Orphan #8 (12 page)

I shut the scurvy book and pushed it to the side. I didn’t want to believe Mildred Solomon had been part of the work Dr. Hess was doing, but there was the article they wrote together, “Rates of Digestion in Children: A Radiographic Survey.” It described the study’s objective—the use of barium to X-ray the digestive tract—along with hand-drawn charts and graphs plotting the various settings and exposures. The conclusions seemed simple enough: how much time, in minutes and hours, it took for the barium drink to pass through a child’s intestines. I wasn’t sure why this information was necessary, but again it seemed Dr. Solomon’s role was confined to the radiology. Dr. Hess was the one obsessed with childhood nutrition.

Then I turned the page and saw a picture of one of the radiographs. I felt like I was tipping back in my chair; I actually grabbed at the edge of the table. I had seen this before. A child’s body from shoulder to hip, the barium a bright squiggle through the intestines. But how could I have seen it? On the next page it showed a head turned to the side, the radiograph glowing white where the substance coated the tongue and esophagus.

I knew how it tasted before I realized how I knew. Whether or not the image was of me—that seemed too fantastical—I remembered drinking the milk shakes, the chalk gritty in my mouth. I remembered the time I refused to drink it, that tube shoved down my throat. But who had done these things to me? The impressions and sensations were so vague I hesitated to call them memories. There had been a nurse with big hands, chapped and red. She must have been the one who force-fed me that day. Not Dr. Solomon. Mildred Solomon had only done the X-rays, but those I couldn’t remember. Reading through the article, I realized why.

Chloroform was administered to render material motionless for the duration of the exposure
. No wonder the treatments were obscured in my memory like taillights in the fog. I’d seen chloroform used in the Infirmary at the orphanage—Nurse Dreyer kept some in case she had to give a wriggling child stitches. I could imagine Dr. Solomon hovering over my mask with the dropper. Strapped to the table, I would have been unconscious while she positioned the Coolidge tube and made the exposure.

Weren’t the straps enough? I could recall them now, those buckles up and down my arms and legs. I couldn’t understand why Dr. Solomon wanted us chloroformed as well. Did it make it easier for her to think of us as material if we couldn’t move or talk? Maybe it was just our struggling that she didn’t want to see. I thought of the cancer mice, how they must squeak and squirm when the doctors shave their fur to smear cigarette tar on the raw pink skin.

Still, it hadn’t been her idea. She was only the coauthor. These experiments were Dr. Hess’s work. It was Mildred Solomon who took care of me. Hers was the article I cared about, the article I hoped would tell me what I had been treated for. Perhaps I’d had tonsillitis—it seemed likely that’s what had been wrong with me. It wasn’t unusual for children who’d had measles or whooping cough to develop tonsillitis. Had I had measles? Most children did in those days. In the confusing rush of images in my mind, a few details stood out as solid and true: Dr. Solomon’s smile; how she’d say I was good and brave; the way she looked at me, as if she could see right into my soul. I thought about everything Mildred Solomon had given up to be a doctor. Maybe we did substitute for the children she never had—why else would she have sought a residency in an orphanage? God knows we were all starving for mothers.

With a steadying breath, I opened the article authored solely by Mildred Solomon. The opening paragraphs described the context for her study. She wrote that surgical tonsillectomies, though common, carried risks of infection. Some children reacted negatively to the anesthesia, while others were distressed if the procedure was done with a local anesthetic. She referred to famous cases where X-rays had been used to shrink tumors. She made it sound like a reasonable idea to attempt to treat tonsillitis with X-rays. She couldn’t have known at the time what it would do to us. I was sure, now, that’s what happened: when I developed tonsillitis, Dr. Solomon attempted to cure me with this innovative, noninvasive technique.

Except, as I continued to read, I learned that wasn’t it at all.

Material was chosen expressly for the health and vigor of existing tonsils to exclude the possibility of infection compromising results. For each subject enrolled in the study, the angle of the rays and the number of filters was kept the same in order to isolate results from this initial experiment on the optimal length of exposure. Of the eight subjects enrolled, each was given a calculated increase in exposure (see chart in appendix). The forthcoming paragraphs will describe in detail these calculations and will be of interest primarily to radiologists, as will the illustrations (see figures 1 through 3) of the positioning of the material and the angle of the Coolidge tube. Surgical excision of the tonsils at the conclusion of the study yielded promising results and point unequivocally to the continued need for further experimentation. Summarily, my conclusions were thus: of those subjects receiving the least amount of exposure, the tonsils reflected deterioration inadequate to replace surgery. Of those subjects at the mean, it was the opinion of the surgeon that the tonsils were deteriorated sufficiently to make surgical excision redundant. Of the subject at the extreme, however, burns associated with the penetration of the rays caused irritation and the potential for scarring at the points of entry. While all material developed alopecia as a result of their exposure, it is my opinion that the condition will resolve itself for most of the subjects. In future iterations of this experiment, I would strongly suggest starting with younger children so that a more sustained follow-up period can be accomplished within the controlled conditions of the institution. Unfortunately, these subjects were transferred from the Hebrew Infant Home at the conclusion of the experiment, and thus were unavailable for further observation.

I pushed my chair back. The pulse in my neck throbbed and the corner of my eye twitched. The walls of the reading room closed in on me, dusty and suffocating. I had to get away. On unsteady legs, I went downstairs to the coffee shop. The bitter liquid filled my mouth as the caffeine focused my thoughts.

Mildred Solomon was no better than Dr. Hess. She had used us
like lab rats, for no reason other than medical curiosity. But it was more than that, wasn’t it? Hadn’t she told me this article secured her position in radiology, that she never had to work with children again? Not only wasn’t she trying to cure us—she was using us to make her reputation. I felt like one of those girls you read about sometimes in trashy magazines, the ones who are drugged at parties and wake up, minds blank and bodies defiled.

My coffee had turned cold. I went back to the reading room to find the librarian gathering up my sources. “I’m not done with those yet,” I said, reclaiming the volumes.

“I’m sorry. You disappeared, so I just assumed.” Deborah leaned over to place them back on the table. I’ll admit, this time I did stare. I guess I needed some distraction—I even imagined she stared back—not that it worked. As soon as I was alone with Dr. Solomon’s article, I read it again, more angry and indignant with every line. This time, though, I examined the chart in the appendix. It showed the cumulative X-ray exposures for each child in the experiment. We weren’t named, of course—we were just orphans, “institutional children,” expendable, disposable, numbers on a graph. Suddenly it made sense to me, the embroidered number stitched on my collar. What was it? I remembered the endless circles I would trace with my fingertip, following the stitches around and back, over and around again. Tracing the chart with my finger, I found #8 and followed its line.

There I was, the most exposure of them all.

I
T FELT AS
though I’d been cooped up in that reading room for months. Looking through the window, I saw green treetops and a cloudless sky. I was desperate to be outside, sweltering though the
midday heat would be, but there was one more article I’d had the librarian find for me. I pulled the volume closer, figuring I might as well finish what I’d started. I’d certainly never be coming back here again. It was that recent study, published just a couple of years ago. I checked the bibliography—it was Mildred Solomon’s tonsil article he cited, but why this Dr. Feldman would have referenced it I couldn’t imagine. With a slack hand I lifted the cover. Newly sewn into the binding, the pages of
Modern Oncology
resisted. I had to stand and bring weight into my arms to hold open the pages. I skimmed the article until my eyes caught a sentence.
For women who were exposed to excessive radiation as children, malignancy rates are markedly increased, with tumors becoming evident as these women reach their forties
.

My thoughts flew to the other side of the world, to that Japanese fisherman on the
Lucky Dragon
. I pictured the radioactive ash sifting down on him from miles and miles away, how he brushed the mysterious flakes from his sleeves and went on hauling up his nets. It was only later, safely ashore, that the dying began. With a deep sense of foreboding, I started Dr. Feldman’s article from the beginning.

By the time I finished, I was a wreck. I needed to collect myself before leaving the Medical Academy. Deborah wasn’t around, so I lifted the counter and went through the stacks, letting myself into the restroom. Staring into the mirror over the sink, I lifted my chin to expose the underside of my jaw. I’d always assumed they were birthmarks, those two shiny patches of skin, round as dimes. Now I recognized them as the faded remnants of an X-ray burn. I kept seeing that chart, as if it were a slide projected over my vision, the line for #8 rising steeply.

I shrugged my shoulder where the armpit had been feeling sore. A wave of anxiety swept over me as I began to put two and two together. I had to check immediately, to reassure myself I was imagining things. Right there, in the staff restroom of the Medical Academy library, I began to unbutton my blouse. I had just reached back to unhook my bra when there was a light knock on the door.

“Are you okay in there?” Deborah asked. “Do you need anything?”

I managed to say I was fine. Worried the lock would give way and she’d see me with my shirt open, I fumbled to close the buttons. I splashed cold water on my cheeks, dried them with a paper towel, checked to see if my features were composed. My eyebrows, at least, hadn’t smudged. I opened the door to find her standing there. She didn’t step back but held her ground, blocking me in the doorway.

“Have you been crying?” She touched my face, a tender gesture, her fingers cupping my jaw. She gazed at me with such frank, steady eyes I knew she had caught me looking earlier, knew now she’d known all along what it meant. I was so used to pretending to be something I wasn’t, it shocked me to be seen for what I was. In that vulnerable moment, that shock of recognition drew me to her. I hardly knew what I was doing as the slight distance between us closed.

I wasn’t the one to get things started, but as soon as Deborah bent back my head I leaned into her, sliding my leg between her knees, filling my hand with the weight of her breast. Her lips were softer than I expected, her kiss tentative at first, then deeper as I opened my mouth to her. I didn’t know who I was in that moment.
Someone more reckless and daring had taken my place. I could tell she liked this person, liked her very much.

The sound of that stupid bell on her counter brought with it the reality of an impatient medical student lurking on the other side of the wall. She stepped back abruptly, her mouth shiny with my spit. “I’ll just go see what he wants.” Checking her watch, she said, “The other librarian will be here any minute.” Deborah trailed her hand down my arm, reluctant to leave. “Wait here, I’ll give you my number. For later.”

I did wait, for a minute, trying to convince myself there’d be no harm in it. Then I pictured her, in Miami, asleep in the sun on a lounge chair, a paperback open on her thigh. She was the one I wanted to be with, not some butch librarian. I was so lonely with her away. I hated sleeping by myself, waking up alone, coming home to an empty apartment. I missed those times she’d push aside the coffee table and sway me in her arms to the sound of the radio. The way she’d brush the back of her hand against mine, as if by accident, as we walked down the street. How she’d take my hand in the dark movie theater, our fingers interlaced under the sweaters on our laps.

It worried me to think how far I might have gone, caught up in the moment, if that bell hadn’t rung. I couldn’t risk waiting, not even to explain why I had to go. I found another way out of the stacks, took a back stair down to the ground floor, located an exit to the street. Outside, I was clobbered by the heat. Short of breath and dripping with sweat, I rushed to the subway, worried Deborah would come running up behind me, pulling at my sleeve, expecting me to be someone I wasn’t.

Chapter Seven

E
IGHT CHILDREN CROWDED INTO THE TAXICAB: FIVE IN
back, two more up front between the driver and a nurse from the Hebrew Infant Home, and Rachel, the smallest, perched on the nurse’s lap.

“Does Dr. Solomon know we’re leaving?” Rachel asked as the taxi pulled away from the curb.

Looking down at her, the nurse said, “Dr. Solomon’s experiment is over. You’re almost six years old now—a few of the others already turned six—so you’re all being transferred together.”

Rachel had been surprised, that morning, to be dressed in street clothes. When she and the other children were taken from the Scurvy Ward, Rachel had looked back at the receding hospital wing, expecting Dr. Solomon to come say good-bye. “Are you sure she doesn’t need me anymore?”

“I told you, she’s done with you. Done with the lot of you.”

Crossing the bridge with its little stone towers, Rachel squinted against the brightness of the sun. She hadn’t been outside for months, none of them had. Exposure to sunlight was a variable Dr. Solomon liked to control.