Tatjana Soli - The Forgetting Tree

“Come close, ti sister. You and me need to seriously talk.” Minna leaned closer to the girl and spoke rapidly in whispered tones until the girl jerked her arm loose and escaped, limping away.

“I didn’t know you had it in you,” Minna said, putting her arm around Claire.

“You protect your own.” Claire couldn’t have imagined getting involved in something so tawdry, yet she felt thrilled by her own actions.

In the lobby, Mrs. Girbaldi looked shook up.

Don was smoking a cigarette. “So you speak Spanish?”

“Just socially,” Minna said. “The islands are full of pidgin French and Spanish.”

“Yeah, I saw. My lady is full of mysteries, isn’t she?”

“That little preview in the hallway that Claire interrupted could have made you famous. Her boyfriend over there behind the bar playing cameraman.”

Don stared hard at the young man cleaning glasses. “You’re not even jealous.”

“I’m only jealous of something I want and can’t have.”

* * *

They drove farther down the coast, stopping at whim at what captured their fancy — clay statues of dogs and tin mirrors and paper flowers — anything certifiably useless and unneeded, despite Mrs. Girbaldi’s protests about being late.

“This is Mexico. Time is elastic,” Don said.

Finally they arrived at the clinic: a tiny, pristine building that sat on a white, prim beach.

The director of the clinic came out in a starched lab coat. He was overly tanned, his thinning hair bound in a small ponytail. He would have looked more in place in a down-at-the-heels nightclub. “Bienvenidos!” he said, as if they had arrived at a resort for a holiday. A young girl in a short sundress served them small glasses of pink juice from a tray. They sat on white sofas, the sliding doors open to the beach, and an overweight, older nurse came out and took Claire away to have blood work done.

In the doctor’s office, Claire felt dizzy as she took off her clothes to put on a cotton smock. The nurse, too, was sweating in the heat. When she noticed Claire’s nerves, she smiled and patted her hand. With the most delicate touch, she pulled a syringeful of blood. Minutes later, the doctor came in reading her records, shaking his head. His teeth were bleached an unnatural bluish white. He held her hands out, studying her nails, pulled her eyelids down and looked at the tissue.

“You are not healthy.”

“An understatement,” Claire said, then leaned over and retched.

After an orderly cleaned up the mess, Mrs. Girbaldi and Minna were brought in. The doctor frowned at them. “You shouldn’t have traveled with her. Brought her here like this. We can’t help her in this condition.”

“Please,” Mrs. Girbaldi said. “We can pay handsomely.”

“Your cell count is dangerously low,” he said to Claire. “You need a hospital. There are drugs that will build the blood back up, but first you require a transfusion.”

A black wave was coming over Claire, darkness like water rising quickly around her.

“Help her,” Mrs. Girbaldi pleaded.

Don came through the door. “What’s happening?”

The doctor took her pulse. “What’s your blood type? Is anyone a relative?”

“What’s wrong?” Don said.

“I’m a universal donor,” Minna said. The doctor flicked his eyes over her. She dropped her voice. “I was screened recently.”

The doctor shook his head. “You must sign a release. If she dies here.”

“Oh, no.” Mrs. Girbaldi started crying.

“Why didn’t you tell me—” Don yelled at Minna.

“Shut up.”

“I’ll never forgive myself…” Mrs. Girbaldi moaned.

“Let’s do it,” the doctor said.

* * *

Hours later, Claire was lying in a queen-size rattan bed, watching the sunset over the ocean, a regular faux-vacation. Minna sat next to her.

“How is my doudou ?”

“I was wrong to make you do this.”

“Now we have the same blood in our veins.”

“You saved my life.”

“We saved each other’s. Don will sit with you while I make arrangements for a hotel. Mrs. Girbaldi is exhausted.”

Don came in, sheepish, and Minna passed him without a word. His hands shook when he touched Claire. “You scared us.”

“It was all my fault. Not hers.”

“Thank God nothing happened.” His face showed strain, the usual veneer worn off.

“Minna’s my angel. You don’t deserve her.”

“I don’t.” Don sighed. “I’ve never met anyone who didn’t care about the bullshit, you know what I mean? Even with the lies.”

“Lies?”

“You know. Her stories change all the time. I tell her she can trust me.”

“The details change. Her actions speak for her, don’t you think?”

Claire fell asleep, and when she woke, the windows were dark. She was alone. The lights were dimmed, and an unfamiliar nurse stood in the corner, head bowed as she ironed Claire’s dress, mumbling, “Padre nuestro … ahora y hasta la hora de nuestra muerte.”

The next morning, Claire asked a new nurse for her dress and shoes, as well as watch and earrings, but they were nowhere to be found. More lost things. The doctor, eager to get rid of them, wheeled Claire out in her cotton hospital gown and plastic flip-flops to the front entrance.

“When you are stronger, come back. We have a new therapy with fetus cells.”

Claire nodded.

When Don’s car pulled up, Mrs. Girbaldi and Minna sat in the front seat with him as if they were sightseers.

“Such a shame,” Mrs. Girbaldi said. “I liked the view here.”

“It’s a bad place,” Minna said. “They are a sham: ripping you off with their miracle cure.”

The drive home was a blur, as if Claire were being pushed by a tailwind of mistakes. She pictured old black-and-white movies where the hands of the clock fly around the dial.

Minna reached back and put her hand on Claire’s knee. The nurse’s words kept echoing in her ears, la hora de nuestra muerte … nuestra muerte … muerte, as if she were telling a truth no one else was willing to admit. Claire clung to Minna’s arm, would not let go, as you would cling to life if you loved it, as if Minna were her air and light and blood.

* * *

Don called the oncologist, who arranged to meet them in the emergency room.

“I will not treat you if you do anything like this again,” the doctor said.

“It was my choice to make this mistake,” Claire said. “I earned it.”

She spent the night hooked up to IVs. Don drove Mrs. Girbaldi home while Minna, bare feet curled up under her, slept in a chair in Claire’s room. In the morning, Claire felt a tingling on her chest and arms and looked down to discover sunburn.

Their trip into the exotic changed many things. Changed Claire’s fear and Minna’s roving. She no longer left evenings. Claire didn’t know if Don’s car no longer waiting at the end of the driveway was cause or effect. For her, the trip somehow had a liberating effect. She no longer felt unequal to her medicine. She went to the hospital by choice rather than sentence. Outwardly her world contracted, but experienced from the inside, life on the farm grew richer and more precious in ways she’d never imagined.

* * *

Her truancy was duly reported to Gwen, who phoned with the studied coolness Claire was sure her children received when caught red-handed at something forbidden. The delicious secret was that no punishment was possible, or rather the most severe punishment possible had already been meted out. As if that weren’t enough, she had almost caused her own demise. What could Gwen do to make her suffer more than that?

Exorcised, Claire returned to treatment. Well-behaved, she listened to music through her earphones and nodded to the oncology nurses in their funny cartoon T-shirts. She would follow the treatments to their natural conclusion. Minna, chastised, stood in the doorway, checking on her, in the unlikely event Claire would try to bolt for another escape. But Claire had lost the desire to flee: like a bird too long domesticated, she would stay in her cage despite the wide-open door.