The Many Daughters of Afong Moy(20)
“We’re not married,” Dorothy corrected. “And what do you mean by strange? Annabel can be a bit dreamy and distracted at times, but I think that’s part of the job description of a five-year-old. Maybe even certain thirty-one-year-olds.” Dorothy pointed at herself. She tried to joke, but she’d seen how restless her daughter had become lately and worried that Annabel might be picking up on the tension between Louis and her.
“Oh, I apologize. I should learn not to presume.” Toshiko made a note on the front desk computer. “I know this time of year, with the nonstop rain, the flood warnings, it can all be pretty stressful for grown-ups—but for little ones, we see all kinds of unusual reactions, different ways of coping. What’s been happening with your daughter, specifically, involves nap time. As you know, after lunch, we put out cots and each child stretches out with a small blanket from home. We then lead them through a short mindfulness exercise. I’ve been here for a while. I’ve definitely seen kids fight it. But those fifteen minutes of meditation have worked miracles, especially with the restless children. It’s a simple way to work on their neuroplasticity. Before you know it they’re out cold, drooling on their pillow, and when they wake up their focus has improved.”
“Is Annabel drooling again? I’ll have a talk with her.”
“No, it’s nothing like that. I’d love it if she were drooling, but the problem is, her focus has been acutely elsewhere. Last week it took an unusual turn.”
“Really?” Dorothy asked. “Like, daydreaming?”
Toshiko rubbed her temple, as though she didn’t want to trouble Dorothy with this latest information when all the residents of Seattle were still trying to recover. “Last week, as the other kids had tucked in with their blankets and were focusing on their breathing, Annabel just lay there, staring up at the ceiling. When one of the teachers asked what was wrong… she didn’t respond. She was unresponsive for several minutes. Her teacher thought she was teasing. After all, Annabel’s medical history shows no previous signs of seizures or narcolepsy, but she is quite precocious. Then when she snapped out of her daydream, or whatever it was, she began crying. We calmed her down and then she fell asleep, almost immediately, and when she woke up she didn’t remember it. I thought that perhaps something was going on at home, or maybe she’d seen something online that upset her, or on the news. Things that we take for granted can often be quite upsetting to someone so young.”
“Not that I know of,” Dorothy said, embarrassed and concerned about her daughter’s peculiar behavior. Worried that Louis would use Annabel acting out as another example of how Dorothy had failed as a mother. “Thank you, I’ll look into it.”
* * *
Dorothy tried to clear her head as she walked through the rainy corridors of downtown Seattle, which looked like a prizefighter’s face after going twelve rounds for the title. Instead of black eyes and missing teeth, the weather-beaten buildings were missing windows and a few doors, leaving offices and storefronts as murky hollows. Most of the damage had been boarded up, though some had been left dark and vacant as local lumberyards were in short supply of everything.
She remembered stepping out of their building after the storm passed and being overwhelmed by the salty stench of damp seaweed. The rain had eased to a drizzle and the water had long since receded. The power had come back on, illuminating streets strewn with bull kelp, eelgrass, tubeworms, starfish, and the occasional dogfish that had been sucked up into the storm surge and marooned along the waterfront. The city seemed eerily quiet in the absence of moving cars, except for the sounds of seagulls and murders of crows noisily squabbling for feasting rights upon the small, bottom-dwelling sharks that lay rotting on the sidewalks.
Annabel seemed fine at the time, lost in her own imaginary world.
Today the avenues had been cleared just enough to be reclogged with bumper-to-bumper traffic and adorned with street musicians and buskers who reoccupied their usual corners. As Dorothy walked to the entrance of King Street Subway Station, she noticed the policeman who’d helped her on the night of the storm. A streetlight was being repaired, and he was directing traffic. She waved and he nodded, his arms in motion, though she wasn’t sure if he recognized her or was just being cordial. Then he yelled, “Hey, how was the tofu?” much to the confusion of the other pedestrians.
Dorothy smiled and kept walking. A block away she turned and looked back, hoping to catch another glimpse, but he was gone.
When she got to the station, she passed a Buddhist monk who was playing a flute, badly. He looked lean and pale, with jaundiced eyes. Dorothy dropped money into his basket, wondering if he had hepatitis or was coming down with what the news was now calling “Emerald Fever.” This particularly pernicious breed of leptospirosis caught the city off guard four years ago, but now most knew to avoid pools of standing water, stray animals, and anywhere mosquitos might breed. The monk nodded and played faster. Another monk, a woman, smiled and offered Dorothy a bracelet made of wooden beads. When she said, “No thank you,” the woman frowned and handed Dorothy a thin, gold-colored medallion. She glanced down at the image of the Buddha, then groaned. The cheap medallions were the hallmark of fake Buddhists, panhandlers in saffron robes. Dorothy shrugged and put it in her coat pocket anyway.
On the subway, Dorothy felt a subtle change in the social fabric of the city. There were more smiles and eye contact than usual. Strangers joked about the storm or the smells or were generally more considerate in ways they hadn’t been before. Even the Amazon workers looked happy.