Taken by Erin Bowman Page A

looks like nothing more than weeds.
    “It will clear the headache. Promise. Mine’s gone.” So she did feel ill this morning after all.
    The concoction tastes even worse than it looks, but I force it down and within several minutes, the pain in my skull is indeed subsiding. I must look better, because Emma flops into the seat opposite me and tosses me a scroll.
    “That’s her record,” she says. It seems rather small, and when I look at her apprehensively, she adds, “It’s all we have.”
    I roll it open and slide some clay jars over the edges to keep the parchment from curling in on itself. Emma and I bend over and begin reading. The entire thing is a list, dates followed by brief descriptions written by Carter and various Clinic workers from earlier years. At the very top is my mother’s name, Sara Burke .
Year 11, January 3: born to Sylvia Cane, healthy
Year 14, February 10: treated for bad cough
Year 14, February 13: treated again for cough, seems to be recovering
Year 21, August 14: broken bones set in wrist from fall
Year 29, June 23: gives birth to boy (Blaine Weathersby), healthy
Year 30, June 23: gives birth to boy (Gray Weathersby), sickly, will need additional care
Year 44, November 8: treated for high fever and cough
Year 44, December 1: diagnosed with pneumonia
Year 44, December 21: health failing, receiving treatment via house visits
Year 44, December 27: patient lost
    The entries stop here. No item is elaborated on, no comments scrawled in the margins. I push the weights off the scroll in frustration, and it springs back together.
    “I told you I didn’t think you’d find anything,” Emma says heavily. “We don’t keep very detailed records, only the bare minimum, in case we need to check something against a patient’s family tree.”
    “Oh, good idea. Can I compare these dates to the ones in my scroll? And Blaine’s?”
    “I don’t see the point.”
    “Please. This can’t be all there is.”
    Emma sighs, but then returns to the shelf and pulls down two more scrolls. Blaine’s has but two dates: his birth, as noted in our mother’s scroll, and his Heist. Mine also has my birth date, one year to the day later than Blaine’s, but dozens of other entries. The first thirteen alone document house visits from when I was an infant, sick and feeble. I read through the later notations, recounting my more recent trips to the Clinic for treatments of hunting injuries and accidents. I’m remarking at what a healthy child Blaine was in comparison to me, when Emma interrupts my thoughts.
    “Gray?” I look up and find her sitting at Carter’s desk. “I think you should see this.”
    “What is it?”
    “Well you mentioned comparing records and I thought maybe, just maybe, I should check some of my mother’s personal ones.”
    “She keeps personal records?”
    “It’s her notebook from house visits.” She holds up a leather book with Year 29 written on its cover. “She brings them with her, records any necessary information, and then copies them into the scrolls later. That way, if she makes multiple stops before returning to the Clinic, nothing gets forgotten or left out.”
    “Okay, well let me see,” I say.
    Emma hesitates, her lips pinched as though she has something to say but can’t find the nerve to spit it out. She looks over the page again and finally pushes the notebook into my outstretched hands. “Read here.”
    I take the book cautiously, and as my eyes fall on the words, I suddenly understand Emma’s uncertainty. Scribbled between two other house visits, is a note of a visit to my mother. Even I cannot understand the words before me:
    Year 29, June 23: gives birth to twin boys
    (Blaine and Gray Weathersby), both healthy
    I pause. Shake my head. This must be a mistake. I reread the line again and then sit with the book in my lap. I’m not sure if I’m furious or pleasantly surprised. If anything, at least for the moment, I am blank. Shocked.
    I suppose this explains a