Letters to the Grave

By Lucia Cascioli

Doctors Sofia and Michael are driven to help others. In their terms overseas, they discover that the poorest countries host the most generous of spirits. Yet, for Sofia, this is not enough to chase away the demons that have haunted her. It is only by corresponding with the dead that she can rediscover the richness in her own life. Join Sofia as she travels on a very different journey in order to return amongst the living.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Oct 13, 2012
• ISBN: 9781300286141

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Letters to the Grave

Letters to the Grave

Lucia Cascioli

Copyright © 2012, Lucia Cascioli

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of both publisher and author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

ISBN 978-1-300-28614-1

Thanks and Acknowledgement:

The author wishes to thank Dr. Richard Currie from Salmon Arm, British Columbia, Canada, for sharing his experiences with Doctors Without Borders/Médecins Sans Frontières.

He is a modern day hero in not so

modern surroundings.

ADDITIONAL BOOKS BY LUCIA CASCIOLI

STRUCK, A NOVELLA

SHIFTERS

SPIRAL

FROM SCRATCH TO FINISH, A COOKBOOK

Author’s Note

Letters marked with an asterisk (*) are actual correspondence sent by Dr. Richard Currie during his numerous terms with Doctors Without Borders/Médecins Sans Frontières (DWB/MSF) and inserted in this book with his permission. Dates, salutations, names of real individuals, and the occasional sentence have been changed or added to blend with the fictional characters in the story.

The views and opinions expressed in this book are solely those of the author and do not necessarily state or reflect the views of Doctors Without Borders/Médecins Sans Frontières or any other agency/organization.

Prologue

Cold. Unbearably cold.

The three of us sat huddled in the back seat listening to the frozen ice pellets tap against the windshield. The outside world was becoming less and less visible as the snow accumulated on the windows. We peered out with our noses pressed against the cold glass, only to see our breath fog and crystallize over the last peepholes to civilization.

We turned to our mother in the front seat. Her lifeless body lay slumped over the steering wheel.

We wondered if this was the beginning, if the prediction was finally coming true.

One

Death, My Old Friend

Friday, December 3, 2010

And may he rest in peace in the kingdom of heaven.

The priest’s monotone voice droned on as I scanned the large crowd that had followed the black hearse to the quiet cemetery. Tears streamed down the pale faces of Michael’s colleagues, the men and women who had worked with him at St. Joseph’s Hospital for Sick Children or during his terms with Doctors Without Borders. He was their brother.

Lord, may you keep him close to you, so that he too may share in your love.

Old women dabbed their eyes with crisply pressed white linen handkerchiefs brought out only for weddings and funerals. They gripped each others arms with hands shriveled by arthritis from years of hard labor working the fields in Italy and then working the factory floors in Canada. They were the remnants of my dissipating bloodline, my precious, yet forever distant relatives.

We ask you, Lord, to pray for those gathered here today, those who feel the loss of their brother, Michael Battista. We ask that you give each of us the strength to carry on. Michael is dead, the voice in my head whispered, as if to help me confirm the fact. The rest of my body was numb. I could no longer feel the cold that was penetrating my shoes from the frozen earth below. The cloudless sky and leafless trees offered no shelter from the frigid northerly wind that cut my face. Only my Aunt Rosie’s arm provided a band of warmth to my bruised body beneath my black wool winter coat.

I stared down at the shiny wooden coffin as it glistened in the winter’s sun. It seemed silly to me to even have one, seeing as how Michael wasn’t actually inside. It was filled with keepsakes and thoughtful notes in his place—a time capsule of Michael’s time on earth.

We thank you, Lord, for giving us the gift of Michael. Amen.

Amen, the crowd responded in unison.

The living began to disperse and returned to their cars. Soon, they would be talking and laughing at La Gioconda, the preferred restaurant for Italians to attend after funerals. I had caved to Aunt Rosie’s pleading to have a gathering there after the burial. Some traditions I couldn’t bear to go to the mattresses over. I would no doubt sit with my aunt, smile the obligatory smiles, squeeze the hands of many well-wishers, and provide a shoulder to cry on for those too old to sustain my pain.

Life would go on, just as it did after my parents and sister, Lucy, died. Life would grab me by the shirt collar and pick me up off the floor, a little more scraped and bruised, but still having much more to accomplish.

The limo pulled up to my downtown Toronto condo.

Are you sure you don’t want to stay at my place at least for tonight? Aunt Rosie asked softly.

Nah, I need to collapse in my own bed after a long hot shower, I replied, trying hard to swallow the lump that had been in my throat the entire week. Besides, I snore, I added with half a grin.

Always trying to wear that strong turtle shell, eh Sofia? Aunt Rosie gave me a hug, but I quickly pulled away. You know it wasn’t your fault, Sof.

I could really use that shower.

You know it wasn’t your fault.

Are you trying to play psychiatrist with me?

No, you’re the shrink. I’m just saying…

I got it, Aunt Rosie. You’re just trying to make me feel better.

Is that your diagnosis, Doctor?

Yah, that’s the official word.

Well, Amen to that and call me in the morning.

What, no ‘take two aspirins’? I shot back as I opened the car door.

Funny, kid.

I try, I said smiling forcedly and then closed the door.

The limo pulled away and I practically ran for the elevator. Charles, the guard at the front desk, could barely get out his condolences as the steel doors closed shut behind me. Damn—people. The tears were beginning to well up, but I fought them back. The elevator opened and I bolted for my place. I fumbled for the lock with my keys and slammed the heavy fire door behind me. Drenched in sweat, I removed every article of clothing and every stitch of jewelry from my body. It was all too restrictive, too suffocating. I made a B-line for the bathroom.

Michael is dead, the voice in my head shouted, drowning out the water droplets that tapped on the shower glass door.

I hear you! I yelled back and collapsed in a heap of tears on the tiled floor.

Monday, December 6, 2010

I couldn’t stay in my condo a minute longer.

Get going, Sof, Michael would have said to me. Quit your moping around. You’ve got things to do.

I had taken to responding to him in my head, lest people who I walked by on the street took me for a mad woman. It certainly wouldn’t help my reputation as a child psychiatrist. Responses ad alta voce were reserved for my place and my office late at night as I reviewed files.

You got it, Michael. So long as you’re by my side, I’m going to keep plugging away, one kid at a time.

Atta girl!

Oh, Christ. I was playing both sides of the conversation.

My office at St. Joseph’s Hospital for Sick Children was only a five-minute walk from home. I approached the entrance and took a deep breath. The automatic sliding doors opened. As per my morning ritual, I scanned the lobby, assessing the mood of the people thrown together in this place. A number of families were sitting in the eating area. Parents gripped their coffees while their children, dressed in pajamas, sipped juice boxes and hugged much loved stuffed animals. Typically, this group had just spent a rough sleepless night at home with an ill child and no form of relief. Then, there were families who were at the hospital for quick day-procedures. Their little ones ran around saying hello to anyone near them. I affectionately called them the drive-by greeters. Further away, doctors, nurses, and administrative staff strode past the cafeteria cashier placing change in their pockets as they began their shifts, muffins and caffeine at the ready. To the right was the emergency entrance. Here, the staff moved at a quicker pace. Children wailed, parents cried, and blood was part of the décor. What gripped me every time were the signs of comfort that poured over the emotionally wounded—a nurse’s hand on a shoulder, the embrace of two friends, the wiping of child’s tear by a mother. These were the actions that reminded me of Michael. These were the actions that consoled my soul in his absence.

Good morning, Dr. Battista, a newbie nurse of ten months greeted me hesitantly.

Good morning, I said with a fake smile. Please let people treat me like they normally do, I thought. I knew it would be difficult since this had been Michael’s world as well.

Hey, Sof!

Hey, yourself. Normal. Just what I was looking for. How’s it going, Andrew?

Could be better, could be worse.

Always playing the middle, eh?

How are you doing? I heard that nurse, Kelly I think is her name, tiptoeing a hello around you.

I’m OK.

Why are you here?

I need to be here and not staring at the walls at my place.

I could stare at the walls with you later on tonight.

Andrew, we’ve know each other for thirty years, you can stop hitting on me now.

Jesus, when you put it like that, I think I should remove my teeth and put them in a glass jar or something.

I’m fine. Thanks for asking. Just be yourself around me alright. No weird mopey face or anything.

So, I can keep hitting on you?

Good-bye Andrew.

I smiled to myself as I walked to the elevators. At least he was his typical hound-dog self. Andrew was one of the few remaining people on this earth with whom I had actually grown up. He had moved to my neighborhood at fourteen, so we both went to the same high school together. He later ended up at the same university. A dear friend of Michael’s, I knew that Andrew’s banter covered up a chasm of pain.

The elevator doors opened on the sixth floor. A deafening silence echoed down the corridor in sharp contrast to the bustle of activity in the lobby. Jeannie, my secretary, was at the ready the minute I turned the door handle.

Morning, Sofia.

I always found her voice soothing. It was one of those pitches that was perfect for a classical music station. And now Beethoven’s Piano Sonata No. 14 in C-sharp minor, I could imagine her saying. The midnight listeners would be asleep before the first note.

Hi, Jeannie. You kept my appointments as per my e-mail?

Yes, but—

Nice try, I interrupted, knowing that she was just about to get all sympathetic on me. Michael would have wanted me to focus on my patients. They need me. He doesn’t. And besides, I said as I hung my coat in the closet, this is therapy for me too, in a way.

Jeannie didn’t even try to argue. She had been with me since I came to the hospital nineteen years ago on my residency. Like my Aunt Rosie, she was a year away from retirement. The two of them chatted frequently about me. I was sure that the phone lines were burning up the night before.

I entered my office, my sanctuary away from home. In all the time that Jeannie had been with me, I could count on her to make this place feel cozy for everyone who walked through the door. I do it for you, dear, she would say to me after I would thank her for pruning my plants and straightening the fluffy pillows. The deep, rich wood gave warmth to the high-ceilinged room. My built-in bookcases, crammed with books, were accented with pictures and drawings from patients who had slowly spilled their pain and healed their wounds within these four walls. Trinkets of my travels dotted coffee and end tables. In the center of the room, in all its glory was a beautiful handmade rug that I had purchased or rather traded my old transistor radio for, in Boguila in the Central African Republic. Boguila was one of Michael’s terms with Doctors Without Borders on which I followed along to help in any way that I could. We both found these experiences abroad enriching and challenging. Our last trip to Africa would haunt me for the rest of my life.

My eyes drifted to the children’s corner. I had created this nook for my youngest of patients to make them feel more comfortable. Jeannie would always ensure that the toys were neatly arranged and inviting. I would find dolls lying on a towel in a faux beach scene one morning and sipping tea the next. She had a creative side to her that endeared her to her grandchildren