Page 15 of Paging Dr. Hart
“Oh no, Mr. Chen. That’s kind of you to offer, but I can’t take you up on it.” Mom’s flustered, trying to be polite and hide her surprise that he would suggest such a preposterous idea.
“Really, I don’t mind. I’m an old, retired man with a lot of time on my hands. It’s understandable, you being cautious, but I promise she’ll be safe with me.” As evidence, Mr. Chen holds up one bony, wrinkled hand. It’s twisted and contracted, trembling with the effort to hold it high.
Point made. There’s no way he could overpower me.
Still, other kinds of threats remain. Ones that aren’t physical.
My mother resists. “It’s too much to ask. I wouldn’t be able to pay you. Sometimes I don’t come home until late or I work weekends.”
“I don’t need money,” Mr. Chen says. “It would be beneficial for me, too. There are certain things I can’t do anymore. Like high-up places I can’t dust, for example, or jars I can’t open. Tiffany could help me with those things after she finishes her homework. That would be her payment.”
Silently, I follow their exchange. I’ve always had a good feeling about Mr. Chen. A good “vibe,” as the kids at school might say. There’s something about his eyes, a gentle kindness. Since he moved in, I’ve heard piano music drifting out his open window and up the stairwell. He plays beautifully, the notes dancing and twining around each other. It might not make perfect sense, but I think someone who makes music that lovely can’t possibly be bad.
“It’s a good idea.” I use my best wheedling voice. “Please, Mom? Can I go to Mr. Chen’s when you work?”
Mom looks helplessly between us, Mr. Chen and me. It’s a sign of her desperation that her resolve crumbles. “Okay. You can stay with him.” She shoots a stern look at me. “You better be on your best behavior, young lady.”
“I will, Mama. I will.” We hug, ignoring the ice cream melting in the grocery bag at our feet.
12
The next day, I go to Mr. Chen’s apartment while my mom works. He makes me take my shoes off and leave them by the doorway on a small shelf. I walk into his place barefoot, the tile floor cool under my feet. Mr. Chen wears what he calls houseshoes, fabric slippers that he pulls on over tall white socks.
Old man footwear.
He catches me eyeing his place curiously, my head whipping around as I take it in. “You can go explore,” he says with a soft chuckle.
With that, I’m off, roaming through the apartment. It’s strange to be back here, to walk through a place I know so well. Everything is the same but different. Heavy antique wooden furniture with rich upholstery has been placed carefully in each room. On what becomes my favorite chair, there’s an embroidered scene of an old-fashioned Chinese warrior in plated armor. He battles a fire-breathing serpent with a spike-tipped pole.
A stand-up piano sits in one corner of the living room. Its warm mahogany wood gleams from careful polishing. The hinged cover of the piano is pushed back, revealing ebony and ivory keys. I run my hand over them lightly, eliciting a tinkling sound that goes from high notes to low.
Shelly’s old bedroom is now an office. Bookcases line three of the four walls. They hold thick hardback and paperback books. Some are in Chinese, the symbols trailing down the spines. The only place I’ve seen this many books before is a library. I run my hands over each one as I walk along, my fingers going bump-bump-bump.
One row has English titles, and I pull a book out at random. I’m startled to see a man staring back. It’s a gruesome picture. Half of the man’s body has been peeled away in layers to reveal the bones, blood vessels, and musclesbeneath.Atlas of Human Anatomyby Frank H. Netter, M.D., reads the title and author in bold letters.
The book should disgust me, but it doesn’t. I take it to a wooden rocking chair, where I sit and rock slowly, flipping through the pages. Intricate colored drawings of dissected eyes and cut-open hearts capture my imagination. It’s crazy how much stuff is crammed into the human body. According to this, each part has its own vital function. I spend so long looking at the book that Mr. Chen comes to check on me. If what I’m reading surprises him, he doesn’t show it.
I tilt the cover up for him to see. “What’s this? Why do you have it?”
“I was a doctor back in my home country, in Taiwan,” he explains.
“I thought you were from China. Is Taiwan in China?” I’m not good at geography, besides having to memorize all 50 states and their capitols last year in school.
Mr. Chen shakes his head. “No. Taiwan is its own country. It’s an island, close to the mainland of China.”
“Oh, sorry.” I had just assumed he was from China. I remind myself not to make those kinds of assumptions in the future.
“It’s okay. Most Americans don’t know the difference.” He sounds resigned to this fact, rather than angry.
“You were a doctor there?” I’m curious to learn more about my new caretaker. Pushing off with my feet, I continue rocking. It soothes me.
“Yes, a cardiologist.” Seeing my look of confusion, Mr. Chen adds, “A heart doctor.”
Why is he living in a dump like this?I wonder. Doctors usually make a good living. There are lots of fancy suburbs in Vegas.Why not live in one of those?
“Which hospital did you work at?” I ask, remembering my mother’s lessons in manners.
“At the University Hospital downtown. I was a janitor, though, not a doctor.” He winces as he lowers his body into an office chair at his desk.
