Altered Genes: Genesis (3 page)

She rushed across the waiting room and stopped for a moment in the doorway as the two police officers passed by. The younger one gave her second look, more suspicious this time. She ignored him and stepped into the busy corridor, pivoting her head left and right as she searched for her daughter.

She could be anywhere—out in the street, taken by someone
. She began to run, her throat tight with panic. She had almost reached the main entrance when a cry from behind filled her ears. “Mamá!…Mamá!”

She stopped mid-step and turned as her daughter broke free from the doctor who held her hand and ran to her. Lucia swept her up and held her tight against her chest.

“You scared me, don't stray again.” She kissed Blanca on the forehead and brushed the hair from her eyes. The little girl giggled and struggled to get free. Lucia felt her tiny fingers tugging on the back of her blouse.

The young-looking Asian doctor who had held Blanca’s hand smiled. “I’m Dr. Ling, we found her playing near one of the examining rooms.”

“Thank you…thank you so much,” Lucia said as she lowered Blanca to the floor.

The doctor dropped to one knee and smiled at her. “Be good and stay with your mother, okay?”

“Dr. Ling, the room’s ready,” a voice called.

The Asian doctor winked at Blanca and then stood. She turned and walked towards the nurse and doctor who had called to her. Lucia watched her take a surgical mask from her coat pocket and place it over her mouth before joining the other two who also wore masks. They pushed a gurney with a patient on it down the hallway.

When they had disappeared around the corner, she looked down at her daughter and spoke. “Don’t do that again, okay?”

Blanca nodded and wiped a hand on her shirt. It left a small dark stain. Lucia sighed heavily. She grabbed Blanca by her other hand and dragged her to where Alejandro sat.

“Sit and stay here,” she said, directing the words to both of the children. She walked to the admitting desk, grabbed a handful of kleenex from a box on the desk and squirted hand sanitizer on them. She returned and scrubbed her daughter’s hands clean.

Five hours later they returned to their dilapidated apartment in Queens. Lucia checked the time on her cell phone.

Mierda…Estoy tarde!

She was late and that wasn’t good.

She went to the bedroom they all shared and closed the door. A pair of black meshed stockings and short red skirt lay on the floor. She left her blouse on and quickly changed into the skirt and stockings before applying a thick coat of garish red lipstick. She looked in the mirror, ashamed by what she saw—
not a mother, just a filthy puta.

With a heavy heart, she walked to the rickety nightstand that sat beside the bed. She gently removed a set of rosary beads from a small wooden box.

She cupped them in her hands and knelt, taking comfort in their familiarity. The beads were a gift from the family's priest in Santa Ana. They gave her strength and helped her accept the ungodly things in her life.

She ran her fingers over the small wooden cross at the end of the string of beads and began.

After she had finished praying, she left the bedroom and found the children sitting at the kitchen table, drawing pictures on Alejandro's cast. Blanca used a red marker to fill in the outline of a dragon her brother had carefully drawn.

She stood quietly for a moment watching them as they played together, the troubles from earlier in the day long forgotten. They were her life, her reason for being. She wanted to stay and watch her children just be children, but couldn’t. She stepped from the doorway and interrupted them.

“Alejandro, there are Pupusas in the refrigerator. Please heat them for you and your sister.” She had made the cheese-filled tortillas earlier that day. They would fill the children’s stomach until the morning.

After lovingly kissing both of them on the top of their head, she whispered, “Be good...lock the door behind me. I won’t be back until late.”

A few minutes later, she stood in the graffiti filled lobby. A drunk lay curled up on the floor half blocking the door. His pants were wet and he smelled of urine. As she stepped over him, he grabbed at her leg, his leering eyes staring up her skirt.

“Pervertido!”

She kicked free and then gave him a second kick for good measure.

The jet black Chevy impala low-rider waited for her, its eight-cylinder engine rumbling with impatient anger. The driver was a bald Latino man with the number eighteen tattooed across his skull. He leaned across the seat and motioned her into the back of the car with a flick of his finger.

“Lo siento...I'm sorry—”

“Shut up and get in,” he snapped.

She opened the rear door and squeezed in next to the other women. The door had barely closed when the car sped away, its tires squealing as it rounded the corner. She was quiet. She knew she would pay in one way or another for her lateness.

They arrived at a semi-abandoned housing project. She and the other women climbed out of the car and entered the building.

Each had her own space in an apartment on the second floor. Privacy, or what passed for it, was afforded by a handful of ragged blankets that hung over ropes strung across the room. The soiled mattresses on the floor had no sheets.

Their customers, all men, would come in a steady stream and make payment to the Calle 18 gang members who stood watch by the door.

Her first client of the evening arrived. She turned to avoid his face. His breath smelled of cigarettes and rotten teeth, the stench so putrid she gagged. He slapped her and groped at her blouse before pulling down his pants. His meaty hands squeezed the flesh of her breasts, and she bit her lip to stop from crying out.

She knew if she made any noise, her keepers would stomp in, their tattooed faces tense with anger. They’d pull the man off, kicking and punching him before they emptied his wallet and sent him away. Then, they would do the same to her, but not as hard, she was property.

She closed her eyes and withdrew, letting the hours pass.

W
hen she returned
to the apartment, the children were asleep and she stood in the doorway quietly watching them as the tub filled with hot water.

After a few minutes, she returned to the bathroom and turned the water off. A single fluorescent bulb hung from the ceiling, casting its harsh light on her. She stared at herself in the cracked mirror, ashamed of what she had become.

She removed her blouse, only then noticing the small brown stain on the back of it. Curious, she raised the garment to her face and cautiously sniffed.

It smelled of shit. One of those dirty animals.

The anger welled up and she threw the blouse down in disgust before climbing into the tub. She would wash it later.

Mei wearily closed the door to her locker. It was late, nearly midnight. She was exhausted from her double-shift, sixteen straight hours without a break.

Every night at Bellevue was busy with the homeless and hypochondriacs, but tonight more so than ever—a couple of shootings, three stabbings and a handful of overdoses.

Her route out of the hospital took her past the isolation rooms. She stopped to look at the Englishman’s chart. It had been eight hours. He was still unconscious with no improvement in his condition.

She scanned the chart for his meds—250 mg of metronidazole, four times a day.
The antibiotics will help…should be an improvement by tomorrow.
She put the chart back and headed home for a frozen dinner and a few hours of sleep. She’d check in on him again in the morning.

S
aanvi cringed
as her aunt moved to the front of the dark brown wicker chair.
I’m going to look ridiculous
, she thought, anticipating the worst.

"Hold still, dear, I’m almost finished,” the older woman said.

She felt her aunt’s finger press against her forehead as the older woman touched up the bright red bindi she had applied.

“You look like a true Hindu girl now, come see.”

She stood and followed her aunt to the mirror, wincing with each step. She didn’t feel well. The stomach ache and embarrassing trips to the toilet had started just after she arrived in India.

“What do you think?” her aunt asked as she tilted the stand-up mirror forward.

Oh…not too bad after all.
The red dot didn't look as silly as she thought it would, but the blue sari trimmed with garish gold thread was another story. It was two sizes too big.
I look like I’ve been draped in a giant blue bed sheet.

As she moved, the gold hoop earrings that hung from her ears glistened in the sunlight. She flipped her long black hair to the side to admire them. The earrings were an arrival gift from her aunt and uncle.
I hope they didn’t cost too much.

She reached over and touched her aunt gently on the arm. "Thank you so much, Tayi.”

The older woman beamed at her and pulled at the sari’s loose fabric. “It fits perfectly. You look beautiful. Let me get you a purse, the sari has no pockets.”

As her aunt left, her uncle stepped into the room and spoke. “You look wonderful, but we should go, they'll be waiting for us at the restaurant.”

She had tried to argue her way out of the dinner, but they had ignored her pleas. Her visit to India was as big an event for them as it was for her.

“Come, we can’t be late, you’re the guest of honor,” he said, taking her by the arm. She followed him out the front door.

The suffocating humidity from the late afternoon rain slammed into her like a hot damp blanket. She wrinkled her nose at the unbearable stench that accompanied it.

“What’s that horrible smell?

“The garbage dump. They burn it every day. You’ll get used to it.”

Not likely. It stunk of wet ashes and burning plastic, unlike anything she’d every smelled before.
She forced herself to breath through her mouth.

A flurry of impatient honks came from a red taxi cab.

“Come, we must hurry before he leaves without us,” her uncle said impatiently. He motioned her and her aunt towards the cab.

After a short drive on the ring road that surrounded Ahmedabad, they arrived at a nearly empty restaurant to find a handful of guests milling about in the lobby.

She opened her purse and glanced at her cell phone.
They were twenty minutes late.
Where is everyone?

Her uncle saw her and mistook her look for concern. He glanced at his watch and reassured her. “Don’t worry the traffic was light, we're early.”

She smiled.
That's India
,
twenty minutes late, but still early
.

It didn’t take long for the other guests to arrive and the restaurant filled quickly. Everyone was interested in meeting the young woman from England. A crowd grew around her and she found herself lost in a sea of names she couldn’t remember, overwhelmed by the constant touching. Lightheaded, she gripped the top of a chair with one hand and focused on the elaborately carved backrest to keep from fainting.

“I don't feel well,” she said with a grimace to her aunt who hovered protectively nearby.

The older woman extricated her from the crowd and guided her to an empty table where she pulled out a chair and turned it so she could sit.

“Rest…drink some water.”

She nodded, afraid to speak, and sat.

The room began to spin, slowly at first, and then faster and faster. She closed her eyes, but the dizzying sensation got worse. Saliva flooded her mouth.

I’m going to be sick!

Panicked by the thought, she placed her hands on the tabletop and pushed herself up. A spasm of pain shot through her stomach. Her knees buckled and she fell forward, hitting her head on the edge of the thick wooden table with a heavy clunk.

The last thing she saw was the glass of water her aunt had offered, lying broken in pieces on the floor beside her.