Every Bright Star – A Christmas Story

I am a firm believer in the old advisory “you can never go home again”. Yet, I will admit that “Every Bright Star” is a sequel to an earlier story called “I’ll Remember Too”. Should you feel it necessary to go back to the beginning, the story is available on my private blog; www.thewritingsofawrinkledmind.blogspot.com or you can access it on my profile page by clicking on ‘postings’. It’s in there somewhere.

Every Bright Star
A Short Story by
Tony Killinger

Part I

“Mister Daniels,” the doctor said, very seriously, “Parkinson’s Disease isn’t going to kill you. I’d guess, given the general state of your health, that you will probably die of old age a long time from now, but….”, he hesitated, and I waited, “this is going to change your life, somewhat. You don’t have the classic form of the disease that normally causes the pronounced shuffling gait or the bent posture, but that too might develop one day. Remember, this is something that is happening deep in your brain, not in your body. The symptoms it presents are wide and varied and there is no definitive test to confirm our diagnosis.”

“So, how sure are you that this is it?” I questioned.

“Ninety per-cent sure,” he said, without the hesitation. “You have that tremor on your left side when you get tired; that’s the big tip-off. Your blood pressure was difficult to get under control and this tendency you have to become exhausted and lose your voice is another red flag. The imaging of your brain was, to put it vaguely, inconclusive, but we know there is something going on up there.”

While the doctor was speaking my mind was racing, and nowhere that you would expect it to go. I was thinking about all the articles I’d read about how doctors don’t take the time to talk to their patients, but here I was, getting this man’s full attention; he trying to put me at ease and me not even listening closely. In my own defense, I had read, studied and researched my symptoms and I had pretty much reached the same conclusion he and his team had. But, now it wasn’t theory, it was reality, or as close as we could come to it.

“How quickly can I expect the disease to progress?” I asked.

Doctor Miller shook his head. “No way of telling until we watch it for an extended period of time. I don’t envision a rapid deterioration of your mobility in the short term, but I think perhaps this exhaustion and voice problem might be a bit more progressive than we would like it to be. We can treat that, however, when it becomes necessary.”

“It isn’t necessary now?” I wondered aloud.

“No,” he said, almost insistently. “All the medication we use to treat Parkinson’s eventually becomes ineffective; the brain gets used to it, so to speak. Consequently, we like to hold off as long as possible.” He looked at me with a mixture of sympathy, empathy and perhaps a little envy. “You’re retired for all practical purposes, you live a comfortable life. Take a nap, don’t let yourself get exhausted, exercise and build up your endurance. You can handle this, Dan.”

“How about dementia?” I asked. “I’ve read that it sometimes makes an ugly appearance in this diagnosis.”

“It does, occasionally,” he admitted. “When it does occur it general presents about the same time one would normally expect to see some decrease in mental capacity, and I certainly see no indication of that in your case. You’re much too young to worry about it.”

I wasn’t quite sure what I was feeling, except to say it wasn’t good. I needed to be alone, to find a quiet place and think and absorb, or possibly not to think. It must have shown on my face.

“Look Dan, I’m going to give you some pamphlets to read over; they are full of stuff about Dopamine and receptors and things like that. Don’t get all hung up on the mechanics of this thing. You can live a long, healthy and happy life with this if you do it reasonably, and you’ve been about as reasonable as anyone I’ve ever known. Go home, relax, drink a glass of good bourbon and put a couple of good cd’s on the stereo. I think you’ll find that not much has changed from this morning except that we know now what we’re dealing with. That has to be a good thing.

I suppose, in a way, that was a good thing, and it had put an exclamation point at the end of a sentence I’d been thinking about for a long time. The time period wasn’t really that long, only since I became suspicious of what was happening to me and considering the options. The sentence was really short; only two words to be exact, it said, simply, ‘do it!’

‘It’ wasn’t as simple as you might think, only a loose outline of what to do and had no definitive action connected to it. I would just play it by ear, learn what I could and try not to hope for a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow or a happily ever after ending. I just needed to know and the time for finding out might have been shortened by that day’s news.

You see, a very long time ago, twenty five years, give or take, I had accepted fate’s decision about a matter quite close to me. Accepting it had never meant being comfortable with it however, and what I planned did not mean that I was reneging on an unspoken promise or anything like that, but I needed to learn the end of this story, one way or another.

Her name was Reyna, and sometimes I’m not sure if what we had was even real. It seemed real, but if it had been as substantial or as solid as I remember, why did we let it go so easily? Why had we walked off in different directions without even a goodbye? Had we both been cowards; afraid to look at the hopelessness of our situation or was it all just a misty, gossamer daydream that we could smile about in our golden years? And if that were true, why wasn’t I smiling?

If I know anything at all about Filipinos, and I have reason to know quite a bit, I know that they never leave home forever. The pull of their culture, the deep roots of family and the lure of those lovely islands never allows them to break those bonds permanently. She would be there, or would have been there enough for me to find a trace of her, I was sure. That is where I would begin my search, not in the last place I saw her or in the place I knew she had gone, but back in the place she would have to return to one day.

Surprisingly, I didn’t throw caution or common sense out the window; I actually booked my flight to Manila for three weeks later, so I could take advantage of a price savings. I would miss the pre-Christmas shopping frenzy of Metro-Washington/Virginia/Maryland, and if I really got lucky, possibly one of those early season snow storms. The trade-off wasn’t all that attractive either; Manila during the holidays was just about total mayhem, minus the snow.

I used those three weeks to do exactly the things the doctor recommended. I walked a lot, at a leisurely pace, and gradually increased the distance every day. I stayed away from the office except for a couple of short meetings, left my cell phone at home most of the time and drank a glass of the best bourbon I could buy every afternoon after my stroll and before my nap. My blood pressure was hanging right in the 130/80 range and I was feeling pretty good. The tremor, which has always been very slight, never bothered me in the least, and my voice lasted until bedtime.

I had made arrangements for an old friend to drop me off at Dulles on his way to Washington, although it meant I’d spend about 4 hours waiting for my flight. It was okay, United gave me access to their business-class lounge in the mid-field terminal and I had my laptop with me so I could play solitaire. I even had my glass of bourbon, but I had to settle for a lesser quality.

Just about 2PM a pretty attendant tapped me on the shoulder and said that I could board whenever I was ready and said it was just a short walk to the gate. The general boarding section was a noisy throng of people, a lot of them Filipino, along with a mixed bag of business men, tourists and families. I wondered how many stories more interesting than my own were being played out in that crowd.

I was in an aisle seat on the port side of the aircraft, a preference for some strange reason. I particularly liked the long-haul 747 configuration for its business class seating. The window seat next to me remained vacant for a very long time while an endless line of people passed by on their way to the coach seats. I was paging through the in-flight magazine when I saw a small, smiling head periodically pop out of the line of people and beam a smile in my direction as she inched her way down the aisle. She was Filipina, I was sure, quite pretty, very short and just a little chubby, but the smile was as bright as a search light.

When she finally came abreast of my seat I could see she was loaded down with bags of every sort. I got up in anticipation; there was no way she could get all that stuff into the overhead bins given her limited height and I was pretty sure I would have to help her

.
She started talking immediately, with soft little laughs thrown in every few words. She was genuinely excited and I’m sure if there has been room she would bounced right up into the seat. Most of her stuff was small, decorated and wrapped presents that she had stowed into two shopping bags. How she got it through security I have no idea, but we had plenty of room to get it all strategically tucked away.

“Hi,” she said, never slowing down, “I’m Emily Garcia and I do so hope you are a talker, because if you’re not I’ll probably drive you crazy on such a long flight. They bumped me up from economy class and I’ve never ridden up front before. Wow this is really nice up here. Have you been to the Philippines before or is this just a holiday jaunt.”

I chuckled to myself. I hadn’t seen such boundless energy in one individual in a long time. “Carlton Daniels,” I said, offering her my hand. “What makes you so sure I’m going all the way, I could just be getting off in Tokyo?”

“Wow,” she exclaimed, “one name and you sound like a whole architectural firm. “I’ll bet you’re a lawyer or something like that, huh? And you have a look about you that says you’re all snuggled in for the long haul.” She laughed again.

“You were closer with the architect guess,” I laughed. “I’m a construction engineer, but nearly retired now. I only go into the office to see how badly I overestimated my own worth. They seem to be doing just fine without me. And you’re right; I’ll get off at the last stop.”

Emily, as it turned out, was a degreed RN working in the geriatric ward at Fairfax General Hospital. She was going home for a month long holiday, the first she had taken since coming to work in the states. Before we were airborne I knew all this; before we reached altitude, somewhere over Pennsylvania, I knew that she had two patients with PD and somewhere over Lake Erie she had figured out I had been recently diagnosed with the disease myself.

“This long flight could be very stressful for you,” she said, her pretty face remarkably serious and professional. “We’ll have to make sure that you rest often, keep your food intake light and to a minimum, that you exercise as much as possible and that you drink lots of water. No coffee with your dinner or breakfast, you can have tea and maybe some wine with dinner. Now, let’s see what they have on the menu for this evening.”

I suppose I could have objected at that point, but I’m sure she would have brushed the objection aside and continued on her prescribed treatment plan; besides being fussed over is hard to reject for a guy my age. She had found a focus; it was giving her something to do and keeping her excitement threshold in check.

Emily poked at the flight attendants call button and a handsome young man practically ran from up forward towards us. “Bring Mr. Daniels a bottle of water please, and whenever he finishes it, bring him another. He should have water in front of him at all times.”

The kid scurried away as if he were on a mission after giving me a real questioning look. “Emily, I’m fine,” I said in mild protest. “Let’s not treat this like an emergency in the making. I’ve flown a half a million miles and I doubt this trip will be much different than the others.”

“That is precisely my goal too,” she laughed. “Now, you have the fish and the salad, a little bit of the pasta and a nice glass of white wine. No bread though, ok? You can have a little bread at breakfast.”

“And I presume you’re going to have the sirloin tips I was planning on?” I chuckled.

“Yes, it sounds delicious, doesn’t it?” she giggled.

We talked, off and on, through dinner. She had been in the states for four years, although she looked barely old enough to be a full-fledged nurse. Her intellect was as sharp as I’d ever seen and I got the impression she would do very well for herself one day. She had that innate ability to make herself indispensable somehow.

I’m sure Emily thought I must be some sort of scatterbrained idiot when she found out, through subtle questioning, that I had not made hotel reservations. I hesitated to tell her that I had no idea how long I might be in one place, that my quest might have me dashing off to some interior city or town. That was a mistake of the first magnitude I was to discover.

The polar route to Asia from North America staggers the imagination of anyone who picks up a map and looks at it seriously. Oceans are oceans, everyone flies over and across them, but the polar wastelands present a whole new definition of vastness and peril. All of Canada stretches out before you, along with the polar icecaps, Alaska, Russia, bits of China and North Korea, all places that sound foreboding and forbidden.

Sleep came in fits and starts, nothing restful or relaxing. Emily was restless too, but I suspected her inability to sleep was due more to anticipation than the uncertainty which caused my own uneasy feelings. She told me about her small family, a brother and her father and mother. I got the impression she was daddy’s girl and I thought he must be terribly proud of her already. Apparently she must have had quite a large extended family however; she was counting on a throng of people to meet her when we would finally touch down in midafternoon.

Along towards daylight, even though our talks had been quiet and relaxed, my voice was beginning to fade. Emily noticed it too. That revelation brought on a whole new set of instructions. She took me through a set of in-seat exercises and then insisted I try to sleep even though the activity in the galley indicated breakfast would soon be served. Surprisingly, I was able to doze off for a few minutes and felt somewhat better when I woke up. Most people had already finished eating, but an attendant brought me a tray as soon as they saw I was conscious.

“You’ll have to hurry a little, Mister Daniels, we will soon start clearing the cabin and getting ready to start the descent into Narita.”

I nodded. Emily glanced over a couple of times to make sure I was eating the proper foods and smiling at me occasionally. Most of the time she had her face close to the window trying to see through the clouds. It wouldn’t have done her much good if she had been able to see, Japan would be at least an hour ahead of us and the South China Sea would appear to be a flat, grey expanse with little or no shape.

I made my way to the forward rest room and stood in a short line waiting for the next vacancy. While I waited, I rose to my tip-toes and stretched the muscles in the back of my legs, as per Emily’s instructions. She really was quite a delightful young woman; I don’t mean to debase her efforts on my behalf. Had I been fortunate enough to produce a daughter in my life, I would have been tickled to death to have one just as sprite and caring as she.

The stopover in Tokyo was a brief two-hour layover. I took Emily in tow and we headed for the United Business Lounge. Maybe I cheated the slightest bit; I gave her my ticket folder to hold, which she did, making sure the attending hostess noticed it, and I used my Gold Card to get the okay nod.

I wasn’t quite due for my glass of bourbon, even though we had been airborne for half a day, but I doubted it was on Emily’s approved list of consumables and I settled for a cup of tea. Narita looked cold and nasty in the December morning. The tea, at least, made me feel warmer.

Emily headed for a phone and spent a few minutes giggling and laughing and I was pretty sure she had roused somebody from bed, either in the Philippines or back in the states. I found myself secretly hoping that she had some young doctor madly in love with her and that he welcomed the call.

“You’re all set,” she beamed as she came back to our small table. “My Uncle Hector has a vacant apartment in Makati and you’re going to stay there.”

I felt like a turncoat. “Emily,” I began, hesitating, “I may only stay in Manila for a day or two. I can’t put your family to all this trouble. I might even have to leave the country and fly out to somewhere unknown. It all depends on what I’m able to find out, everything is pretty tentative.”

Her face brightened like a child at Christmas. “Are you looking for someone?” Without realizing it, I made the second monumental mistake.

“Yes,” I admitted. “Someone from a very long time ago. I have no idea if this person is even alive, but I’m going to do my best to find out.”

“How wonderfully exciting,” she bubbled. “Oh please tell me it is an old love that you’ve never been able to forget.”

What could I do? Lie to her? It wouldn’t have done any good anyway. And so, for the next two hours and for all the remaining waking hours of the flight into Manila, Emily heard the Reyna story. Her eyes filled with tears towards the end of the story, but she kept smiling. It had been so long since I had put it all together again, even for myself. I always thought about it in bits and pieces and it always ended with that night when Rick told me she was gone. The music and the lyrics of that old Elvis song would filter through my subconscious and I would remember it all over again.