The building’s entrance is grand with two doormen welcoming us inside. Marble floors and picturesque pillars lead us to golden elevator doors that shine so greatly our reflections are almost as clear as if we were standing before a mirror. “What floor can I bring you to?” a man in a butler’s uniform asks.
Dale pulls a card out of his pocket and glances down at it briefly. “The twelfth floor, please.”
“Very well, sir.”
We don’t wait long for the elevator doors to part. Nora leads the way and enters first, and we follow. After spinning her chair around to face the doors, she fidgets with her hair, tucking strands behind her ears, then tugs on the bracelet around her wrist, toying with the metal charm.
When the elevator stops and the doors open, she leads the way again—it’s an act of bravery. Dale takes my hand in his and we follow her down into a quiet waiting room. They have decorated the walls with classical paintings framed with golden trim. A string orchestra plays softly around us, creating a calming environment. I hope Nora feels the same as she approaches the receptionist at a large mahogany desk. A name placard is centered along the front of the desk: Miss Rose. She looks like a Miss Rose with her flawless complexion, strawberry blonde French twist without a hair out of place, cherry red lips, and black-framed glasses.
“How may I help you?” she asks, greeting Nora.
Nora clears her throat and drops her gaze to her fingers resting on her lap. “I h-h-have an appoin’men’ with Dr. G-G-Gordon.”
The receptionist, Miss Rose, presses her lips into a tight smile as she opens the appointment book. “You must be Nora Tabor?” she asks.
“Ye’,” Nora replies.
“I will let him know you are here. You must be her sister.”
“Yes, I’m Arina, the one who called yesterday,” I speak up.
“Your sister loves you very much, Nora,” Miss Rose says.
To hear the words spoken from a stranger makes my throat tighten. I fall asleep each night wondering if Nora knows how much I love her and how sorry I feel about what she goes through every day. Whether or not it was inevitable, I feel responsible and always will.
Miss Rose stands, her cream-colored satin day dress fitted perfectly to her figure, accessorized with brown ankle-strap suede heels. Maybe someday, I’ll have a receptionist coming to greet me with patient arrival information.
An older gentleman with a receding salt and pepper hairline and narrow, black-framed glasses that rest on the bridge of his nose appears in the doorway. The white coat and black slacks tell me that he must be Dr. Gordon.
“Nora Tabor,” he says, tilting his head to the side with a firm, but friendly smile. Nora looks over at me, informing me with a simple look that she is not going in alone. “Why don’t the three of you come in together? We’re just having a consultation today. The more the merrier, right?”
“If you don’t mind, I think Nora would appreciate the company,” Dale says.
“Of course. Of course.”
We follow Nora toward the door that Dr. Gordon is holding open for us. As we enter the short corridor, we pass Miss Rose standing silently next to the door. “It’s the first door on your left. You can go right on inside,” Dr. Gordon says.
It doesn’t take long before we are all settled on one side of the desk and Dr. Gordon is on the other, sitting patiently with his hands folded over a stack of papers.
Nora is staring down at her legs still. She isn’t usually so despondent. Even when she’s quiet, she’s usually engaged in what’s going on around us, but I feel she’d rather crawl under the desk.
“Why don’t I start,” Dr. Gordon says. “I’ve been a neurologist for twenty-five years. Throughout that time, I have taught at Yale University, practiced at Mass General Hospital and the Mayo Clinic before opening my practice here in Chicago. I’ve helped many people throughout my career and each day, I grow a new sense of appreciation for the lives I’ve been able to change.”
“That’s very impressive, Dr. Gordon. I admire you for spending your life learning and helping others. We’re honored you agreed to meet with us,” I say.
“Actually,” he says, “it’s an honor for me to be in the presence of such courageousness. I’ve done a great deal of research on what took place in Auschwitz, and though I’m sure there is much more to learn, I want you to know I have some understanding of what you went through while imprisoned there. I also know of Dr. Mengele’s unlawful and inhumane practices, but those details are harder to come by than others surrounding Auschwitz. From what Arina told me yesterday over the phone, Dr. Mengele attempted to fix a stutter you were born with, which left you with nerve damage and numbness affecting the tip of your tongue and your right leg. Is that correct?”
“Ye’,” Nora responds simply.
“He performed this surgical procedure by making an incision on the top of your scalp. Is that right?”
“Ye’,” she says again.
“Where was the incision? Could you point to the location?” Nora points to the top center of her head and Dr. Gordon nods, then scribbles on a small notepad. “I imagine you are quite uncomfortable in the presence of any doctor, but it would be helpful for my evaluation if I could spend a few minutes examining the troubling areas. Will you be okay if I ask your sister and—”
“Dale, sir.”
“Thank you. Yes—is it okay if I ask your sister and Dale to wait outside the office door for a moment or two?”
Nora nods quicker than I was expecting. “Ye’, I’m o-okay.”
I don’t want to leave, but I won’t argue with the doctor, especially if Nora agrees. Dale and I stand up and both squeeze Nora’s shoulder on the way out the door.
My chest aches as I lean against the wall outside of the office, wishing I could hear everything. Dale takes my hand and presses my knuckles up to his lips.
“I pray for her every night, Dale. I need this to go well for her. We’re supposed to move on in life and leave the past behind us, but the past is living within her every time she goes to speak or walk. She’s reminded of the horrors every minute she’s awake, and it pains me more than anything in this entire world.”
There’s no use in Dale trying to convince me otherwise. Dale has tried more times than I can count, but just like Nora can’t stand up and walk away from that chair, I can’t let go of what I feel inside.
Dale pulls me into his chest, kissing the top of my head. “I blame myself for my mom dying of pneumonia. Have I told you that?”
“That’s ridiculous,” I reply, pressing my hands into his chest.
“It’s true. I had influenza, and it was awful. She caught it, of course, because my germs must have covered every inch of our house. I recovered, but she got sick much worse than I did and refused to rest while she continued to take care of me. She ended up with pneumonia and wouldn’t go to a doctor until my dad forced her to go. By the time doctors admitted her to hospital, her lungs were essentially drowning. She died within hours.”
“You didn’t purposely give her influenza,” I tell him, understanding exactly why he’s sharing this story with me.
“No. I would never intentionally get anyone sick, but I wasn’t careful to avoid getting her sick either.”