The Many Daughters of Afong Moy(98)
Dorothy chewed her lip and fought to control waves of emotion. Grief and regret. Sadness and loss. She looked at Graham then back at Clarke. She wanted to melt into their kindness, their validation, their generosity. She sighed as she wished she was the person they saw. That she was that confident in her future, alone. In many ways, with her many problems and maladies, Louis had been a life raft in a sea of despair. He wasn’t a cruise ship, a yacht, or even a sailboat, but he’d been buoyant enough to keep her from drowning. Now she was floating free, but in an ocean of uncertainty. The words of John Clare echoed in her mind. I am the self-consumer of my woes. They rise and vanish in oblivious host. Like shadows in love’s frenzied, stifled throes.
I can get through this.
Graham got Annabel set up with some crayons and paper for drawing. Then he joined them in the kitchen. “You sure you need to go out right now?” he asked as he took Dorothy’s hand. “Seriously, Dot, the storm might not make it this far inland, or it could travel right over the city. No one knows for sure. Why don’t you just lie down for a bit? Play it safe, have some breakfast, then take a nice long nap.”
Dorothy rubbed her forehead. She rubbed her tired eyes, patted her cheek to try to focus. I need to see Dr. Shedhorn. Then I’ll figure out what to do after that.
Dorothy thanked them and respectfully declined.
She was tempted to stay, to hide from the storm and from life in general. She hugged them and felt in that moment more understanding, more kindness, and more tenderness than she’d received from Louis in months. Then she thought about her daughter. The woman on the train who had asked her to promise to take care of Annabel.
“I have to do something,” Dorothy said as she stood up and walked to the living room. “I can’t explain right now, but…” She left the sentence unfinished as she turned her attention to Annabel. Dorothy dropped to her knees and hugged her little girl. Squeezing her. She felt her hair. Inhaled every part of her. Dorothy wanted to care for her the way she always wished her own mother had. She’d grown up watching friends have normal relationships with their parents. Together they lived lives of solace and happiness, understanding and acceptance. All the things that were forever out of reach.
Dorothy recalled an old saying: death by misadventure.
The colorful phrasing seemed romantic and brave, like someone had perished while searching for a lost temple in the jungles of the Amazon, or on a sailing ship in winter, trying to discover the fabled Northern Passage, or high in the sky in a colorful dirigible, attempting to circumnavigate the globe. Dorothy remembered being disappointed upon learning that the phrase was a gentler way that Victorian newspapers described mental illness, madness, even suicide.
My whole life, an echo of so many generations, so close to love, to acceptance, to happiness, to joy, but always ending with so much… misadventure.
Dorothy held on as she wished to spare Annabel such a fate. She wanted her daughter to have a life with the love Dorothy had always felt was out there, just over the horizon, looking for her. She just didn’t know how or where to find it.
Dorothy looked into her daughter’s eyes.
“You’re my brave girl. You’re clever and creative and independent, and best of all you’re safe right here. Okay? I’d never let something bad happen to you. I love you, Baby-bel. I’ll always love you. And I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
In that moment, Dorothy realized that she wasn’t her mother, Greta. She was stronger. She was choosing rather than existing. Acting instead of being acted upon. Helping and hoping instead of sinking further into despair. She would make things right, for herself, which she realized was the only way to make things right for Annabel.
Dorothy held her daughter, and her tears, all through her goodbye.
She thanked Graham and Clarke once again. She sighed as she watched her daughter, crayons in her tiny hands, drawing sky tigers as the door closed.
She walked to the subway with her hood up, her face down, in case facial-recognition cameras might see her and report her location. It was in the protective shell of her raincoat, hidden from the world, that the tears finally came, like the rain.
* * *
When Dorothy arrived in Ballard the veil of storm clouds that appeared earlier had coalesced into a high, gray overcast. But despite the cold rain that blanketed the city, people were still out on the streets in droves. Packing their cars, or queued up at grocery stores, hardware stores, liquor stores, and weed dispensaries.
Dorothy watched as locals passed the windowless office of Epigenesis without a glance. The small, nondescript, and unadorned building, so out of step with the urban Botox that transformed the face of the city, now looked beautiful, sublime, and practical, the way constancy is comfort when surrounded by chaos. Plus, there were no windows to board up and nothing of pedestrian value to loot. The offices of Epigenesis looked like a silent observer, all-seeing but invisible.
A metaphor for their treatment, Dorothy mused as she tried the door, then cursed when she realized it was locked. She kicked it. Pounded on it furiously, screaming in frustration until her fist hurt and passing strangers looked at her pityingly, shaking their heads, whispering to one another as they hastened by.
With her hand aching, Dorothy immediately regretted coming here. She didn’t have an appointment until well after the storm, but she was desperate and didn’t know where else to go for help. She’d turned her phone off for fear of being tracked by the GPS. Then used an old phone card and left a series of messages for Dr. Shedhorn that she was now embarrassed by, as each one was a bit more frantic than the last. She came to the office hoping that someone would be here, prepping for the storm, moving things, or at least that there might be an IN CASE OF AN EMERGENCY sign with an after-hours number she could call, less frantically.