The Refugee Sentinel (19 page)

Colton collapsed on the mossy bridge-walk then squatted against the wall to keep out of sight. Walking through the main entrance of a hospital with a missing passport was a no-go, so he kept waiting and hiding in the shadows. As elated as he was from seeing Yana earlier in the day, the pulsating wrist had become impossible to ignore. Mitko had been right: cauterizing the stump had been a patch-up job, never meant to replace surgery. And six days later, in full capitulation to the infection, Colton saw it the same way too.

He had come to the Virginia Mason seeking the help of a certain someone he hadn’t seen for more than a year. And was going to find out how she’d respond… unless Sylvya wasn’t at work or had already gone home for the day. She had to be here. Otherwise, it was game over. He’d be forced to camp on this bridge for the night until the curfew crews arrested him by the morning. Then… his mind gave up, planning this far out was pointless and painful.

The winter evening was about to save Seattle from itself. The dusk embraced the city’s empty bridges and their rotted foundations. It masked the air too, upgrading its smell from offensive to somewhat tolerable until the following morning. In the dark, Colton struggled making out the silhouettes leaving the Oncology ward. He dozed off then snapped awake. What if he’d missed her? The thought carried sweet resignation bordering on relief, as the stump kept throbbing in pain.

That’s when he saw Sylvya step out of the revolving doors. So far, so good; he had to catch up with her, say hi and convince her to save his life, as she always had. But he couldn’t move. He sat up and breathed in, once at first then twice to collect more strength, and shouted her name, “Sylvya...” Vertigo shook the world and his palm grabbed his forehead. She hadn’t heard him. He sighed. Back when he was married to Sarah, he used to mock bad TV standup with a similar sigh. Tonight the joke was on him. He had to try again before she had walked out of sight… for Yana’s sake.

Colton leaned on one elbow, bracing himself, in case he passed out. This was it, ladies and gentlemen, he thought, the final card-reveal at the final table. He took a breath and let out what, to him, sounded like a scream, “Help me, Sylvya…” He keeled forward and fell, unable to soften the drop. Sorry for letting you down, patte, he thought, face on the steel bridge. He tried to push up but his arms felt as strong as boiled macaroni. It was OK, he would catch his breath first then get up and find Sylvya at the metro station; even if he’d have to crawl like a two-year-old.

His body then lifted, either by the power of persuasion or by the power of God – if God hadn’t packed his bags yet from this sinking planet – and Colton saw the person who did the lifting and recognized her face. He’d never seen anything more beautiful.

“What are you doing here?” Sylvya hugged him and sobbed then hugged him again.

He tried to respond but words were more work than he could afford. He tried again and this time she understood. “Don’t call the cops? I won’t.”

She kissed his lips, washing them in tears. “I’ll take care of you. But you’re not allowed to pass out on me anymore. Not until I get you inside.” She draped his arm over her body and stood up. Like a marionette, Colton stood up with her. He smiled.

“I will return in a minute.” Sylvya looked for an acknowledgement, until his head nodded; either that or he had blacked out. With her tongue sticking out and sweat budding on her face, she steadied his body against the wall, let go and took a hesitant step back, her arms the last ones to lose contact. She touched his lips with hers, one last time, and ran toward the hospital’s main entrance. Then came running back, pushing a gurney without breaking her stride. His figure was still there, where she’d left it. She collected him, as one would a child, placing his torso on the gurney first, then his legs.

Colton was breathing and, as a bonus, looked like a regular patient. She pushed her cargo toward the main entrance, the gurney’s wheels rolling without a rattle. Without checking him in, she headed to a treatment room and latched a dozen IV bags into his veins.

Seattle felt like Mountain View again, and the night rain felt like a blessing.

The piano wept under Yana’s hands. Then, without warning, a couple of notes hiccupped, tripping the follow-up ones like a domino line. Boulez’s Second Sonata teetered from side to side and collapsed into a cacophony of noises. Yana hung her head. “I keep slipping up in the same spot.”

“The Second is a difficult piece, kid,” Mitko said. “But the good news is, you’ll live longer if you learn it well.”

“You’re making it up.”

“When our brains do something new, it takes us longer to recount what happened. It’s the reason why childhood feels so long. Do something new every day and you’ll slow down time.”

“This is not new. I’ve been playing it for the last eight months.”

“Tell you what: let’s get you some reinforcements for this fight.” Mitko brought chocolate ice cream from a conference room fridge and placed two cups with two spoons on top of the Steinway.

“About your slip... don’t press, let the music come to you – it has nowhere else to go. Hold the keys firm, pause and don’t let up until, one-two-three,” his hand waved in the air, “the next bridge takes you over the sequence. It’s about the nuance and the length of your silence...The judges might notice if you skip a few notes, but what matters is how you transition to the next D-minor and they won’t score you down much if you do it well.”

Yana’s head dipped up and down. She sighed. Next to her, Mitko pulled a chair up and flicked off invisible dust specks from the Steinway’s polished top. He put an arm around her shoulders.

“And how about a story before we move on?” By instinct, she leaned into his embrace.

“But… do we have time?” she looked at the wall-clock. “Eighteen minutes until the hour is through.”

His fingers patted her shoulder. “Remember what I promised you? The bit about teaching you to see with your heart?”

She nodded again, this time with more conviction. “So in eighteen… seventeen minutes,” she corrected herself after another glance at the wall, “I’ll learn how to see with my heart?” Her eyes were like two lakes, one filled with excitement and one with doubt.

Mitko put a finger over his lips and leaned closer. “A promise is a promise. But only if you keep your end of the bargain.”

“I won’t tell a soul,” she whispered, the conspiracy in her voice, as earnest as if they were discussing the disposal of a body. “I swear on Stumpy’s life.”

He pulled back. “Who’s Stumpy?”

“My plush robot. Sometimes I take him to bed if I’ve had a bad day or if there’s a thunderstorm outside. But I try to leave him alone at night because robots are nocturnal.” She pressed her knees to her chest. “Go ahead… tell me your story.”

“Once, in a country called Estonia, lived an eight-year-old boy...”

Yana interrupted. “I’m eight too.”

“Yes, he was as old as you.”

“I like that.”

“The boy, who was as old as you, liked playing the piano as much as you do. It didn’t matter if he had schoolwork to do or run chores for his Mom, he looked forward to the evenings, because that’s when his teacher taught him piano.” Yana shook off a yawn and tucked her hair behind her ears. “One evening, as the boy came to his teacher’s apartment for a lesson, he heard loud noises. Worried, he rushed in, and in the teacher’s living room, he saw a scary sight: a thief had tied the teacher and held a knife to his throat. The boy froze, not knowing what to do. Should he fight or follow the thief’s orders to save the teacher’s life?

“Free my teacher at once, the boy said and stomped the ground with a foot. If you let him go, I’ll give you all my money. The boy emptied his pockets and a total of three dollars in coins fell on the floor between him and the thief.”

“Three dollars is not a lot of money,” Yana whispered.

Mitko took a bite of ice cream before continuing the story. “The thief laughed. I don’t want your pitiful coins. I want your teacher’s Steinway piano, there are no others like it in our town. Step away or I will slice your teacher’s throat.

“The boy had to think of a solution. If I play a song, on the piano, will you let my teacher go, the boy said.

“Why would I let your teacher go because of one song, the thief said.

“Because it will be the most beautiful melody you’ve ever heard, the boy replied. And it will melt your heart and convince you to let my teacher keep his piano.

“The thief laughed until tears ran from his eyes. Go ahead and play, you foolish boy, he said.

“The boy sat at the Steinway and rested his fingers on the keys. He didn’t know what to play. He had lied about a special melody his teacher had taught him – he knew no such thing. He closed his eyes and decided to follow his heart. The music came to him and poured out of the Steinway. The months he had spent with his teacher flashed in front of his eyes. And as he played, he decided he didn’t want to impress the thief but give a gift to the teacher, a gift of thank you and goodbye. After the boy finished the thief dropped his knife and ran out of the apartment in shame. He had indeed heard the most beautiful melody in life.”

Mitko cracked his back. “So, there you have it. Each time you sit at a piano, think of the boy whose music defeated a thief and play from your heart, at the piano and in life.”

Yana hugged the pianist with both arms.

The bridge-walks swam in water because of the tears in Sylvya’s eyes. Recounting the injustices of her past felt like a punch to the gut and she had to hold to a lamppost to keep steady. She was a good person – always had been. Since the age of seven, she wanted to become Cinderella when she grew up, or Sheryl Sandberg at least. But day-after-day, she had fast-forwarded to two children and a failed marriage.

Still, she held on to hope, squeezing her eyes shut each night and imagining the life the seven-year-old had planned. Sometimes the make-believe helped and the following mornings didn’t feel as bad. On such days, the showers felt more refreshing and her children more precious. If only she had the courage to live this different life she imagined. And leave behind her work and the snooty boss and David’s voicemails about splitting time with the kids. But she didn’t and kept on living as she was. Often she hid in the hospital storage room, gasping for air, like her pulmonary patients would. The difference was the patients would recover while her affliction would remain for life.

Then Colton came, impossible to spot at first – a wreck of his own making. He seemed beaten up beyond repair but, in time, she realized he hid even deeper scars beneath the physical bruises. Her natural empathy and professional training were the first to kick in then other emotions joined. He treated her different and she loved his company though she couldn’t explain why. His jokes were borderline inappropriate, but she attributed it to his bad luck and to whatever emotional saddle weighed him down. After a week, she wondered if he was the man she had dreamed of as a seven-year-old girl.

She ended up following him to Seattle and the city waltzed into her life with more grace than she thought possible. Like a fairy Godmother, Seattle heaped on her the Virginia Mason job and a free apartment and she often pinched herself making sure she wasn’t dreaming. One day she walked into the Starbucks on the Fourth Avenue bridge and Seneca, her smile clashing against the baristas’ gloom, and asked for the sweetest frozen drink on the menu. She walked out, sucking on ice and mocha through a fat straw and saw him, the one person among the millions she had come here to find. Colton was sitting in the Seattle Public Library, framed by a bay window.

At first she figured he was a ghost inside her over-stimulated mind and kept walking. But it was Colton, leafing through a book, at a library table. As she tiptoed behind him, careful not to be spotted, she feared God would hit a pause button and wake her. But God stayed put and the world remained as she wanted. She was incapable of defining how she felt. The closest was wishing that this moment stretched forever without caring to miss anything else in life. Then she saw the tremor and the veiled annoyance in his eyes. Maybe attacking him with wet hands was to blame – he never much cared for surprises.

Shattered... with mascara running down her cheeks, Sylvya somehow staggered home then hid in the bathroom for an hour. She managed to join the kids for dinner, hurrying them to bed so she could fall apart on her own. The following morning brought relief and a new perspective. He must have been shocked to see the past he had travelled so far to leave behind, catch up with him again. Hope told her a second meeting would be different and magical. She would show up at his apartment and he’d invite her in. They would make sweet, passionate love throughout the night and she’d wake in his arms the next morning. They would go to a local bakery for a late breakfast. He would pay the bill and insist on spending the weekend together. Then he’d take her to the movies or rollerblading or to an ice cream spot.

But their second meeting wasn’t magical. He looked so handsome but when he opened his mouth, his words thrust a dagger in her, cutting out any room for wishful interpretation. Colton didn’t love her. And that was that.

Getting home was a blur. She came to her senses still dressed under the steaming shower, drowning out the pain that was devouring her whole. She didn’t speak afterward – not to Dallas and Sadie, not to colleagues or patients – and her eyes kept leaking with anguish that only complete silence could befit. For a while, nothing mattered. Reviving her career didn’t matter. Dallas falling in love with Seattle and asking, “Could we stay here for good, Mom, or for as long as we could stretch it?” didn’t matter. Sadie being asked out by a curly-haired boy from her YMCA swimming class and skipping around the house the day he kissed her cheek didn’t matter.

At the end of the week, the Chief Nursing Officer ordered Sylvya to take time off. Virginia Mason Oncology had blossomed into a higher-quality ward in the one week since she had joined and the Chief wanted the goose that laid the golden-eggs back in tip-top shape. Work could wait until her emotions unsnarled, he said, from the knots they had become. Sylvya was too tired to argue. She spent the following week in bed, with a wet ball turning inside her rib cage and stretching it end-to-end. Over time, the ball grew until Sylvya couldn’t breathe. She went back to work with it spinning inside and shuffled from day to night and back to day, and learned to breathe in spurts, like an animal in heat. Then, almost two years later, when she least expected it, she saw him again...

She had heard her name come from somewhere she couldn’t see. She had turned several times.  Then, as she headed for the commuter station, a splash of red caught her eye. She saw a crimson bandage where a man’s passport should be. Her gaze followed the arm to the torso to the face: Colton’s face. He must have cut his hand to desert Defiance Day. Sylvya shook. She had never thought of him as a deserter. The man she loved was selfless. She walked to him and he grunted a sound she couldn’t understand but his eyes spoke plenty.

In this moment, the wet ball inside her burst and she patted a shocked hand on her chest, as if checking for wine stains on her lab coat. She breathed in for what felt like a minute until her lungs stopped expanding, still no pain. She smiled and looked at him and saw a different person; someone whose magic over her was gone. She did kiss him, to make sure she wasn’t imagining it and the ball wouldn’t come back. She wasn’t imagining. He was no more but another patient with a male anatomy. She ran back for a gurney, drunken by this new sense of being pain-free.

Of course, she sheltered him. He was a patient and she was a nurse with an attached Hippocratic Oath. An abandoned supply room became his recovery quarters. Brooms, paint buckets and a broken refrigerator gave way to a coil-mattress coupled with an IV stand. She stitched his stump, nerve clusters and shattered bones, then pumped him full of antibiotics and two IV bags at a time, one for each arm. When he woke, gaunt and ravenous but inflammation-free, she fed him with medicine and food. On the second day, his condition improved to patched-but-stable and he told her about an Asian woman on a mission to kill him. Sylvya listened with a smile, the wet ball inside her gone and replaced by clarity.

His story wasn’t bad, but after honoring Hippocrates, she had to do her civic duty. Seattle, along with the rest of the US Territory, was bursting at the seams with deserters who cut their own hands to survive Defiance Day. These lost souls branded themselves as fugitives – refugees in their own Territory – until their inevitable capture. Police protocol called for their immediate arrest, but with jail space more scarce than beachfront property, the cops deferred the information until after the nineteenth of December when the jails throughout the Territory were guaranteed to unclog.

Sylvya punched 911 on her cell phone. An Officer Grant, with a well-trained voice, logged her report of a felon who had self-severed his passport.