, pending an investigation and an audit. How he got it done so quickly, I’ll never know, but he must have a very good lawyer.”
Louise. Dorothy angered.
“Can’t you do anything? We’re not even married.”
“I’m afraid I can’t risk it. While that court order is most likely meaningless and it’s laughable that he’s trying to stop you from receiving private medical care because that’s entirely your business, if something were to go wrong while you were in my care, especially if I were to be reckless and treat you on a night like this.” Dr. Shedhorn inhaled through clenched teeth. “Dorothy, as you know, the work I’m doing is still in the early, experimental, data-gathering stages. Becoming part of a drawn-out legal battle would slow down the progress I’m making with my other patients. And that’s not even factoring in the bad PR, or the scrutiny that might follow. I fly under the radar on purpose so I can be free to help people. I have agency here and I have to protect that.”
Dorothy pulled her hands away.
“But what I can do is this,” Dr. Shedhorn said as she walked to her office and returned with a plastic prescription bottle. “These are very low doses of the light-reactive protein and neurostimulant that we use during treatment. It’s an analog of what we give you intravenously. This is not a substitute by any means, okay? But it should keep your progress from backsliding. The neurons in your brain will be mildly stimulated, but relaxed, and without optic stimulation to fire latent engrams you shouldn’t be troubled by new memories. It won’t be anything like a real treatment. This is just a stopgap, a placeholder if you will. Think of it as tapering off a mood stabilizer by taking a smaller dose. Take these once a day, twice if things get worse. They’ll keep you from losing the progress we’ve made, and it should flatten any residual mnemonic atavisms.”
Dorothy regarded the pills, then the doctor. “I have no idea what you just said.”
Dr. Shedhorn smiled. “Let’s just say it’ll keep the loose ends from fraying until we can weave them back together in a full session, okay?”
Dorothy was disappointed but nodded out of politeness.
The bottle might as well have been filled with placebos, sugar pills, wishes and kisses goodbye. The bottle looked weak and insubstantial compared to the advanced technology used in an actual session, wired in, monitored, connected to an IV, beneath an array of optics, under the doctor’s direct care. The small capsules were like finger-sized Band-Aids for her gaping chest wound.
“Thank you,” Dorothy said, even though inside she felt like screaming. Even with the weight of her disappointment she was grateful for all that Dr. Shedhorn had done for her. She hoped the doctor’s research would continue after the typhoon, unabated. She hoped she’d be able to return to Epigenesis, to resume her treatments, with or without the legal challenges of Louis and his mother. But a part of her knew that idea was folly. The treatments gave her strength of will, clarity, but in that clarity Dorothy understood that hope was less easy to sustain. Louise would fight for Annabel. She’d use Greta, the tumultuous childhood Dorothy endured, her lack of employment, and the treatments, which were so far removed from traditional medicine—she’d turn those things into weapons—she’d use Dorothy’s own history against her, and in all likelihood, Louise would win. That’s when Dorothy heard the drumbeat of the rain on the roof turn into waves of hammering as a squall had reached the city.
She didn’t blink. For once she felt at peace, at home in the storm.
Sometimes bad weather is a good thing, Dorothy thought. It tears down what’s weak and forces you to rebuild something stronger, with a lasting permanence.
She stood and went to shake the doctor’s hand.
Dr. Shedhorn gave her a hug instead. She smelled like wool and wildflowers. “It’s going to be okay, Dorothy. Now go take care of your daughter.”
* * *
Outside, Dorothy stood clutching the pills in her coat pocket as gusts of wind shredded umbrellas and tipped over garbage cans. Their contents of recycled coffee cups and fast-food wrappers swirled like angry bees from a smashed hive. Street signs and billboards wobbled. She hung on to the plastic bottle as if it were a steel railing atop the rim of a bottomless canyon and she was staring down into the void. She twitched, wanting to take the meds now, even if their efficacy was only palliative.
Dorothy walked to the nearest subway station and heard sirens wailing in the distance, cars honking impatiently in the bumper-to-bumper traffic as people fled for higher ground. Amid the chaos, Dorothy didn’t just wish for shelter, she wished for a quiet place where she could be alone. Free from worry or distraction or the possibility of interruption. A place where she could collect her scattered thoughts, gather her kaleidoscope of memories, and take the prescribed medicine without the risk of burdening those around her, or being completely vulnerable. She couldn’t go home, that was certain. She didn’t have an office anymore. While Graham and Clarke were dear to her, she felt guilty asking for more hospitality than she’d already been given, and if she lost her mind completely like her mother, Dorothy preferred to do so without company and definitely not in the presence of Annabel. She walked, holding the hood of her raincoat in place, weighing the possibility of going to a shelter for the night, or a hotel if one was available, or simply taking a train as far away as she could go. But she knew the trains would stop running soon and the power, in all likelihood, would fail. Being stranded somewhere underground, in the darkness—surrounded by strangers with only her thoughts and echoes to keep her company—seemed like a recipe for madness.
As the sirens faded and the congested streets slowly began to move, she saw an old military vehicle slosh by. Not a typical Humvee used by riot police or the National Guard, but an old, noisy, open-top jeep, the type urban hipsters restored, like vintage Volkswagen Beetles or old Ford Broncos. Dorothy thought the jeep looked like a set piece from an old war movie, an olive drab relic of another time, another place, another generation. In the rear of the jeep, a Chinese woman in a nurse’s uniform stared back as though she recognized Dorothy. The woman brushed her rain-soaked hair aside and smiled gently, waving as the jeep disappeared.
* * *
On board the last subway train, Dorothy stood elbow to elbow in a packed car that smelled of brake dust and wet denim. Everyone smiling in quiet relief with each mile.
“Zhe shi jinji qingkuang,” a woman’s recorded voice chimed through the speakers. Her tone was calm, pleasant, as though she were saying, This is an emergency, the way someone might say, Thank you and have a nice day.
The voice switched from Mandarin to English and the woman said, “The storm is expected to make landfall in twenty-four hours. If you are not already leaving the flood zone, please be advised that the following bridges are closed…” Dorothy’s thoughts turned back to her daughter. Annabel was safe. She was with people she trusted. She’d be okay. As the subway rattled its way around a corner, Dorothy remembered the woman she’d seen earlier, who implored her to protect Annabel. The only way I can do that, Dorothy reasoned, is to finish this. To clear the slate once and for all. That’s when Dorothy felt something else in her pocket. She let go of the meds and touched something smooth and metallic. She pulled out the wafer-thin, gold-colored medallion with the likeness of the Buddha. The figure smiled serenely in a commercial, mass-produced way. She’d been given the trinket weeks ago by panhandlers in saffron robes. She should have tossed it, but as the train pulled into King Street Station, she was now grateful for the gift.
As passengers disembarked, Dorothy zipped up her coat and followed them off the train, through the crowded subway terminal that was teeming with Red Cross volunteers helping people evacuate. Dorothy walked outside into the heart of the International District, where despite the torrent of rain, she felt at ease. Not just because she was Chinese, but because the district had been perpetually left behind in the wake of Seattle’s economic booms, and facial-recognition cameras were scarce. The few that had been installed years ago were often damaged or vandalized and rarely repaired. This was the one part of the city where Dorothy felt unjudged, free to be herself. Though the lack of street cameras also meant that whenever there was a rally downtown, the city would use barricades to funnel angry protesters away from banking centers, elegant restaurants, and retail finery, unleashing them in a neighborhood mainly populated with migrants and the elderly who subsisted on fixed incomes.
Dorothy wiped the rain from her eyes and looked to the west, where she saw rows of illuminated roadblocks that kept stubborn or foolhardy people from traveling back into dangerous areas near the waterfront. But to the east, directly uphill, there were flashing lights, red and blue, as police were helping load homeless people onto the city’s light rail system, presumably bound for destinations away from the flood zones. Dorothy hastened in that direction, five, six, seven blocks, past the departing railcars and an officer who called out to her. She couldn’t make out what he was saying above the thrum of the rain, the howling wind. She pretended not to hear and kept going, her heart racing, afraid Louise had already put out an Amber Alert for her and Annabel, though with fading cell service that possibility was diminishing by the minute.
Dorothy kept going, to the one place she suspected would be relatively unaffected if the power went out. A place of refuge that she had visited a few times as a homeless teen. Someplace she’d turned to when she needed to get warm, to sober up or come down. She felt a comforting familiarity as she reached the ornate wooden doors of the Gotami Buddhist Temple. She glanced up at the sky that had turned black, then she tossed the medallion into a garbage bin and walked inside.
* * *
Dorothy stood in the foyer and inhaled the familiar, woody aroma of incense powder along with the pleasant fragrance of fresh gardenias and drying citrus. The sweet scents tried in vain to mask the musty odors of soiled clothing, well-worn shoes, and unwashed hair. To Dorothy, the pleasant scents mixed with the aromas of poverty, addiction, loneliness, and desperation were like an olfactory déjà vu as she remembered coming here in her youth, often after having lived outdoors for days—sometimes weeks—at a time. She quietly cringed as she recalled the polite, sympathetic smiles of other temple-goers, grown-ups and monks, who noticed her dull affect, the sadness in her eyes. They always offered kindness and generosity of spirit as they pretended not to notice her obvious lack of supervision and hygiene.
Now as an adult, Dorothy couldn’t help but feel compassion and kinship for the handful of people bedding down in corners and along one side of a grand hallway, stretching out on cushioned mats with their meager belongings as a young female monastic in an amber robe passed out woolen blankets.
An old woman, a bhikkhuni, with an identical sash, her head shaved to gray stubble, carrying an armload of white candles, noticed Dorothy. “Please, come in,” she said. “I’m afraid the last bus of evacuees from the tent city in Wisteria Park just left, but you’re welcome to spend the night here. We’re above the flood zone and should be able to ride out the worst of the storm.” As if to reinforce her point, thunder boomed overhead and the ceiling joists of the old brick building creaked and groaned defiantly in the wind.
Dorothy looked around. This is where I’m meant to be.
She was about to thank the old woman when the power went out.
