Orphan #8 (38 page)

“As for the rest of it, let me think things over for a while. We’ll talk again in a few days.”

Disoriented, Rachel retreated to the Ivy Room. He hadn’t accused her, hadn’t yelled, hadn’t slapped. Rachel thought of Superintendent Grossman, his face red and sweating as he raised his hand against Sam. She thought of her father, that knife in his hand as he grappled with her mother. She thought of her uncle, the tip of his tongue pushed between her lips. Rachel could only imagine the way Dr. Abrams was treating her was what other people meant when they used words like
father
and
family
.

D
R.
A
BRAMS WAS
in his office at the Hospital for Consumptive Hebrews, a stethoscope casually slung around his neck, peering through his wire-rimmed glasses. He was reading again about Dr. Solomon’s tonsil experiment. He had asked one of his interns, the day after his talk with Rachel, to go to the university library to see if there was anything about the Hebrew Infant Home and X-rays, and here was the distressing article on his desk. To use healthy children in such a dangerous experiment struck him as a violation of trust. He understood now, as Rachel didn’t, how unnecessary the excessive radiation exposure was that had caused her alopecia. He’d thought her profligate to pour all of her earnings into an expensive custom-made wig, but now he felt a debt was owed to her. Without her knowledge or consent she’d given so much already, and for what? It was a grandiose notion to propose that tonsillectomies might be replaced by X-rays. When Dr. Abrams refused to treat his tubercular patients with chest X-rays, there were some
who’d thought him backward, but he’d been proven right—where they had been used, X-rays had only further weakened the lungs. Dr. Abrams understood that medical advances required experimentation, but to recklessly use such young children galled him. The intern said this was Dr. Solomon’s only published article; Dr. Abrams could only hope this M. Solomon, whoever he was, no longer worked with children.

When, a few days later, he called Rachel into his study, he decided to keep his knowledge to himself. It would only wound the girl more, he thought, if she knew how needlessly she’d been disfigured. Let her continue to believe her baldness was the unfortunate consequence of some life-saving treatment, while he took it on himself to make it up to her, as far as he was able. Telephone calls had been placed, letters written on her behalf, money withdrawn from his own account. Dr. Abrams had only to present the fait accompli.

Rachel began to say, once more, how sorry she was for having lied to him and Mrs. Abrams. He stopped her, placing his hand on her knee, the touch brief and comforting. “Don’t apologize, Rachel. I believe in judging people by their actions more than their words. You have proven yourself to be helpful and hardworking. The nurses at the hospital all speak well of you, you’ve been of great assistance to Jenny, and my grandchildren adore you. So, you want to return to New York and go to nursing school, correct?”

Once again, Rachel had boxed herself into a corner by not telling the truth. She’d realized he was right—if her goal was to earn back Naomi’s money, working for Althea for a year would be the best choice. It made sense to earn the tuition money that way, too, though her urge to return to New York was as insistent as a
ringing bell. She intended to tell Dr. Abrams that she’d decided on Chicago, knowing it would please him, but he interrupted her.

“Did you know the Hospital for Consumptive Hebrews funds a nursing scholarship at Mount Sinai? The condition is that, after completing the course, the recipient will work here, but you’ve already done that, haven’t you? So, I put you up for the scholarship, and I’m pleased to tell you I was notified this morning that you have been selected. The scholarship will cover your tuition and housing, with a small stipend for books and expenses. When you arrive, the dean will test you to see how much you’ve learned on your own and place you in the appropriate classes. I wouldn’t be surprised if you finished in a year. You’d be welcome to return, but as I said, that won’t be a condition.”

Rachel couldn’t quite believe what he was saying. “But why?”

“Why what, Rachel?”

“Why are you and Mrs. Abrams so good to me? What did I do to deserve it?”

He looked amused. “If good only came to those who deserved it, the world would be a bleak place. In your case, though, our kindness has been amply rewarded, and at such little effort on our part. It’s our pleasure to know you’ll be a productive citizen, caring for others, able to take care of yourself. You know the Hebrew phrase
tikkun olam
?” Rachel shook her head. “I’m sure it’s the principle behind the orphanage that cared for you. It’s the belief behind the Hospital for Consumptive Hebrews as well. It means it is everyone’s responsibility to help someone else, for the good of us all. You’ve made it easy for us to live up to that belief, Rachel.”

Rachel expressed every iteration of gratitude she could think of until Dr. Abrams made her stop. They spoke a few minutes longer
about nursing school and the courses she would be taking. Rachel finally got up to say good night, thinking Dr. Abrams must have other things to do. As she was leaving his study, she turned in the doorway. “I’m sorry, but I was wondering about my last pay. Since Mrs. Cohen plans to travel on the thirtieth, would it be possible, do you know, for me to collect my wages before then?”

“Of course, Rachel, just let the accounting office know the twenty-ninth will be your last day.”

“Would you mind very much if my last day was the twenty-eighth?”

Dr. Abrams waved her off. “Just tell the accounting office. Oh, and I’ll make sure Dr. Cohen pays your train fare on to New York.”

Rachel left his study and went up to the Ivy Room, her mind jumping with plans. She’d make her final payment to Mrs. Hong the day after collecting her last pay, then depart for Chicago with Mrs. Cohen and the children. She’d arrive in New York practically penniless, but it would just be one night before school started—maybe she could spend it on a bench in the lobby of Penn Station. Tuition and housing with a stipend—she could hardly believe it. It was even better than if Nurse Dreyer had gone in front of the Scholarship Committee. She was grateful, truly, though more confounded than ever about how she could earn back Naomi’s money. Rachel wondered how long it would be, if she was very frugal with her stipend, before she could afford Naomi’s forgiveness.

August galloped to a close, spurred on by Althea’s preparations for departure. Before she knew it, Rachel was being handed her pay for the month. The next day, their last in Denver, she exasperated Althea, who already took Rachel’s time with the children for granted, when she told the family she could not help with their
packing. “I have something I need to do before we leave,” she said, excitement and anticipation showing in her face. After Rachel rushed out of the house, Mrs. Abrams said to her daughter, “If I didn’t know better, I’d think she was running off to say good-bye to some young man.”

When Rachel arrived in Hop Alley earlier than expected, Mrs. Hong held back her frustration. She had been planning to show the wig that evening to a new client, a final opportunity to use the remarkable hair as an advertisement of her skill. Still, she didn’t begrudge the girl the successful fulfillment of their contract. Mrs. Hong called in the calligrapher as a witness and made a show of setting fire to the scroll with their signatures on it, the three of them crowded on the fire escape, the burning paper fluttering down to the narrow lane of bricks.

To mark the occasion, Rachel had worn one of Mary’s prettiest summer dresses, linen that felt cool against the backs of her thighs. Mrs. Hong sat Rachel in front of a mirror and snugged the wig over her scalp. It framed her pale face, bringing out touches of pink in her cheeks and gold flecks in her dark eyes. Amelia’s hair seemed glad to have been liberated from the arrogant girl’s head and delivered to this more appreciative recipient.

“Miss Rachel is so beautiful,” Jade whispered. Sparrow clapped her hands.

“One more thing,” Mrs. Hong said, lifting Rachel’s chin. She sketched in eyebrows with an auburn wax pencil. “There.”

Rachel turned back to her reflection. For the first time in her life, she saw beauty. Mrs. Hong’s hand rested on her shoulder. Rachel turned and dropped a kiss on the fingers. In return, she felt a secret squeeze, then Mrs. Hong stepped back.

“Why aren’t you girls working?” she snapped. Sparrow and Jade jumped.

“Wait.” Rachel stopped them. “For you,” she said, placing in each little hand, fingertips already calloused, a shimmering length of satin ribbon. The girls closed their fists over the simple treasures, then glanced at Mrs. Hong.

“Fine, fine, just get back to work,” she said. The girls skittered away, the bamboo rustling from their passing.

“I’ll wear it home.” Rachel stood. As Mrs. Hong placed the form into a cylindrical box and topped it with a round lid, she instructed Rachel to always put the wig away properly, to brush and care for it. Lifting the box’s braided handles, Rachel said good-bye and clattered down the fire escape. The cloche hat lay forgotten on the worktable.

Mrs. Abrams and Althea were amazed to see Rachel come up the walk wearing the wig. Without admitting she’d cut the hair herself, she finally explained how she’d spent so many of her days off, as well as all her earnings. Little Mae tried to touch it, but for once Althea stepped in and pulled back her daughter’s sticky hand.

“You look like a real lady,” Simon said, though Rachel couldn’t tell if this was a compliment or a complaint.

“You look lovely, dear,” Mrs. Abrams said. “But then, you always did.”

That night in the Ivy Room, Rachel placed the wig on its form inside the box and draped Mary’s dress over the trunk to keep it from wrinkling. Various labels glued to the trunk’s lid made it seem as if Rachel had taken a steamship across the Atlantic and trains around Europe. At least she could add her own tag from
Denver to New York. It was a long time before she slept. Her head bare on the pillow, she felt her scalp wanting the wig.

In the morning, Rachel hovered as Henry helped Dr. Abrams muscle the steamer trunk downstairs. She was unreasonably nervous of it falling open, the drawers tipping forward, certain letters spilling out. But the straps and catches held, and the trunk was sent off to the station with the rest of Althea’s luggage. Rachel left her old cardboard suitcase under the bed and emerged from the Ivy Room carrying the hatbox instead. From head to toe, not a stitch or a strand was original to her.

“You are your own person now, Rachel,” Mrs. Abrams reminded her as she left the house on Colfax, her strong arms pulling Rachel close for an embrace. Rachel thought she understood what that meant and nodded. Dr. Abrams saw the family off at the station. Simon had outgrown the little boy who just last year had put his hand in Rachel’s. He walked ahead while little Mae hung from her arm and Althea struggled with her wriggling little boy, a baby no longer.

At Chicago’s Union Station, Dr. Cohen approached his wife and children, hat in one hand and flowers in the other. Althea tried to hold herself stiff, but the way she sank into his arms showed how much she needed him to love her. As promised, Dr. Cohen presented Rachel with a train ticket. Simon warned her about traveling alone. “Don’t trust anyone, Rachel, especially men with black masks.”

“You’ve been listening to too much radio, Simon.” Knowing he wanted a kiss but considered himself too old for one, Rachel extended her hand. They parted friends with a vigorous shake and promises to keep up their correspondence.

On the train to New York, Rachel practiced being her new
self. For the first time, people saw her without guessing at the smooth nothingness hidden under her wig. She noticed people’s eyes finding her face and hair, saw their faces soften, their mouths lift into smiles. She smiled back, pleased to be perceived as pretty. A strange excitement sparked in her, keeping her from sleep. Though she had a year of school and then who knows how many months of work to get through before she might be able to repay Naomi, she felt with each passing mile that she was getting closer to where she belonged.

Chapter Twenty

T
IME TO WAKE UP
, D
R.
S
OLOMON
.”

In the harsh illumination of the overhead light, Mildred Solomon’s withered skin looked gray. She blinked and twisted, pain pricking at her bones. On the nightstand, I placed the syringe for her midnight dose beside the full vial. She was a doctor—seeing the amount of morphine I’d collected, she’d understand its lethal potential. That’s what I wanted to see—the look Sam had seen in that Nazi’s eyes: fear, recognition, surrender. I remembered how Dr. Solomon used to bend over my crib, the way she’d look down at me as she plotted her experiments. How I’d gaze up at her, hungry for attention, pleased and proud she’d chosen me. I placed my hand on my breast, recalling Dr. Feldman’s yellowed fingers, knowing it was Mildred Solomon who had reached across time to plant this cancer in me. She’d set the clock on my whole life, ticking down the years, months, minutes. How many did I have left? Too few, because of her. She’d robbed me of my portion, decades lopped off that should have been mine. What life she had left could be measured in hours. Small recompense though they were, they belonged to me now. I had only to claim them.

“Water,” she croaked, the point of her tongue circling her cracked lips. “I’m thirsty.”

I propped her up, held a cup to her mouth, tilted it so she could drink. “Better?”

She shrugged. It was wearing on her, I could see, this uneven cycle of morphine—too much, enough, too little. The pulse in her neck vibrated, her bony chest fluttered. Her eyes lolled around the room, confused, questioning.

“Do you know where you are, Dr. Solomon?”

“Of course I do. I’m not senile. It’s that damn doctor, he prescribes too much.” She focused on me. “You’re Number Eight, aren’t you? I remember you. Did you get my pudding?”