I grab April’s hand, feeling vindicated now that the doctor is taking her symptoms seriously, but also nervous.Immediate interventionmakes it sound like we barely made it here on time.
He gives us a smile. “Don’t worry. Things are about to get a lot better for you two.”
That would be very comforting, if it wasn’t the type of thing someone says right before springing a trap.
***
THE HOSPITAL STINKSof alcohol. It’s antiseptic, they say, and I do have memories of that. Back in Port Alberni, they used to brew a powerful bathtub spirit for rubbing on cuts or sewing up wounds after surgeries. But my eyes water as if to saythis can’t be healthy, and I almost drag April from the place. Except I wouldn’t have a clue where to go. After we got to the dock, they transferred us into a covered wagon with the doctor. I know we travelled vaguely northeast, but that’s not enough information to formulate an escape plan.
April gives me a helpless look when the doctor insists on taking her into one of the examination rooms alone.
I try to sneak past the nurses. “Why can’t I come?”
“Youneed to fill out paperwork,” says the woman managing the front desk. She presses a clipboard into my hands. “Also, you’re supposed to eat this. Doctor wants to make sure you get a square meal today.”
She passes me a sandwich—something I only recognize because once upon a time, they were the culinary preference of children ages three to eight and feature heavily in picture books. Is this wheat bread? Wheat is such a pill to grow on rocky terrain, I can’t comprehend why anyone would bother. I set the strange food and clipboard aside.
“I can do that later.” I take another step toward April, but the woman throws an arm out, barring me.
“I’m sorry, hon. You’re not going back there. Not to Emergency.” She gives me a sad smile. “You’ve gotta let Doctor Tremblay do his part. He’ll take good care of your sister.”
“This is Emergency?”
Hospitals don’t feature heavily in lifestyle magazines or storybook illustrations, so I’ve never known how to picture one. From this view, it’s mostly hallways. Behind us there are a few chairs and a potted plant. There’s a young woman seated in the corner, regarding me with interest, a ball of yarn lying forgotten in her lap. Nothing like what my mind conjured when I heard the wordhospital, let aloneemergency. What did I expect? Blood squirting out of bodies?
“Why don’t you take a seat?” The Desk Lady guides me towards the seating area and the one other occupant snaps back to her crochet, as if she hadn’t been gawking. “Tom should be here soon. He’ll get you sorted.”
“Who’s Tom?”
“Your immigration officer. He’s a peach, dear. He’ll take good care of you and—oh! Here he comes now!”
A bell tinkles above the door and I turn. In walks a man older than anyone I’ve seen since leaving Astolia. He’s at least sixty, judging by the amount of grey in his beard and the lines etched into his skin. His hair has more colour left, enough to make it clear it used to be red. He uses a cane to support his left leg, which means that if we ran into each other out in the wilds, I wouldn’t need to run away from him.
And yet, his arrival makes my stomach clench. Perhaps it’s the shrewd look in his eyes as he scans me—a look I would never associate with someone who isjust a peach. I know instantly who he reminds me of.
The Grand Astrologue. The son of a bitch who ran the colony my parents and I fled to after Port Alberni fell. The markers of power are different—the Grand Astrologue dressed in long robes, whereas this Tom guy just carries a briefcase—but they’re there. He must be someone important; how else would he still be alive at his age?
“It’s good to meet you. I’m Tom Sullivan.” He gives me a slight nod. “I’m assuming you’re either Kayla or April?”
I don’t say anything, fighting my impulse to kick him in his bad leg and run.
He lets out a laboured sigh. “I’m sorry. Do you speak English? There weren’t any notes from the border guard about primary language—”
“Oh, she can talk plenty. Lots of questions about that sweet little sister of hers.” Desk Lady steps forward, smiling enough for the three of us. “Tom, meet Kayla. Why don’t I set you two up in one of our other rooms? We’ll come find you when your sister is ready for visitors.”
“Thank you, Pat,” says Tom. He winces as he stepsforward on his bad leg. Okay, Imightbe reading too much into his grim expressions.
“Go on, dear.” Pat nudges me forward, and it’s only because of her that I finally relent and follow him. At least they’re letting me past the front desk. Maybe I’ll be able to sneak off and find April once Tom’s back is turned.
Pat escorts us to a room with long, electric light fixtures hanging overhead which, naturally, are not on. The one window is small, and there are no candles, making it a dark, dingy place. Tom takes the desk below the window so that he can use what little light we have. He sets his briefcase on the desk, pops open the latches and removes some papers.
“Please, take a seat.” He gestures to the chair on the other side of the desk. My eyes flick around, trying to work out if this room was used by patients or for doctor meetings thirty-two years ago when the lights still worked. “Take a seat,please.”
“Do I have to?” I would rather be close to the door, where I might get a sense of what’s happening to April.
This question produces a huff from Tom Sullivan. “You’re not used to trusting strangers, are you?”
“Excuse me?” The answer to that is obvious, but I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of sayingyes.
