Kindred Page 10

  I don’t know what God wants from me. I don’t know if I can serve as He desires. And I wonder if He knows that. Maybe that’s why it feels like everything is falling apart.

  X.

  WHEN I DON’T HEAR BACK from Dr. Kreger after a week, I call his office.

  A bored receptionist puts me on hold, and shortly afterward the line goes dead. I call back, and this time I’m connected to a nurse.

  “Miriam Abbot-Levy,” I say, and then give her my birthday, my Social Security number and my address.

  “Oh yes, here it is,” she says finally. “You’re all clear, sweetheart.”

  Her tone is so cheery and matter-of-fact that it takes me a second to register that this is bad news for me.

  “Wait, what does that mean?” I ask, fighting a sudden wave of panic.

  “No bacteria or parasites,” she says, as if that’s good news. I never thought I would ever wish to hear that I have worms.

  “But that’s what the doctor thought was wrong with me.” I’ve been counting on a couple weeks’ worth of antibiotics and no more diarrhea.

  “Well, it’s not,” she says, her cheerful voice hardening into annoyance.

  “So what am I supposed to do?”

  “Sweetheart, that’s something you need to talk with the doctor about.”

  I really, really hate it when strangers call me “sweetheart.”

  “Okay,” I say. For some reason, I feel like crying. “Thanks.”

  “Sure. Bye, now.” She hangs up. I call back and schedule a follow-up appointment.

  I’m at work, in the middle of scanning a two-year-old wedding announcement, studying that unique, gushy style before I write my very first, when I’m suddenly lanced with a sharp, evil pain. It spears me right through my belly and I double over. It is so intense that I’m nauseous and my face turns clammy. I force myself to rise and hobble to the bathroom. I spend the next fifteen minutes cursing softly under my breath.

  The next day I go to my appointment with Dr. Robert, the doctor Frank recommended. Back in yet another identical waiting room, I’ve already learned my lesson and bring a book to read. I can’t keep my mind on it, though. I wonder if Frank’s doctor will be any better. I try to be optimistic.

  After sitting in the too cold room for only half an hour, I’m called in by a nurse. This time, when she tells me to strip, I say I prefer to keep my clothes on.

  She pauses for a moment, hand on the doorknob, and then shrugs as if I said something a bit eccentric but harmless. “Fine,” she says. “Whatever.”

  My temper spikes at that, but at least I am not shivering and half naked.

  The doctor knocks and enters soon after. Older and nicer than Dr. Kreger, he actually looks at me when I tell him about my symptoms. It’s funny that Frank called him “a great young doc” since he’s older than my father.

  “And the stool test came back negative?” he asks after I’ve finished filling him in on what my current symptoms are, what the other doctor already covered and what he missed.

  “Yes.” I wait for him to tell me what’s wrong.

  “Then it’s probably stress,” he says.

  “What?” I’m waiting for the punch line, for that twinkle in his eye that says he’s kidding, indulging in a little medical humor before the big diagnosis.

  “You’ve had a big move, a new job—you said there was a lot going on in your life.”

  “But I’ve been under stress before,” I say, my voice rising. “I have never had anything like this happen. I have never even heard of anything like this happening to anyone.”

  “You would be amazed what stress can do to the human body,” he says, not unkindly. “I advise you to take it easy. Get enough sleep, make sure you eat right, go for walks or get other forms of mild exercise. You’re young and healthy; make sure you take care of your body, your mind, your soul, and you’ll see everything will be right as rain.” He pats my shoulder. “Any questions?”

  I rub my face hard, like I’m trying to wake up.

  “You’re saying I have had diarrhea and horrible cramps, and have lost fifteen pounds in two months, because I’m stressed?”

  “Exactly.” He tsks, shaking his head. “You young people, you rush around too much. Stop ‘texting,’ ” he says, using air quotes. “Take time to enjoy this beautiful earth that God gave you.”

  I stiffen at the mention of God. He sees that and, misunderstanding my reaction, he frowns slightly, then shuts my folder and stands up.

  “If your symptoms continue for another month or worsen, come back and see me.”

  Before any words can pass the lump in my throat, he pats my shoulder again and leaves.

  I sit on the examination table, trying to sort through my raging thoughts. I have been eating too many greasy fast-food meals, not enough sprouted grains and organic spinach, but then again, my diet is no worse than it has been for the past couple of years and maybe even a little better, considering the fresh produce I buy at the farmers’ market.

  I am getting a decent amount of sleep, and if anything is keeping me from sleeping enough, it’s cramps and hot, achy joints. I have been living in terror of another visitation, of my own personal judgment day. Yet that’s not going away anytime soon.

  I scoot off the table and leave the clinic, but before I even make it out of the building, I have to turn around and use the bathroom. I hear two women come in, chat the whole time, then leave. I’m embarrassed, but also frightened. When I finally stand, the water in the toilet bowl has turned dark red. It reminds me of the first plague of Egypt: rivers turned to blood.

  Shaky and weak in the aftermath of my very own plague, I decide that enough is enough.

  A bacterial infection, I can understand. Stress? No. Freaking. Way.

  As soon as I get home, I go online and start researching my symptoms. None of what comes up is good. All the possibilities, from cancer to bowel disease to major bodily disasters, require a specialist. So I look up gastroenterologists within a fifteen-mile radius. Seven names appear. I pick one in the middle with good reviews. When I call to make an appointment, the receptionist tells me the next available one is in six weeks. The thought of six more weeks of these cramps and frequent emergency trips to the bathroom pushes me close to tears. I manage to tell her no thanks before I hang up and try a different number.

  One by one, I call them all, and the best I can do is to get an appointment with a Dr. Messa in two weeks. Perhaps because she hears the strain in my voice, the receptionist says she’ll call if anyone cancels before that.

  “Thank you,” I say, genuinely touched by this act of kindness. “The sooner I can see him, the better.”

  I cancel my follow-up appointment at Dr. Kreger’s.

  But even assuming that Dr. Messa isn’t callous or a moron, it’s quite possible that whatever’s plaguing me, like all of ancient Egypt’s problems, has divine origins and is nothing any mortal doctor can fix.

  I try to remember that warm feeling of love from the end of my dream. I try to hold on to those promises of safekeeping, that deep, impossible voice, those kind words. But a dream is a slippery thing, and I can’t remember the exact words. Did the voice promise to protect me or to save me? Was there any mention of help? Healing? Even a vague mention of favor? My memory of the words is that they were lovely and kind, but I cannot glean any comfort from that. Fading fast, I’m left only with burdens and crosses to bear.

  XI.

  THOUGH HAMILTON IS SMALL, it has three locally owned coffee shops. My favorite is a small café tucked into an old factory built in the 1930s. The owners renovated the place but kept the original floor—thick-cut timber that darkened nearly to black from decades of wear. The café has high ceilings and sky-blue walls with chocolate-brown trim. Overstuffed chairs in faded velvet by large bay windows just beg for a body to curl up and tarry for a spell. Wi-Fi and lots of outlets mean I can get work done too.

  I order a small tea and carry it to a chair by the window. The shop i
s unusually quiet for a Tuesday morning, and I’m more than pleased to snag such a prime spot. With my stomach a roiling mess, I’ve given up coffee. I keep hoping for something like the tea at Emmett’s.

  I pull out my notepad to plan my questions for Trudy at the farm, where I have an appointment later this morning, but my mind keeps wandering and the pages fill with doodles. The rich-looking oil paintings in heavy gilded frames and the stamped metal plates on the ceiling lend the shop an old-world charm. I once asked the barista about the building, but she didn’t know much except that it was “old.” I wonder if tracking down the histories of the various buildings downtown would make a good story. I write a note to ask Frank.

  I barely pay attention when the bell tinkles and a skinny teenager in baggy pants shuffles inside, probably skipping class. A muffled whoosh from the steamer and a clank from the espresso machine and the whole café fills with the smell of ground coffee and hot milk. I breathe it in, sigh with pleasure and then bury my nose in the mild, fruity scent of my tea, a pale imitation of the lovely infusion that Emmett had served me.

  I expect the boy to pay for his drink and go, but after he takes a single sip, I hear him arguing with the barista. Something about his tone pulls me out of my reverie, and I look up from my notebook.

  “I ordered a triple shot. This is watered-down crap.”

  “If you hate our coffee,” she snarls, “why do you keep coming here?” The barista, with her multiple facial piercings, doesn’t do customer service.

  “I just want you to make it right. Okay? I’m paying four freakin’ bucks for a cup of coffee. The least you can do is make it right.”

  “Fine.” She sounds like she’s grinding her teeth. “Hand it to me.”

  “Huh?”

  “Give me your cup and I’ll make you a new one.”

  His shoulders slump a bit and he reluctantly hands back the drink. I realize then that he’d hoped to keep the old “ruined” drink and score a second one for free. While the barista is knocking out old grounds with uncalled-for violence, the boy catches me looking at him and sneers. It comes across like a reflexive gesture. Nothing personal.

  Within seconds, she’s finished making his drink and hands it to him. He slurps a quick sip as she glares at him, daring him to complain again.

  “It’s okay,” he mumbles. “It’s better.”

  “Good.”

  Head down, hood back up, he shuffles out.

  The barista watches him suspiciously until he’s out the door and then glares at me too for good measure before disappearing through the curtain behind the bar.

  I don’t know what my face shows, but the hair on my arms is standing straight up and my stomach is cramping with sudden fear. As the boy was stalking out, I caught a glimpse of the badge we give to the high school interns at the paper. He’s the new intern who started this week. But that’s not what alarms me. As he was leaving, the morning sun shone through the glass door and I finally caught a good look at his face.

  In my dream of Jacob’s Ladder, I could make out three people being carried by angels. One was Tabitha, one was Mo and one was a complete stranger. I realize now that the sullen, surly ghostly image I saw was this intern’s face.

  I’ve just met my new mission.

  * * *

  A few hours later, my body weak, my composure in tatters, I keep my appointment with Trudy. I drive Frank’s loaner to Sweetwater Farm. The countryside stretches out on either side of the road like a child’s country play set: cows pastured on rolling green hills, horses that lazily look up as I pass. Occasionally I catch a glimpse of some impossibly huge estate tucked away at the end of a long, winding driveway, which reminds me that this is the home of country music and that this county, as Frank has told me more than once, is one of the richest in the nation.

  I pull up to a small white clapboard house, and a dog comes running toward me, barking madly before I even turn off the ignition. The dog, a dirty, shaggy collie, barks and snarls outside the driver’s side door, jumping up and scratching the paint. I stay in place.

  “Samson! Stop it! Down, Samson!! Come here!”

  Samson settles down a bit and looks mildly abashed. With one last halfhearted yip, he sinks back on all four feet, but doesn’t budge from my door. I stay put.

  The voice slowly grows closer and I make out Trudy in overalls and a baseball cap.

  “Hey, beautiful,” she says. “Glad you came. Hope Samson didn’t scare you. He’s a sweetheart.” She reaches down and gives him an affectionate scratch behind the ears and a smack on the flank. “He just gets so excited when we have company.”

  With her there I feel brave enough to slowly open my door, my hand ready to pull it shut should Samson, the sweetheart, feel less than welcoming. But he sits there panting, tail whipping back and forth on the ground in a distinctly friendly wag that kicks up a small cloud of dust.

  Once I’m out of the car, I stand still as Samson sniffs my hand and then jams a nose in my crotch.

  “That’s enough,” says Trudy, pushing him away from me. “Come on inside. Let me get you something to drink and we can chat.”

  In town, the late spring heat is near stifling, but out here there’s a nice breeze and something’s blooming. I can’t identify it, but as I follow Trudy into the house, memo pad and pen in hand, the scent relaxes a knot between my shoulder blades I wasn’t even aware of.

  It’s much darker inside the house, and it takes my eyes a moment to adjust. I’ve dawdled so long at the door that Trudy’s out of sight and I have to follow the sound of clinking glasses to find her in the kitchen.

  She pours a couple of iced teas, and then I follow her to the back porch, a charming spot with pale blue paint peeling and cracking, wicker chairs with faded cushions and several wind chimes tinkling softly.

  I open my notebook and scan my list of questions. “Are you ready to start?” I ask.

  “Do your worst.”

  “Okay, um, so what inspired you to be a farmer?”

  “Now, that’s an interesting question,” she says. I try not to wince. Good, intriguing questions are the cornerstone of a good, intriguing article. “Interesting,” as my father explained once, is not a positive adjective. It’s neutral at best, and probably simply means “bad.” It means the person can’t think of anything else to say. A great way to start things off. “I guess I’ve always been fascinated by growing things. Even as a child I had a little pizza garden: I grew tomatoes, basil, oregano and onions.”

  “That’s so cute,” I say, scrambling to write down her comments.

  “I never really thought about farming professionally, though. I went to college, worked for the CIA.”

  I stop writing and stare at her in surprise.

  She laughs at my expression. “Now, why does that always seem to shock folks?”

  “What did you do for the CIA?” I ask. I’m going off the list, but this tangent is worth following.

  “Nothing too exciting. I was a data analyst. Spent a lot of time in Washington, got to see a bit of the world.”

  I make a face at her vagueness.

  “Sorry, beautiful,” she says. “There really aren’t any skeletons in the closet.” She makes a face. “At least no interesting ones.”

  “So, what makes a CIA spook decide to be a crunchy-granola, tree-hugging farmer?”

  She laughs, liking my sarcastic tone better than the oh-so-serious proper journalistic one. “I got sick of bureaucrats—the constant power struggles, the petty rivalries; the stress, the smog. Everything got to me. I took a leave of absence to put my head back on straight. I knew I couldn’t keep working for the government, but I sure didn’t know what I could do.

  “I was traveling around, visiting old friends I’d barely kept in touch with over the years, when I came here, met Hank.” She takes a pause to drink her tea. I’m too busy writing to do the same. But she waits in silence until I finish and then says, “Go on, drink a bit before we continue.”

  I do. The
tea is oversteeped, a very sweet, classic southern iced tea, perfect on this unusually hot day. The breeze has died down, and even in the shade, I feel moisture bead on my forehead and upper lip. I rest the cold, sweating glass on my face briefly before setting it down.

  “Here I am, all pale and flabby from fifteen years of cubicle life, and there’s Hank, seven years my senior, tanned and strong, with so much pride about what he’s doing in this world. All the good he’s doing. He was farming organically way before it became the new yuppie crusade. It’s a beautiful thing to see the land thrive, to see birds and butterflies returning with the seasons, to get to know your customers. Knowing that you’re helping them.

  “So one thing leads to another, and instead of keeping on with my road trip, I decided to stay here for a while to see what I thought of it.” She spreads her arms out to encompass herself, the porch, the fields. “I’m still here. But by now I’ve discovered that besides all the poetic sunshine I just fed you, farming is also backbreaking work, it’s something you can’t really take a vacation from, because the farm always needs tending and the weeds and the deer don’t really care about your calluses or that shopping trip to the store you’ve been putting off or that little getaway to Italy you’ve been dreaming about. It also hardly pays enough to keep the roof over our heads. But as the old cliché goes, my worst day at the farm beats the hell out of my best day in Washington.

  “When I lived in Tibet—”

  I break a cardinal rule of interviewing and interrupt her. “You lived in Tibet?”

  She ignores me.

  “—what impressed me was their closeness to the land. The seasons passing, the harsh weather: they didn’t shelter themselves from it, they embraced it. That’s kind of what I’m trying to do. Embrace what it means to feed people. To tend to the land. It feels downright biblical sometimes.”