Tutor Posts, Week of February 8

Worth My Time

Kahli was a fire-bringer, name for a queen. The Kahli I’d just met was just as impressive. She had one of those “if only I’d known then…” jobs. Her work was comprised of buying very pretty things—the loveliest and most expensive of the best—using them in photographic shoots, and then promptly returning them. She instinctively knew where to find her embellishments. Children’s clothing catalogs required craft store purchases. Food spreads meant farmers’ market goods. And jewelry catalogs demanded a combination of Oak St. salons and vintage clothing boutiques.

            Pavel had hired me as photographer’s assistant while I waited to begin graduate school. I’d decided that artist had won out to academic in my personal career battle, but Pavel was a gifted photographer and fun to work with. Besides, he paid well.

            We were working in a studio on Kingsbury, near North Avenue. It was an easy el ride from home. My work that week was mostly light metering and gluing rings to foam core boards according to an intricate layout provided by the client. Kahli then dressed them with extravagant purses, and bits of fabric or leather. Late afternoon Thursday, we began experiencing difficulty with electricity. Work in the neighborhood was causing interruptions. I followed Pavel and Kahli out a back door into an alley to bask in the bright, late afternoon light of summer. “Kahli, Grace,” Pavel began. “Do you have a minute?”

            I shrugged, uncertain what was coming next.

            Kahli didn’t care what came next. “You are always worth my time.” She smiled, and Pavel asked us to stay for another six hours to work into the evening. Her cheerful nonchalant approach to life struck me as remarkable.

            Two years later, I had gotten married and was working as a field secretary on a construction job near County Hospital, close to school as I finished my degree. John, the site foreman transferred a call to me from the front office. He’d said, “Some lady keeps askin’ for ‘ya. I think by your maiden name.”

            I took the call. It was Kahli. She was in County Hospital. Pavel had told her I was nearby. She gave me her room number and simply said, “Please visit me.”

            It took eight minutes for me to reach the women’s ward from the construction trailer. Kahli’s former bright spirit appeared diminished, shrunken by a lack of privacy and faded gray gown and bedding.

            I hugged her awkwardly.

            “Thank you for coming,” she said. “Have you talked to Pavel?”

            I blushed, “I’m so sorry, I’ve been mostly out of touch with—“

            She smiled wearily. “No problem. I just thought he might have said something. I’ve been out of it for a couple months. It’s pretty bad.”

            Shocked, I stepped toward her, “What’s wrong? Why are you here?”

            She sighed, “Nobody’s sure yet. Lots of things. Fibromyalgia probably. Possibly MS.”

            “What? I mean, why are you—here?” I asked, confused, looking around the women’s ward. Down the hall was the infant nursery.

            Kahli studied her feet, bare and resting on the floor as she sat on her bed. “I had an ectopic pregnancy. They got the tube yesterday. But now, they want me to sign a form.”

            My ears began ringing in anger. I knew what was coming next. “Hysterectomy.”

            “Sterilization. Yes.” She said. “If I do end up having MS—“

            “You can still have children, Kahli.” I was winging it, but had never before known someone to whom this suggestion was made. Not in this city. Certainly not in this decade. I resolved to speak to my midwife friend and get back to her. “Until then,” I said as I left, “Do not sign anything but your discharge papers.”

            I phoned her the next day after speaking with a doctor. He confirmed my instincts.

            That was the last time I saw her. Until last week. A decade had passed between our encounters. I was at Target, buying craft supplies of all things, when I heard that familiar refrain, “You are always worth my time.”

            There was Kahli, holding a small boy by the hand. They were testing gel pens in the adjacent aisle. As I greeted her and introduced myself to her son, Kahli told me to ask him about his sister.

            “You have a sister?” I asked? “And where is she and what is her name?”

            “She’s at piano. Her name’s Annie and she’s eight. You know what Annie means?”

            I laughed at this talkative cherub. “No, what does Annie mean?”

            “Annie means Grace.”