This is kinda cool
Parents shouldn’t have to die. Hell, when you think about it, people shouldn’t have to die either. I felt a movement of warmth shift on my left side and looked down, contemplating the young boy nestled in the crook of my arm. His mother died tonight and there was nothing I could do to prevent it. My name is Jonathan Townesend III and I am one of the 40 doctors on call at Ellis Island. Though the century turned only a couple of years ago, modern medicine still hasn’t caught up with the other modern innovations that have debuted in 1903.
Life was fairly easy for me, unlike for most of the immigrants that I meet in my practice here. My ancestors arrived from England just before the American Revolution and worked for some rich folks out on a farm in Long Island. My grandfather was interested in making his way in the world and made it all the way to California. He was swept up in the big Gold Rush of ’49 and did well enough to return to New York to settle down and raise his kids in an upper middle class environment. My father went to college and, while he dreamed of medical school, only made it to pharmacist. I, the oldest of my parent’s four children actually realized the dream and graduated from NYU’s School of Medicine a couple of years ago.
I always had an interest in helping the poor and so accepted a post at Ellis Island last year. I thought that I could make a difference in the world while practicing what I loved. My parents were disappointed to say the least, they had hoped I would establish a private practice but soon resigned themselves to my choice and supported me through my decision. Things went fairly well my first year. Certainly, life was hectic, with me working almost 12-hour days and seeing about 400-500 new citizens-in-the-making per day but I enjoyed it---until today.
I was taking one of my very few and far between breaks from duty, crawled up on the bottom wooden floor of the building, trying to read a very interesting article on the progressive party in the NY Times. It was summer and a new boat had arrived with even more immigrants expected than the previous record setting day as I had been told before the Island opened for business at 9 am that morning. Usually, I just sit in my corner and read, trying to ignore the hustle and bustle of the confused immigrants around me, coming off the boat and making their way up the very large staircase to the immense registry room. It was there that their fate is determined and, after many questions/inspections, they are given a clean bill of health to enter the U.S. or are told that they have to leave on the next available steamer to go back to the misery that they came from.
This morning, I was trying to read and ignore everyone when, for a minute, I caught a woman and a small boy out of the corner of my eye. A couple of things attracted me. First of all, she was very pretty even though she wasn’t very young, if asked, under forty I would have to say, but definitely older than me. She was dressed rather well for an immigrant but this was not really surprising since we had been told to expect people arriving from England as well as Ireland and some Scottish. It was mostly the British that could afford to dress presentable at the end of their journey after paying for a third or even a second class ticket. The brown-haired, brown-eyed woman, wearing a rather fashionable long blue dress was holding the hand of a young, also presentably dressed boy of about 10. He did not struggle or complain, seeming to have an air of maturity so lacking at this age. Unfortunately, I could tell, even from where I was sitting, that this woman was very ill. She tried to keep a steady gait with assistance from her son but struggled to keep an overall dignified appearance. She slowly made her way down into the building but it was to be at least another hour before she even made it to the staircase leading to the registry room. We were just too crowded today and I felt sad that she would probably become sicker in the stifling mid-summer heat. Though several yards away and walking with a strong determination, she seemed to have a sense that I was following her movements. She looked, scanning the enormous crowded hall and seemed to find me at once. Her eyes drew me in and I felt myself being drawn mentally toward her. I was being pulled in, drowning in her gaze, my world narrowing to just her and her eyes. For a minute, I forgot where I was and even couldn’t hear the normal background noises.
I think it must have been the oppressive heat but I almost could have swore that I heard something. It seemed that I could hear her thoughts in my head, almost saying “Don’t worry. I will be fine. My sickness is only temporary.”
Somehow, I broke the connection and looked away quickly. When my gaze returned to the spot where she had been standing, she was not there. I tried to follow her path from the steamer but this was virtually impossible with all the new immigrants that had begun crowding the halls after embarking. I had a strong feeling, though, that being a doctor here, unfortunately, I would see her later. I hated being one of the officials, perhaps, the official that denied her entrance into America.
Dreading the call but receiving it anyway, I was summoned by the oldest doctor at Ellis Island, my former mentor, Dr. Hutchinson, to consult with him about a patient. Not surprisingly, it was the young woman that had made me feel strange when I saw her that morning. He asked me to examine the young woman. Since the immigrants were still ‘in line’ as it were, one could only do a quick inspection of heart, eyes, lungs, etc.
“Well, what do you think, Johnny?” my mentor asked after I had finished all of the preliminaries with her very scared but attentive young son watching my every move.
“I’m not certain.” I answered, hesitant. The patient, Mrs. Wilhelmina Harker, widowed almost ten years earlier and newly arrived from England with her young son, Quincey Harker, was a medical mystery to me. She appeared weak, had a erratic, shallow pulse and possessed an intense whiteness of the skin. After examining her lower eyelids,
I was certain she had pernicious anemia. However, it also seemed as if she must have developed diphtheria during her voyage since there appeared to be thin membranes growing over her nose and throat passages. I told Dr. Hutchinson exactly what I was thinking.
“What would you do with her then?” my mentor asked. He was testing my newly formed confidence which had grown quite large in the year at Ellis Island.
“I think we should take a blood sample.” I replied. “I can wire my colleagues at NYU and have the sample sent by boat within the hour. It’s best if we could use their lab. This is a difficult diagnosis and their special equipment would allow me to rule out diphtheria and the like. As a precaution, though, she probably should be quarantined in the hospital here. Unfortunately, she cannot be moved in such a delicate condition.”
I added “Oh, and I think she should be given a blood transfusion. I don’t know how long Mrs. Harker will remain conscious if she isn’t. Unfortunately, she’ll have to stay in the island hospital for awhile. We can’t allow her entrance into the country until we can give her a clean bill of health.”
“And what about my son, Doctor Townesend?” Mrs. Harker’s question made me self-consciously start. I hadn’t heard her speak until then but her voice, while soft and definitely feminine, was made of steel within.
I felt sorry for the boy. Heck, I felt sorry for the entire family. It was my fault that he might lose his chance at immigration. And there was nothing wrong with him. However, since he was under 15, it was impossible that he would be given a chance to stay in the country alone. Child labor was still alive but not all that well anymore.
“Is there anyone living in the States that can take care of him while you recuperate here?” I asked Mrs. Harker.
She pondered the question thoughtfully for a few minutes.
“Mom,” the boy asked in a small voice. He pulled on her sleeve just a little.
“How about Aunt Constanza and Uncle Wolfie? They‘d take me in.”
“I don’t think so dear. We haven‘t spoken with them for quite awhile.”
“Well, how ‘bout Auntie Anastasia from Russia?
“No, she hasn’t immigrated here yet.”
“Uncle Arthur and Aunt Guen---?”
“Shush, Quincey. Please. Just be quiet for awhile.” Mrs. Harker, trying to think while her illness raged, was quickly losing patience with her quick-talking but well-meaning son. She looked me up and down, mentally considering something yet unspoken.
Finally, she turned and said to me, “If you could just keep him with you, I might be able to cable a relative. It wouldn’t be for that long. They could come and pick him up this evening.”
“Of course, Mrs. Harker, “ I replied. “Don’t worry. Your son can stay with me.”
The boy looked at me and seemed rather upset that he would be in my custody for the remainder of the day. I knew that the boy was under a lot of stress and decided that he would have been more agreeable in a different situation. I put out my hand to the boy who took it reluctantly. “I’ll take around with me.” I assured his mother. “I’ll show him my office...buy him lunch.” Then, to the child I added, “We’ll have a great time together!”
The boy, Quincey, seemed to show some trepidation about leaving his mother but she pushed him forward toward me and gently reminded him that he could visit her later in the Island’s hospital. Before I took the boy away to leave his mother in the care of Dr. Hutchinson, I inquired as to how much baggage they had. With all the theft going around, I wanted the boy to at least be able to keep his personal belongings with him and safe. So, I asked Mrs. Harker “Did you arrive with any important items that you would like the boy to keep with himself?”
“Well, we did come with two small items of luggage. One is mine. I’ll keep that with me. He can take his bag with him. It just has a change of clothes, some books and..“ Mrs. Harker whispered to me, “some childhood things that he won’t part with.”
“Oh, I almost forgot, “ she added, almost hesitant. “We do possess a large trunk that contains some very precious objects. I’m afraid to store it in the baggage room because it has my jewelry and some monies inside. It’s locked and I have the only key.”
Then, she turned that very special gaze that I had felt earlier and, looking directly at me with eyes that carried much more weight than they should have, said “You really don’t need me to open the trunk, do you?”
And before I could think, I heard my voice, as if from far away, say, “No, ma’am, that will not be necessary. You can just have the crate delivered to my office. It can stay there until you are recovered and can claim it.”
Mrs. Harker seemed greatly relieved. “Oh, thank you. You are such a capable young man. I know I will get better and all because of your kindness.”
“No need to thank me, Mrs. Harker. I just hope we can get you better and let you into our wonderful country of ours,” This time, my answer was genuine and felt that way.
I took Quincey with me, telling a porter along the way to have Mrs. Harker’s large trunk sent to my office. If I couldn’t give her a clean bill of health for immigration purposes, at least I could ease her mind a little. I found the boy to be extremely precocious. He was very interested in all of my “doctoring” equipment. Quincey especially loved the stethoscope and listening to his own heartbeat. Through our small talk, he became more trusting and confided to me a little about his background. He explained that he had lived in Paris with friends for a number of years and only returned to his native country, England, two years ago. Wherever he had been, the boy had received an excellent education. He was well spoken in English and surprised me with short phrases in French, Romanian, Latin and even, Arabic. When I remarked that this mixture of knowledge of languages was unique, he answered confidently that his Mother’s friends employed a Persian tutor. Quincey explained that he had also chosen to learn Romanian since there was some fort of link on his father’s side of the family. I was a bit confused and inquired about “Harker” being a rather English name and where the Romanian part came in. The boy looked puzzled for a moment, thought about saying something but then, decided against it and just offered, “Well, it was something my mother always said about my father’s background.”
A knock at my office door said that the porters were here with the extra luggage.
I opened the door and was extremely surprised to see such a large carton. It was both heavy and bulky, taking two men to move it into the office. I was struck for a moment by its sheer size and had a brief thought that a man could almost lie down in it. I quickly dismissed the odd idea. I must be working too hard and seeing too much tragedy, I thought. Every box was looking more and more like a coffin these days.
As the day wore on, I could not simply act as a babysitter for the boy. I took him on rounds with me and the boy astonished me by accompanying me with a stoic silence and a resilience that I had often found lacking in children much older than he. One patient that I visited was with a French family that had a very sick little girl. Neither of the parents could speak much English and the young girl was terrified of being examined.
Quincey volunteered to act as my interpreter and did a very commendable job of translating my words into proper French, thus making the parents feel more comfortable. Toward the end of the examination, he even had the little girl laughing when he made her very worn teddy bear talk to her. I was very impressed with Quincey’s demonstration but only said this later as we had lunch outdoors. Quincey would only admit that one of his mother’s friends, an “Uncle Erik”, he called him, taught him that trick. When I asked more about this man, the boy seemed to emotionally detach from me and would not say more on the subject. It was as if he was following strict instructions not to talk with strangers about certain things in his life. Since he did not appear any worse for the wear,
I didn’t push the subject.
Just before sunset this afternoon, one of my assistants came running up to Quincey and I as I was finishing another immigrant examination. The man was out of breath and very upset. “I’m sorry to inform you, Doctor Townesend but Quincey should see his mother at once.” Then, he leaned in my ear and added “I’m afraid, she’s dying.”
I nodded and let my assistant return to his duties. Slowly, I took Quincey by the hand and led him to a quieter corner in the Great Hall. I bent down in front of him. I was at eyelevel finally with the serious youngster and gently told him about his mother and where I was to take him, the hospital to say a final “Goodbye”. I tried to prepare him as best I could by explaining how sick his mother had been and that, even though we tried our best, were unable to save her. I also assured Quincey that it was no fault of his that she was dying and inquired as to whether he was religious. When the boy shook his head ‘Yes’, I urged him to pray for his mother and hugged him hard, saying that even though she would die, she would soon be out of pain and in heaven with God.
Quincey seemed to take the news better than most, and, though appeared sad, did not cry when I told him all the grim news. We walked hand in hand to the hospital and up to see his mother. The hospital was always very crowded and much like always, there were rows and rows of sick and dying immigrants. His mother was in one bed along the side of the wall, looking starkly white but strangely luminous with her white skin. She was having trouble breathing, from the diphtheria, I surmised and spoke to her son with great difficulty. I dispatched the nurse that was by the side of her bed, giving the mother and son some semblance of privacy.
The boy went to his mother and they hugged. It was a truly heart-breaking scene to see one so young be so mortally sick. Mrs. Harker first assured her son that she loved him. She must have been delirious and with such a high fever because her next instructions did not make sense to me. She urged the boy to “believe in all that she had told him”. She further instructed him to wait for nighttime and then, she’d be back for him. I tried to take the boy away from the bed and shield him from his mother’s delusions brought about by the fever and sickness. The boy showed some strength, though, and clung to his mother’s hand harder as I tried to gently pull him away. The nurse returned and told me to allow the boy to stay with his mother until she died. I did so and was comforted to see how the boy seemed to sense that her dying would bring the woman a sense of peace from her sickness.
After Mrs. Harker passed away, Quincey got up off of the bed and came to take my hand. I hugged him hard. Then, I quietly asked the nurse if the hospital had received word on who would now be taking the boy. The nurse gave me a quizzical look at first but then added that a “Mr. and Mrs. Smith” would pick up the boy, sometime this evening.
So here ends my story about one of the worst days of my life. And I am still sitting on the bench in the Great Hall with the small boy that lost his mother today. The doors were open and beyond the Hall, night had fallen. A summer storm was in the distance, the thunder sounding softly. I looked down at Quincey, then back to my watch. It was almost eight and no one had yet shown to claim the youngster. I was concerned and thought quickly about the sad life he would lead once I gave him up to the authorities in the morning. I resolved to wait till then and spend my night, here, with him. I knew all of the night caretakers and so they did not disturb us, only coming past every so often and offering encouraging glances toward us.
I must have fallen asleep and missed most of the summer storms because it was somewhat cooler when I woke up. It was rather humid too and a fog had crept in. I woke further and was assured by the weight next to me that Quincey had snuggled up against me and was still asleep. I looked at my watch. A little past midnight. Probably this was why I had woken up. All of the large clocks in the place probably had gone off and caused a ruckus to wake the dead.
Two figures seemed to slowly emerge out of the fog. From the distance I could tell it was a man and a woman. As they came closer, my blood turned icy and I felt like I was in the grip of a nightmare I could not wake up from. The man was a stranger to me. Tall, thin and dark of hair and eye, he had a strong, commanding presence to him. It was the woman that bothered me. I knew her. I had seen her die earlier today in the hospital. It was Mrs. Harker. As they came closer to us, I froze but Quincey next to me did the opposite. He woke up and, to my horror, started to get off the bench. I thought to restrain him, but, much like in nightmares, I was powerless to do so. The boy joyously ran to both figures and hugged them both as if he had known them all his life. They both hugged him back and for some crazy reason, I thought I heard him say “Hello, Father. I’m so glad to see you again.” The man stayed behind but Mina came up to the bench and slowly took a seat beside me. She had on the same traveling clothes that I had seen her wear earlier in the day. Mrs. Harker did not look so sick anymore. On the contrary, she looked absolutely stunning. She was still white but had a cold, hard beauty that seemed to draw me toward her. I wanted to touch that exquisite face, to kiss those beautiful red lips. It was then that this walking nightmare spoke to me. I listened, full of cold fear.
“Doctor Towneshend, I must thank you for all that you’ve done for me.” Mrs. Harker began in a voice I knew was so soft and seductive, no human would possess.
“I appreciate you taking care of both me and my son and...my husband. Although, you didn’t know it at the time. You see, the large box,“ and she gestured toward the tall man who was now holding a very happy boy’s hand. Mrs. Harker reached out and stroked my face. It sent a deeply erotic chill down my spine and though, I was terrified, lust overpowered fear and, in that moment, I would have done anything that she had asked.
“I am in debt to you, doctor and while you didn’t cure me, you can see I am very, very well.” She laughed and I almost fainted, from what strong emotion, though, it was hard to tell. Mrs. Harker smiled to show two very white and very pointed teeth.
“What are you?” I managed to ask.
“Something you don’t need to understand, doctor.” she replied. “But whatever I am, be assured that my son will be taken care of in the best manner possible.”
“And will he become what you are?”
“Not tonight. Not until he is much older. We are not the monsters you think we are. We do give choices to our friends...and our victims. And that reminds me, dear doctor. Unfortunately, the night is short and we must be going. It is very late and I am very hungry. While no one at this institution will remember us, since you have taken care of our son, I would like to leave you with this memory. Please do not attempt to follow us or tell this story to others, “ she instructed me firmly. “While our kind does have compassion, we will show no mercy to the people who would seek to destroy us.“ And with those words, she left me sitting on the bench, returning to the man and her son.
They seemed to float away together in the fog, out into the night. After they left, the fog became thinner and thinner until it disappeared completely. I tried to think about what had happened and who I should tell. But, every time I thought about going to someone in authority, I remembered the happiness on Quincey’s face. Awhile ago I took an oath not to kill. And so thinking about this very different family, I will resolve myself to say nothing. For, in America, even vampires have a chance to raise their child in the land of the free and the home of the brave.
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