Orphan #8 (42 page)

In the coming months, so much would be beyond my power, but there were things I could look forward to. Moving back to the Village for one. There wouldn’t be time, before my surgery, for Naomi to sell this place, but she and I could take a day to go apartment hunting around Washington Square, put a deposit down on a place with bright windows and water that wasn’t brown. We’d move as soon as I felt up to it. Our old friends would start dropping by again, the two of us free in their presence to be ourselves. We’d go out to our favorite restaurants, the occasional patron off the street clueless as to the true meaning of so many tables occupied by pairs of women. We’d stroll the narrow sidewalks, searching out those couples of men walking slightly too close together, the backs of their hands touching as if by accident. When Naomi’s uncle moved to Florida she had convinced me it was a good idea to move out here, and I had to admit the money we’d saved would come in handy now, but she knew what it meant to me—had come
to realize what it meant to her, too—to know we weren’t alone in the world.

There was something else I’d been putting off for too long. After we moved, once I had my strength back, I would go visit my brother in Israel. I knew Naomi wouldn’t like me to be so far away, but she’d have to let me grab my chance to see Sam and Judith and Ayal before it was too late. I wanted to meet this woman who was my sister, to feel the weight of my nephew on my lap. I thought of the wall they had built around their kibbutz, topped with barbed wire and patrolled by soldiers, men and women both. I hoped peace would come soon. I hated to think of Ayal growing up behind walls the way we had. Sam ought to know better than anyone that no child should grow up that way.

I guessed I’d return to work after that, though I knew as soon as the thought crossed my mind that I could never go back to the Old Hebrews Home, not even for one last shift. Not that I feared discovery for what I’d done to Mildred Solomon—knowing their routines and regulations, I was certain I’d never be suspected. I could even imagine facing Gloria and Flo again. After all, wasn’t I practiced in telling them falsehoods? No, it was simpler than that. I was done with Homes. Instead I’d look for a position in an office, like Betty had with Dr. Feldman: more paperwork than caretaking, no heavy lifting of patients in and out of bed. I wished I could tell the truth about myself so I wouldn’t have to waste my energy on lies, but one false word could ruin me and Naomi both. It was such a little thing to say roommate or friend instead of lover or wife. I’d try not to let it tax me so.

The stars were starting to fade as darkness loosened its grip on
the sky. An engine idled in the street below as a stack of morning papers was tossed onto the sidewalk in front of our building. The custodian would come out soon, bring in the stack, cut the twine, walk the halls, drop the news on our doorsteps. I looked out at the emerging shape of the Wonder Wheel and cast my mind into the future. Dr. Feldman said the operation could buy me five years, maybe more. I swore to myself I’d live them well.

I went inside and put up a fresh pot of coffee. It was about time I told Naomi everything, no waiting for morning. I carried two cups into the bedroom, set them on the nightstand, stroked her arm to wake her.

“What time is it?” she mumbled, sitting up.

“It’s early. I made coffee.”

“I can smell it.” She switched on the light and lifted the rim to her lips, blowing at it before sipping. We looked at each other—me clean and smooth, her frowzy from sleep. It still seemed a miracle to have her back again. When our cups were empty, I took a deep breath. There’d be no more avoiding the tears that were in store for us today.

“I have to talk to you about something, Naomi.”

My tone must have alerted her. “What is it, is something wrong?”

The word—
cancer
—caught in my throat, that hard
C
stuck like a swallowed bone. I struggled to push it out, stuttering like Mr. Bogan. I fished around for something to take the place of the word I meant to say, something that would meet the level of concern in her eyes.

“Colorado,” I said, avoiding it yet again. “Do you remember back when I ran away from the Home, to Colorado?”

“Sure.” She frowned, wondering, no doubt, where this conversation was going.

“There’s something I never told you about that.” It was so many years ago it couldn’t possibly matter anymore, and yet I felt that wave of shame. “When I took your money, I didn’t know anything about my account. I had no idea you’d get paid back. The truth is, I stole it. I stole from you.”

Naomi considered me for a long moment, as if trying to puzzle out the face in a Picasso portrait. “I never wanted to believe that, but maybe I always knew. I mean, that’s what I thought at first, and it made me feel so terrible, like you used me and then tossed me away when you were done with me. It made me feel as bad about myself as I did about you. But when Nurse Dreyer arranged for me to get paid back, it was the only thing that made sense, to think you meant it all along. I mean, it was the only thing that fit with how I felt about you, how I thought you felt about me.”

“It did fit, more than what I did. I look back on it now and it’s like I was a hypnotized version of myself. I was so desperate to find Sam, to find my family, it blocked out everything else. Even you.”

“So when you came back, you must have expected me to be mad at you.”

“I didn’t think you could ever forgive me. I thought I’d ruined any chance I had to be with you.”

“But you came back anyway.” She cupped the back of my naked scalp. “That was brave of you.”

How much confession did one conversation require? Instead of explaining the haphazard coincidence of how I came to be on the carousel at that moment on that day, I simply nodded.

“I would have forgiven you, you know that, if you had just asked.”

“But I never did. I let you believe a lie all these years.”

“It’s not too late, is it? Ask me now.”

“Naomi, I’m so sorry I stole your money. I’m sorry I lied to you. Please forgive me.”

She smiled and kissed me. “Done. Now, is there any more coffee? Or was there something else you wanted to talk about?”

I was drawing my breath when I heard a dull thud as the newspaper hit our apartment door. “Just a minute, I want to check something.” I ran out for the paper, found the time for sunrise, checked the clock. Less than an hour away. It would be my last reprieve before telling her everything.

I came back into the bedroom and tugged at her arm. “Listen, we’ll talk more later, but I want you to get up. I want you to come to the beach with me.”

“To the beach? But it’s still dark out.”

“No, it isn’t, it’s getting light. I want to see the sunrise. Please?”

“Why don’t you just come to bed?” She pulled back the sheets, inviting me in. Any other day I’d have been tempted.

“It’ll be my birthday present, this sunrise, okay? It’s all I want.”

Naomi pouted. “That not fair, you’re bribing me.”

“I know.” I tugged her out of bed, shoved her toward the bathroom. “Just throw something on.” I exchanged my robe for shorts and a top, not even bothering with a wig. “We have to hurry.”

We could see well enough in the shadowless dawn, the silvery light coming ahead of the sun like a crier. The boardwalk was deserted. Our sandals slapped over the wood planks and down the
steps to the beach. Barefoot now, the freshly raked sand sifted through our toes. We sat down near the water, the horizon a distant line. The heat wave had broken and the air off the ocean was fresh. I hadn’t thought to grab a sweater.

“Here, share mine,” she said. We each thrust an arm through a sleeve, the cotton knit stretched across our two backs.

The planet turned toward the sun as it always does. We lay back on the sand as color claimed the sky: first pink, then lavender, and finally, blue.

Acknowledgments

M
Y SINCERE THANKS FOR READING AND RESPONDING
to drafts of the novel go to Art Berman, Neil Connelly, Catherine Dent, Misun Dokko, Anna Drallios, Margaret Evans, Marie Hathaway, Alex Hovet, Stephanie Jirard, Helen Walker, Karen Walborn, Petra Wirth, and Rita van Alkemade. This story would not have existed without the inspiration of my late grandfather, Victor Berger, who grew up in the Hebrew Orphan Asylum of New York, and his mother, Fannie Berger, who worked there as Reception House counselor. I am also indebted to my grandmother, Florence Berger, keeper of our family’s history; to Leona Ferrer, Disclosure Coordinator of the Jewish Child Care Association; to Susan Breen and Paula Munier of the Algonkian Pitch Conference; to Jeff Wood of Whistlestop Bookshop; and to Shippensburg University of Pennsylvania. I am deeply grateful to everyone at William Morrow, especially Tessa Woodward, without whose guidance this novel would not be what it is today.

References

Here are some of the sources—books, museums, archives—that inspired and informed
Orphan #8
.

Abrams, Jeanne E.
Jewish Denver 1859–1940
. Chicago: Arcadia Publishing, 2007.

Beloff, Zoe, Ed.
The Coney Island Amateur Psychoanalytic Society and Its Circle
. New York: Christine Burgin, 2009.

Bernard, Jaqueline.
The Children You Gave Us: A History of 150 Years of Service to Children
. New York: Jewish Child Care Association, 1973.

Blair, Edward.
Leadville: Colorado’s Magic City
. Boulder, CO: Fred Pruett Books, 1980.

Bogan, Hyman.
The Luckiest Orphans: A History of the Hebrew Orphan Asylum
. Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 1992.

Caprio, Frank S., M.D.
Female Homosexuality: A Psychodynamic Study of Lesbianism
. New York: Citadel Press, 1954.

Donizetti, Pino.
Shadow and Substance: The Story of Medical Radiography
. New York: Pergamon Press, 1967.

Emerson, Charles Phillips, M.D.
Essentials of Medicine: A Text-book of Medicine for Students Beginning a Medical Course, for Nurses, and for All Others Interested in the Care of the Sick
. Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott Company, 1925.

Friedman, Reena Sigman.
These Are Our Children: Jewish Orphanages in the United States, 1880–1925
. Hanover: Brandeis University Press, 1994.

“Gilded Lions and Jeweled Horses: The Synagogue to the Carousel.” American Folk Art Museum, 45 West Fifty-third Street, New York, NY. February 2, 2008.

Grodin, Michael A., and Leonard H. Glantz.
Children as Research Subjects: Science, Ethics, and the Law
. New York: Oxford University Press, 1994.

Hales, Carol.
Wind Woman
. New York: Woodford Press, 1953.

Hebrew Orphan Asylum Collection, American Jewish Historical Society Archives, Center for Jewish History, 15 West Sixteenth Street, New York, NY.

Hess, Alfred F., M.D.
Scurvy Past and Present
. Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott, 1920. Available online through
HathiTrust Digital Library
.

Howe, Irving.
World of Our Fathers: The Journey of the East European Jews to America and the Life They Found and Made
. New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1976.

Jessiman, Andrew G., M.D., and Francis D. Moore, M.D.
Carcinoma of the Breast: The Study and Treatment of the Patient
. Boston: Little, Brown and Company, 1956.

Jewish Consumptives Relief Society Collection, Beck Archives, University Libraries, University of Denver, Denver, CO.

Lesbian Herstory Archives, 484 Fourteenth Street in Brooklyn, NY.

Lower East Side Tenement Museum, 103 Orchard Street, New York, NY.

Mould, Richard F.
A Century of X-rays and Radioactivity in Medicine: With Emphasis on Photographic Records of the Early Years
. Philadelphia: Institute of Physics Publishing, 1993.

Museum of the City of New York, 1220 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY.

New York Academy of Medicine Library, 1216 Fifth Avenue at 103rd Street, New York, NY.

Nyiszli, Dr. Miklos.
Auschwitz: A Doctor’s Eyewitness Account
. 1960. Foreword by Bruno Bettelheim 1960. Trans. Richard Seaver 1993. New York: Arcade Publishing, 2011.

The Unicorn Book of 1954
. New York: Unicorn Books, 1955.

Wesley, J. H., M.D. “The X-Ray Treatment of Tonsils and Adenoids.”
The Canadian Medical Association Journal
15.6 (June 1925): 625–627. Available online through
PubMed Central
.

Yezierska, Anzia.
Bread Givers
. 1925. New York: Persea Books, 1999.

P.S. Insights, Interviews & More . . . *

About the author

Meet Kim van Alkemade

About the book

The True Stories That Inspired
Orphan #8

Reading Group Guide for
Orphan #8

About the author

Meet Kim van Alkemade

KIM VAN ALKEMADE
was born in New York City and spent her childhood in suburban New Jersey. Her late father, an immigrant from the Netherlands, met her mother, a descendant of Eastern European Jewish immigrants, in the Empire State Building. Kim attended college in Wisconsin, earning a doctorate in English from UW-Milwaukee. She is a professor at Shippensburg University and lives in Carlisle, Pennsylvania. Her creative nonfiction essays have been published in literary journals including
Alaska Quarterly Review
,
So To Speak
, and
CutBank. Orphan #8
is her first novel.