Wrapped in the Stars Read online

  The rainbow blinked and disappeared, its power captured back within.

  “There it is.” Ian handed me a page from the printer.

  “Paris!” I nearly jumped. “The ring came from Paris?”

  “Indeed. It was part of a purchase from a store we often work with, Les Trésors Enchantés. We bought jewelry and a few furniture pieces from the same estate at the time.”

  “Do you have anything else from that estate?” I wonder…

  “Unfortunately not; everything’s been sold. I can give Paris a call, if ye’d like, and find out if they have any information about the seller or any more objects from that estate?”

  I motioned for him to stop. “I’ll buy it!” The words burst out of my mouth.

  I walked out of the shop a few minutes later with the ring and the receipt from its purchase from Paris in my backpack. My earlier fears of the evening had been forgotten, as I now felt a strange sense of satisfaction. The streets had filled with more people. Normally, I would’ve walked over to hear some of the music and watch the spectacular fireworks, but tonight I rushed through the crowds. I could still see the blue lights of Edinburgh Castle on top of the hill, but I was quite done exploring. I gave the ring, now safe on my finger, a quick touch. It was my only companion at the moment, and I couldn’t afford to lose it.

  The truth was, I had been pounding my feet on the cobblestone streets of Edinburgh for days, but despite the bloody blisters on my feet, I was no closer to finding a solution. A solution to my current issue of having no good return plan after running away to Guatemala and then to Scotland from my pediatric residency in New York.

  But now, at least, I knew what I was doing tonight. Tonight, I was going to clean the ring and read that inscription. And find out why I had felt so compelled to buy it.

  Chapter 2

  Edinburgh, August, Thursday—Present Time

  My body jerked awake violently, and I stared unseeing into the darkness. Icy shivers pulsed through my spine. I grabbed my blanket from the floor and wrapped it tightly around me, but the shivers continued.

  What day was it? Thursday? Yes, definitely Thursday. Edinburgh.

  My body was back in my hotel room, but I still smelled the nauseating scent of wisteria blooming wildly in the garden I was just in. I still heard the crunch of the gravel under the wheels of my bicycle.

  I hadn’t touched a bike since I was eleven. Since the day I insisted that my twin sister race bikes to the beach with me on a sweltering summer day. The day I watched Ella collapse, gasping for breath, on the path covered in gravel and sand, with wisterias dropping their purple blooms on her white face.

  Hypertrophic cardiomyopathy was the first condition I learned about when I got to medical school. Ella’s heart muscle grew abnormally thick and her heart couldn’t pump well. Patients with this condition were supposed to avoid bursts of physical activity, especially in extreme temperatures. I hadn’t thought of Ella in a long time. Too long. I guess that was the idea. Go to medical school, become a doctor, save lives. Earn my right to be alive when she was dead. I wiped the tears rolling down my cheeks.

  The dream. I needed to think. I’d had strange dreams before, but not this vivid.

  The garden I just rode through in my dream looked similar to the gardens we liked to ride through as children. But…not quite the same. I rode my bike through a large entrance with an arch, then past well-manicured bushes bearing different kinds of flowers. Then I went through a black iron gate and onto a gravel path, past the fountain and toward the wisteria trees, where I knew someone waited.

  A woman stood by the bench, leaning on her bicycle, while several birds played at her feet. Her gray flared skirt cascaded gently over her laced-up boots, and her jacket was almost the same color as the wisteria. The woman slowly lifted her head, allowing me to see her face, slightly shaded by a hat. She was strikingly beautiful, with skin that seemed to glow in the light of the morning sun. Her large, dark, brown eyes were framed by long lashes. And full of tears.

  She said something in a language I didn’t understand, then got on her bicycle, and we rode on together. I tried to keep up with her because I knew she needed my help. I also sensed I had hurt her feelings, and I felt desperately sorry. As I finally reached her on my bike, I noticed her hands on the handlebars. On the long outstretched fingers of her right hand she wore a ring—the same one I had bought earlier today. I pointed at it, speechless, and that’s when I woke up.

  I didn’t know this woman. I didn’t know why I may have hurt her. Was this related to Ella? I hadn’t had any nightmares about my sister in a long while, but maybe it was time they returned. But, no, this didn’t feel at all like a nightmare. This felt very real. Too real. I stopped shivering, but I still couldn’t think clearly. I tried to remember what the woman said. I was fairly sure it sounded German. She didn’t look at all like my sister. And she wore my ring.

  I got out of bed and turned on the lights and the TV. Despite the constant noise of the Edinburgh festival, my room’s silence was unsettling. It wasn’t even midnight yet. I had fallen asleep from fatigue, still wearing my street clothes. I changed into a clean shirt and a pair of yoga pants and made a cup of tea, as sleep seemed an impossible idea at this point. I sat on the chair by the window, looking at the darkness of the street below.

  Maybe I’ve spent too much time in Scotland.

  Maybe this dream was telling me to go home.

  Of course, I was in Scotland because I couldn’t go home to New York. Not yet.

  I walked to the bathroom to clean the ring and try to read the inscription. Maybe there was a clue. Not that I felt superstitious, but I was glad to get it off my finger. Some scrubbing with my baking soda toothpaste, and the letters began to shine beautifully, even in the dim bathroom lights. I took the ring into the bedroom and held it under the bedside lamp.

  I turned on my laptop and carefully typed into the search engine while squinting to read the tiny letters. “Du Bist Mein, Ich Bin Dein.” Several pages popped up, each one telling me that these words were from a medieval German love poem found in the Tegernsee monastery and written by an unknown author. I couldn’t understand the poem in German, but the English translation read:

  “You are mine, I am yours,

  Thereof you may be certain.

  You’re locked away

  Within my heart.

  Lost is the key,

  And you must ever be therein.”

  So I was right about the woman speaking German. I searched for “meaning of moonstone.” Apparently, the moonstone was a symbol of protection “on land and sea” and could guarantee eternal love or help lovers after a quarrel. It could improve intuition and bring good luck. It worked differently depending on the type of person who used it, but its power was greatest when used by a woman. The ring lay peacefully in my hand, the moonstone shining silvery-white and then suddenly more opalescent. Its calmness slowly transferred to me, and my body relaxed.

  I was coming to the realization that the dream had nothing to do with my sister. The wisteria and the bikes were just a coincidence. Was it possible the woman in my dream was a real person? She must’ve received this ring from someone who loved her. But why did she show up in my dream? Was it possible for me to dream about this woman and her life because I owned her ring now?

  Was it possible for objects to store their owner’s experiences?

  I touched the ring carefully, then slowly put it back on my finger. I wondered why the woman had sold the ring. Surely, if it brought good fortune, it wouldn’t end up in an antique shop, being sold for a mere thirty pounds? The shopowner had said it was made sometime between 1912 and 1920, so I must have dreamt of someone from a long time ago. Why was she sad in my dream?

  The cell phone vibrated loudly, its buzzing echoing through the room, startling me.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello. Dr. Radelis?”

  I jumped up, my heart thumping in my chest. Not a single person had called me “Dr
. Radelis” since I left New York. I’d been Maya, simply Maya, for the past seven months.

  “Yes,” I said quietly and closed my eyes, leaning against the window frame.

  “Well, it’s been very challenging to find you, Dr. Radelis.” The woman’s voice was familiar, but I couldn’t quite place her. “I’ve been trying to track you down for over a month. You haven’t been answering your phone.”

  “I’m sorry. Who’s this?” I asked.

  “This is Madeleine. I’m the administrative assistant to Dr. Haber, the Dean of Graduate Medical Education. Please hold for Dr. Haber.” The phone went silent.

  “Wait, wait…” Still silent.

  Shit… Shit. Shit!

  I paced, the ring forgotten, wondering if I had the guts to end the call. What time was it in New York, anyway?

  “Dr. Radelis? This is Dr. Haber,” a forceful voice announced in my ear.

  “Yes, Dr. Haber. This is Maya Radelis,” I said, nearly dropping the phone.

  “I normally hold these meetings in person, but Madeleine informed me you were out of the country. So, unfortunately, it had to be a phone meeting. Is this an acceptable time for you?”

  I had a feeling I wasn’t really being given a choice. “Yes, this is fine.” I sat back down on the bed. Dread grew in my stomach like a monster, beginning to devour my insides.

  “This won’t take long. I’m calling to inform you that you’ve exhausted your six-month leave of absence and your forty-four-day vacation allowance. You’re now in violation of the ACGME Leave Policy. We have no choice but to place you on probation at this point, with a required completion of the remediation plan. The GME Academic Committee met a few weeks ago and prepared your remediation plan, but we haven’t been able to reach you to discuss it. I need you to come in to sign it if you agree. Then, of course, you’ll need to complete all the points on it if you wish to resume your residency with us. I’m afraid this meeting is required to be held in person. Any questions?”

  Probation. Did he actually say probation? Remediation? Was I being kicked out? Was this the end?

  Why was I not saying anything to fight back?

  “I understand, Dr. Haber,” I heard myself say. “I’ll be there and… I’ll see what I can do to fix this.”

  “Very good. I’m going to transfer you back to Madeleine, so she can schedule this. And… Dr. Radelis?”

  “Yes,” I whispered.

  “The committee did discuss that your ability to complete a remediation plan is questionable, given your previous record. I’m referring to your actual performance during your residency. You did have an investigation recorded in your file, if you remember?”

  “Yes, I remember.” I swallowed hard. The monster had reached my throat now and was sealing it shut.

  “And you never took your USMLE examination as expected in your first year of residency.”

  “Yes, I’m sorry, I…” I choked on my words.

  “I hope you know we do try to help all our residents be successful in their medical careers and we wish you all the best as well, but you’ve really struggled since you’ve been with us. It may be prudent to examine whether you truly wish to continue on the path of becoming a physician, especially a pediatrician. I’m switching you back to Madeleine.”

  Click. Silence. The end.

  A few minutes later, it was over. I heard only a few of the words Madeleine told me. I was to show up at Dr. Haber’s office at noon Friday. Or else.

  Lunchtime. He expected it to be a quick meeting.

  I lay on the bed, face down, suffocating. I had a week. A week before my medical career was in the toilet. I would no longer be Dr. Radelis—I would be just Maya, for good. I had made yet another mistake. I should’ve returned to my residency when the Family Health Volunteers Mission in Guatemala ran out of money. Instead, I had stayed as long as possible, trying to delay my return. I ran away to Guatemala in the first place because I thought it would be enough time to cope with my residency failure, but it wasn’t. As I waited for my connection to New York a week ago, I still couldn’t imagine going back to the hospital. When I saw an Edinburgh flight posted on another gate, it seemed like the perfect chance to postpone facing Dr. Haber, fellow residents, and Dr. Ryan Asher, who was my Attending when I killed my patient.

  The monster had reached my brain and began spinning my thoughts. My body felt violently ill, with my stomach battered by sharp pains, my lungs struggling to breathe, my heart beating rapidly in panic, and my head spinning out of control until the fear finally expelled itself in a series of loud sobs against my pillow. I climbed under the blankets, curled myself into a ball, and fell asleep as the only escape I could think of.

  I woke when daylight filled my room. The pain was still there, settled permanently in my heart. So now I had to be back in a week to face it all.

  I had never escaped.

  And my life would be over in a week.

  Then I remembered. The ring. The dream. I did have a week before my life would be over.

  I had until Friday before I had to return; seven days before I had to get on a flight to New York. Just enough time to try to figure out the ring’s mystery. After all, I had nothing else left to lose. I searched my backpack for the receipt Ian Fergusson had given me, the one from the store that sold him the ring.

  Paris. The ring was from Paris. Was that a sign? Ella and I spent all our childhood reading books about Paris and dreaming about the things we would see there together. There hadn’t been a day in my life when I didn’t wish to go to Paris. Paris was also where my best friend, Pauline, lived.

  After a shower, I put on the last clean outfit I owned and called my grandmother, Zoya, in New York. I held the phone a few inches away from my ear. It had been twenty years since we arrived in New York as refugees from Ukraine, but she still couldn’t get used to the excellent phone connection in the U.S.

  “Allo? Allo?”

  “Baba, it’s Maya.”

  “Maya, child. Are you all right? Where are you?”

  I interrupted the string of questions about to follow. “I’m fine, Babushka. I still didn’t catch any malaria. I’m in Scotland now, in Edinburgh. I’m doing just fine. Don’t worry.”

  “Scotland? Edinburgh? You said you were going home a week ago. What are you doing there? It’s the other end of the world!”

  “I’m taking a little work trip,” I lied. Again. I’d never explained why I left in the first place. No need to worry her.

  “A work trip? Why would it be in Scotland? I don’t understand… You’re an American doctor. Why do they send you to Guatemala and now to Scotland? How long before you come home?”

  “Next week. I need to do some things here, and then I’ll be back next Friday. I promise this time.” I tightened my jaw, sure of what she’d say next.

  “If only your mother was alive, you wouldn’t be running all over the world.”

  Many things would’ve been different if my mother were still alive. But my mother died giving birth to Ella and me twenty-nine years ago. She wasn’t there to stop me from taking Ella on the bike ride that killed her.

  “Please come back home for sure this time. It’s not good for us to never see each other.” My grandmother sniffed, and I imagined her wiping away tears with one of her embroidered handkerchiefs.

  “I will. I’m trying, I promise.” I struggled to think of what else to say.

  “You’re just like my father. He could never be in one place. Always wanting to travel around and never happy to be home. And he was a good doctor, too. You’d think being a doctor would keep you busy enough,” Babushka said.

  “I’m sorry, Baba.” I did miss my grandmother terribly. I almost felt the warmth of her hug right then and imagined I caught the scent of her hair. Suddenly, I felt so lonely I could hardly stand it.

  “Be safe, and please call me more often.” Another sigh, but she always forgave me, even when I didn’t forgive myself.

  “I love you, Baba,” I said, but she
had already hung up.

  The noises outside my room signaled the beginning of a busy tourist day in Edinburgh. I texted Pauline to let her know I was coming. Dozens of emojis popped back up on the screen, her favorite way of communicating these days.

  Paris. I was going to Paris. Until I had no choice but to face the worst.

  Chapter 3

  Bern, September 1911

  The sun was starting to set, so Rebecca hurried to finish her hair. A flower would make it look better, the way she wore it in the summer, but today was Rosh Hashanah, the first of the High Holy Days, and Mother would not approve of her vanity. Not that Mother ever approved of the way she looked. Well, at least her clothes were clean today, and she did manage to get a bow into her unruly curls. It was unseasonably warm, and Rebecca was quite glad she wore a cotton blouse and a loose skirt instead of a velvet gown like the one in which her mother was surely suffocating.

  Rebecca’s dress for the synagogue tomorrow was laid out on the lounge chair. It was expensive, made of white lace, and ordered from some famous dressmaker in Vienna. She had protested the dress when it was first made, thinking of lace and ribbon wasted on what Mother always called her “rather plain figure.” It would’ve hung much better on her sister Hannah’s curvier shape. But Father simply waved his hand when she pleaded with him. He knew better than to argue with Mother.

  She turned at the sound of heels. Hannah ran into the room, holding her chest.

  “Your corset’s too tight,” Rebecca said, watching Hannah collapse into a chair next to her.

  “You…have…to…come.”

  “I’ll be down shortly. I have to find my new shoes or Mother will be angry with me for the rest of the evening.”

  “No.” Hannah stopped, gasping, and pointed to the window. “Now. There’s a man outside. He’s going to take our photograph.” She examined her hair in Rebecca’s trifold mirror. “My hat. Please help me pin it. It’s too heavy for me to manage.”

  Rebecca picked up the hat and stood behind Hannah’s chair. The hat was piled high with velvet pleats and flowers. She wasn’t quite sure whether she could secure it on top of Hannah’s elaborate hairstyle. But it wasn’t Hannah’s shiny hair she thought of as she began to work with the hat. Her mind filled with dread at the thought of taking the first photograph without their brother. Her fingers shook.