Clearing Dorcas Cantrel from my mind is not proving to be a simple task.
***
“Reid, I’ve listened to your voicemail three times. Am I fol owing this correctly—you want to donate money to some missionary organization in South America?” I’m confusing the hel out of my father—an unexpected bonus. “Yeah, that’s correct.”
“Should I be worried about a cult, brainwashing, Hari Krishnas?”
“Yeah, Dad, there are tons of Hari Krishnas in Ecuador.” Before he retorts and we end up in a battle of wits (where the loser is pretty much always me), I add, “I heard about it from a girl at Habitat. If she’s involved, it’s legit. I thought it would be a good use of my charity budget.”
“Oh-kay.” He draws the word out, derisive as usual. I turn the receiver up and away from my mouth for a moment and force myself to breathe and not react. “I’m not used to you guiding your charitable contributions, not to mention those recently purchased cars—which, I remind you, are not tax-deductible since they went directly to the recipients and you insisted on anonymity.”
I’m silent for a moment. “We’ve already discussed my reasons for that decision, Dad, so I’m waiting for your point.”
“Hmph,” he says. “How much do you want to donate to this… mission organization?”
I tel him, and there’s no reply. “Dad?”
The sound of air hissing through his teeth is unmistakable. “I think I need to meet the girl who’s inspired al of this uncharacteristic— giving.” Jesus Christ. I wouldn’t introduce Dori to my father if he begged. “I haven’t seen her since she went to Quito, actual y. She should be at Berkeley now.”
“She’s a student at Berkeley?” He sounds impressed. I tamp down the jealousy. “What’s she studying?”
“Social work.”
“What? She’s wasting an education at Berkeley to study social work?”
I bristle, but recognize that it’s more than just my father and his typical disdain for any career path that doesn’t make a shit-ton of money. Not that mine seems to impress him. “Dori is exactly the sort of person who should do that kind of thing,” I say. I’m annoyed with myself for having had the same opinion of her chosen career path that he does.
Honestly, it stil shocks me that someone with a voice like she has could purposeful y pursue anything but using it.
“Oh?” he says, with an extra helping of disdain. “And why is that?”
“Because she wholeheartedly gives a shit, Dad.”
*** *** ***
Dori
Once the specialists were in agreement that there was nothing further they could do, I knew my parents would accept the truth. Equal y inspiring and disconcerting to witness, my parents had maintained their faith in my sister’s eventual recovery against al evidence to the contrary. I prepared myself to catch the emotional fal out from my mother, who for al of her medical competence and practicality had staunchly refused to concede defeat.
After our final consultation with Deb’s medical team, the three of us are silent on the way to her tiny apartment. The damage my sister suffered in her fal appears irrefutably permanent. Damaged areas of her brain aren’t expected to recover, though it’s possible that at some point she might begin reacting to a stimulus like a familiar voice. “By react,” one of the doctors clarified, “we mean minute physical responses like a change in breathing pattern, or some smal movement of say, eyelids or digits. We don’t foresee her ever regaining the ability to communicate through speech, however.”
Once back at the apartment, my parents slide into adjacent chairs at the tiny kitchen table, shel -shocked. I reheat a pan of lasagna provided by one of the nurses who’d worked with Deb. Final y, Mom clears her throat. “I’l start cal ing people tomorrow to get recommendations for a suitable long-term care facility close to home.” I’m relieved to hear the return of her natural pragmatism. She glances around the cozy living room. “We’l need to rent a truck to move her things, and a storage facility in LA. Hopeful y, someday soon, she’l need her things again.” I pause in slicing the Italian loaf on the cutting board, turning my face away. I want to scream in frustration. Deb wil never live independently again. Nothing said by any of the doctors could have encouraged this belief, or even a hope of it. Years ago, I might have been wil ing to join the delusion, but I don’t believe in miracles—not for Deb, not for anyone. Maybe I haven’t in a long time, and I’m just now aware of it.
Deb’s apartment has to be sublet, utilities turned off, creditors notified. These details fal to Dad while I distribute her patio ful of plants to neighbors and hospital staff after convincing Mom that they would bring comfort to the people Deb cared for, that it would be impractical to take them with us. As I deliver containers of geraniums and fuchsias and hanging baskets of bougainvil ea, I’m greeted with hugs and tears. I meet with Bradford last, in his smal private office. I bring him an English ivy, the least demanding plant of Deb’s col ection, and a box of belongings he left in her apartment. I’d discovered his razor and toothbrush in her medicine cabinet, and a drawer containing a pair of his jeans along with socks, boxers and t-shirts.
“I packed up these things our first night at Deb’s,” I say, placing the box on his desk. He stares at it, unmoving. “I’d hoped that when we went back home to LA, I’d just be whispering to my sister where she could find your toothbrush and extra boxers.” My voice breaks, but I keep talking. “If there’s anything missing, let me know and I’l find it and send it to you. Mom plans to put her stuff in storage…”