When Death Comes for You

by Marjorie Florestal

  Renée studied the lines and arrows, they were starting to make sense. “How were you able to diagnose seawater poisoning? Is there some kind of test?”

  “In this case, the symptoms were easy to spot.” Dr. Cosgrove held out a hand and started ticking off symptoms on her fingers. “The daughter reported that her mother suffered nausea and delirium. I observed the condition of the patient’s lips, mouth, and tongue—all of which evidenced severe dehydration. I also smelled a characteristic foul odor on the patient’s breath, which is consistent with other reported cases of seawater poisoning.”

  Renée stared at the diagram once more. “What could possibly make Yvette do such a thing?”

  “There are only two reasons I can think of. She was either trying to kill herself or to save herself.”

  Renée shook her head. “You’ve lost me again.”

  “Let me ask you a question. Do you believe Ms. Destin was suicidal?”

  “I didn’t know her very well, Doctor. We’ve only recently started working with the family.”

  “What’s your gut reaction? You surely have to make quick judgments in your line of work?”

  Renée thought about the woman she’d met in the camp who could still laugh in the face of horrible circumstances. “No, I don’t believe she was suicidal. She struck me as resilient, and I don’t think she’d do that to her daughter.”

  Dr. Cosgrove nodded. “I’d have to agree with you. Not to mention, there are easier ways to commit suicide. The symptoms of seawater poisoning are excruciating. They range from an unrelenting thirst to nausea, delirium, muscle cramping, and brain bleed. It’s a terrible way to die.”

  Renée flinched at the images that raced through her mind. “You must be going somewhere with this?”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be so blunt.”

  “Go on.” She had to hear everything.

  “Unlike those who are lost at sea and don’t have access to freshwater, Ms. Destin had a ready supply. We make sure the camps are well stocked. When her symptoms took a turn for the worse, what stopped her from drinking that water? If she wasn’t suicidal, that leaves only one possibility. Could she have believed that drinking seawater would cure HIV?”

  “That’s ridiculous.” Renée could feel her anger rising. Would it always be like this? Would she always have to defend against people’s prejudices and misconceptions about what it meant to be Haitian? “Yvette wasn’t an idiot. I’m sure she had a basic grasp of science.”

  Dr. Cosgrove flinched, but her eyes did not waver. “Please hear me out, Ms. François. I’m not trying to offend. I’ve been all over the world dealing with the ravages of HIV/AIDS, and I can tell you that people are desperate. They want a cure, but they’d settle for any kind of hope. I have cared for little girls brought in to my clinic after being raped. These men believed sex with a virgin would cure them. I’ve seen con artists and charlatans peddle so-called remedies from herbs to electromagnetism to goat’s milk.”

  Dr. Cosgrove leaned forward and continued, “It’s not so far-fetched that Yvette Destin believed she’d found a cure in seawater. In the eighteenth century, the British physician Richard Russell prescribed the drinking of seawater for all sorts of diseases. He turned the sleepy little English seaside village of Brighton into a thriving health resort for the upper class. If he could believe seawater was a curative, maybe our patient had the same idea.”

  Renée felt a throbbing at her temples. “I don’t know what Yvette believed,” she finally admitted. “I need to investigate.” She would start with Rose Fleurie and her song about drowning.

  A look of relief settled in Dr. Cosgrove’s eyes. “Thank you.”

  Renée stood. “I need to get Lucie back to the camp.” She held up Dr. Cosgrove’s diagram. “Do you mind if I keep this?”

  “On one condition,” Dr. Cosgrove said.

  Renée raised a brow, waiting.

  The doctor also stood, her eyes now level with Renée’s. “I need your help. We have almost three hundred people carrying a deadly virus trapped on forty-five square miles. The conditions are ripe for an outbreak. If that happens, we can’t provide our patients with an adequate level of care. This is dangerous—not just for the migrants, but for the whole community.”

  “I agree,” Renée said, “but the INS isn’t listening. What do you expect me to do?”

  “We’re having problems connecting with the migrants. Apparently, some of them believe we’re the ones responsible for their detention. As you can imagine, this impairs the doctor-patient relationship. They don’t trust us, and they don’t trust our medicine, which means they will only get sicker. I don’t want what happened to Ms. Destin to happen to anyone else.”

  Dr. Cosgrove squeezed Renée’s forearm and added, “Please, Ms. François. Will you help us?”

  #

  Outside, the man pulled his baseball cap low and sprinted from the hospital entrance. He kept his head down, avoiding the curious looks and familiar faces. He didn’t have time for a friendly chat, he needed to get to the bungalow.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  All The Other Little Girls

  We can’t be out front on this issue,” Fabrice Jean said.

  Renée leaned on the desk in Dr. Cosgrove’s office and stared at the phone as though she had never seen one before. The doctor had left to check in on a patient, and Renée had immediately called her boss with the good news. The call was not going as she’d planned.

  She couldn’t lose this fight, 267 . . . no, 266 lives were at stake. “Dr. Cosgrove is willing to go on record about the conditions in the camp. With her affidavit, we can petition the Attorney General to parole the HIV refugees to the United States. She is giving us what we want.”

  “That is not what we want.”

  She frowned. “This won’t help the refugees outside of Camp Bulkeley, but it’s a start. We’ll just have to continue fighting for the others.”

  “Once we align ourselves with AIDS refugees, the American people will believe all Haitian refugees have AIDS,” Fabrice said. “It will only make it harder to win asylum for the others. Harder politically, and harder in the court of public opinion.”

  The ficus plant caught her eye. The setting sun cast a shadow on its drooping leaves. It seemed to teeter that much closer to death. “We can educate people about AIDS. Only a small percentage of asylum seekers have tested positive.”

  Fabrice’s disgusted snort rang through the phone line. “Educate people? Do you remember what happened to Ryan White?”

  She remembered. Ryan White was a hemophiliac who contracted the AIDS virus from a blood transfusion. He was only thirteen years old when he was given six months to live. He wanted a normal life, so he tried to go back to school. His Indiana community turned on him. Hundreds of parents, teachers, and students protested his return for fear that merely breathing the same air put them at risk.

  “That was seven years ago, things have changed since then. We’ve learned a lot about AIDS.” She could hear the uncertainty in her own voice.

  Fabrice muttered an obscenity. “People treated him like a pariah. What will they do to refugees from a country they’d just as soon forget?”

  She closed her eyes, childishly wishing that when she opened them again she would be in a new world, one that didn’t stigmatize the sick and infirm. But she had seen how her father was treated, and she no longer believed in fairy tales. Still, she couldn’t abandon the fight.

  “I’ve spent the last hour with a little girl who lost her mother. The woman drank seawater in hopes of curing herself. She wanted a better life for her family, and now her daughter will grow up an orphan.”

  There was silence, and for a moment Renée thought she might have won. She had forgotten how much Fabrice valued logic.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said, “but what about all the other little girls who will suffer if we go down this path?”

  “They don’t have to suffer. We can help everyone.”

  �
��I should never have sent you. The moment I learned about the AIDS camp, I knew you would—”

  She inhaled sharply. “You knew about the camp?”

  He cleared his throat. “Rumors. Nothing definite.”

  “Why didn’t you say something?”

  “Because I knew you would lose focus. I didn’t send you down there to save the world. You’re there to represent Ms. Fleurie. Her case gives us a toehold to help thousands of others. Focus on that, and forget everything else.”

  “I can’t. These are people’s lives we’re talking about.”

  “You think I don’t know that?” He was shouting. She had never heard him shout before. “I’ve been working with the Haitian community for seventeen years. I’ve shed blood, sweat, and tears for my people. What have you done? What makes you the expert?”

  She paused. “I’m the one in Guantanamo. I’m the one who’s seen these conditions firsthand. I can’t turn my back on these people.”

  “If you don’t do what I tell you, you’re fired. You understand?”

  “I understand.” She let the phone drop on its cradle. What was she doing? Fabrice was right. AIDS was polarizing, and so was the Haitian refugee crisis. The two together were radioactive. She was no expert—she couldn’t help these people. And she certainly couldn’t afford to lose her job.

  With a perfunctory knock, Dr. Cosgrove stepped into the room. “They’re waiting for us at Camp Bulkeley. What do you want to do?”

  An image of Lucie flashed in Renée’s mind, her eyes limpid, her thin girlish voice raised in song:

  Drowning, I’m drowning

  Drowning, I’m drowning

  Erzulie, if you see me

  Fall in the water

  Take me

  Save my life

  Drowning, I’m drowning

  Renée fought back tears. “Let’s go.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Your Medicine

  The gates of Camp Bulkeley clanged shut behind them. Renée held tight to Lucie’s hand as they stepped forward. Dr. Cosgrove and Gigi brought up the rear, while the marines stood guard outside. It was Gigi’s suggestion to forego a military escort— yesterday’s wound was still fresh on both sides.

  As soon as the gates closed, a crowd surrounded them. Renée could feel a thrum of energy course through her, like the faint echo of a drumbeat. “Where’s your father, Lucie?”

  The crowd took one look at Lucie’s tear-streaked face and knew what had happened. An older woman stepped forward, clucking sympathetically. She patted Lucie’s back and said a few words.

  “He’s at our tent,” Lucie said. “Madan Grace says I should stay here with her.”

  It was a good idea. The little girl had already been through so much. They left her with Madan Grace and trudged through the tent city, the crowd doubling and then tripling in size. When they reached Pierre’s tent, there must have been fifty people surrounding them. The crowd suddenly parted, allowing Renée and her small group to move up front.

  She was shocked to see Pierre. He was slumped on the ground in front of his tent, shirtless and gaunt. His eyes were red-rimmed, his skin ashen. He held a cup to his mouth with shaking hands. The smell of vomit lingered.

  Dr. Cosgrove turned to Gigi. “Can you tell them we’d like to hold a community meeting?”

  Gigi inspected the gathering crowd. “I don’t think we could keep them away.” She was right. The group of fifty had formed a circle, and more were gathering. No one said a word.

  Dr. Cosgrove cleared her throat, but Pierre spoke first. “He asked about his wife,” Gigi said.

  Dr. Cosgrove moved to the center of the circle. “Mr. Destin, I am so sorry for your loss.”

  Gigi spoke to Pierre. He wailed, the sound so full of pain, it brought tears to Renée’s eyes. Two women kneeled at his side. One wiped his face with a handkerchief while the other helped him drink from his cup. He said a few words.

  “He wants to know what happened,” Gigi said.

  “Your wife died of seawater poisoning.”

  Gigi shot Dr. Cosgrove a look of surprise but translated without missing a beat.

  “Ki sa ou di la?” Pierre struggled to his feet with the help of his aides.

  Gigi repeated her words. Pierre vehemently shook his head and nearly collapsed in the process.

  “Mr. Destin, you don’t look well. May I examine you?” Dr. Cosgrove gestured to her medical bag, but Pierre held up a restraining hand.

  “He wants to know what happened to his wife,” Gigi said. “He says a little seawater never killed anyone.”

  “That’s simply not true.” Dr. Cosgrove launched into her lecture about the effects of saltwater on the body. Gigi translated while Renée scanned the crowd. They were getting restive. A few shook their heads, while others murmured to each other in a low rumble. The sound brought more people to the circle.

  “Ms. Destin’s body gave out. Her system was already tasked with the HIV virus,” Dr. Cosgrove concluded.

  Gigi listened to Pierre then turned to Dr. Cosgrove. “He said his wife did not have AIDS.”

  “We only recently learned she was HIV positive like most of the people in this camp.”

  Gigi translated. The low rumble of the crowd erupted into shouts. People were talking over each other, gesturing wildly.

  “What’s happening?” Dr. Cosgrove asked.

  Gigi looked at her with stricken eyes. “They said they don’t have AIDS.”

  A look of shock crossed Dr. Cosgrove’s face. “I came on base just a few weeks ago. It was my understanding the patients had been informed of their status prior to my arrival.”

  Renée suddenly remembered what Pierre told her when they first met. “They think they have a virus that can be treated within twenty-one days.”

  “Twenty-one days?” Dr. Cosgrove shot her a look of disbelief. “Who told them that?”

  “I did.” A man stepped into their small circle with his head hung low. It was John.

  “Why would you tell them such a thing?” Dr. Cosgrove demanded.

  “Dr. Simmons asked me to say that, ma’am, so the migrants wouldn’t get . . . upset.”

  “Of all the irresponsible—” Dr. Cosgrove bit off her words and made a visible effort to control herself. “Your actions have given these patients more reason to distrust us.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am.” He looked beaten.

  “I’ll deal with you later.” She turned away, facing the crowd once more. “May I have your attention, please. This is important.”

  Gigi translated, and the crowd fell silent.

  “I apologize for any miscommunication, but the truth is you have HIV. It is a virus that destroys the body’s immune system. I’m afraid it’s terminal.”

  While Gigi translated, Renée whispered to John. “What are you doing here?”

  “I wanted to come clean about what I’d done,” he whispered back.

  She nodded, though she wasn’t sure what to feel at the moment. A rumble from the crowd distracted her.

  “I am not sick,” a woman shouted as Gigi simultaneously translated her words. “I feel fine.” The crowd cheered.

  “The disease is progressive,” Dr. Cosgrove explained, “which means it can take some time before you start to feel ill. But make no mistake, the virus is mounting its attack even when you don’t show any symptoms.”

  “You’re lying,” said a young man with haunted eyes. “You don’t want us in your country, so you treat us like garbage and tell us we are diseased.”

  Dr. Cosgrove shook her head. “We have nothing to do with the Immigration and Naturalization Service.” She grasped Gigi’s arm for emphasis. “Make sure they understand we have nothing to do with INS.” Gigi nodded and spoke to the crowd.

  “We are here to help you,” Dr. Cosgrove continued. “There is no cure for HIV/AIDS, but we do have treatments that will slow the disease. We want to make sure you get those medicines.”

  “We don’t want your medicine,�
�� Pierre said. “Your medicine killed my wife.”

  “Your wife died of a seawater overdose. I’m sorry, but there was nothing we could do.”

  “You lie!” Spittle shot out of Pierre’s mouth and his eyes narrowed. “Seawater does not kill. It is better than the poisons you are trying to give us.”

  The crowd roared its approval.

  Renée stepped forward. “Pierre, I was at the hospital. I saw what happened, and Dr. Cosgrove is not lying. She tried hard to save Yvette’s life.”

  Gigi worked at such a fast clip, there was almost no gap between speech and translation. She turned to Renée with Pierre’s response. “Why should I believe you?”

  “You asked for my help, remember? I’m here to help.” Renée turned to the crowd. “I’m here to help all of you.”

  “Help us?” He let out a low, despondent huff. “With your fancy American life, what do you care about us?”

  “I care,” Renée insisted. “I am Haitian just like you, and I came here to make sure you are treated fairly. You are refugees, and the law says you must be treated as such.” She shouted above the din, though few could understand her words. “I intend to file a lawsuit to make sure that happens. But if you don’t take your medicine, you will die before I win your case.”

  It was a brutal way to make the point, but it got the crowd’s attention. For a moment, there was silence. Then the questions flew at her in rapid-fire succession. Gigi gave a helpless shrug, too overwhelmed to translate. A gray-haired old man stepped forward, and the crowd quieted.

  “We were promised many things, and each time those promises turned out to be lies,” he said. “But I for one want to see my family again. I want to live long enough to play with my children’s children and to walk the roads of my dear Haiti one last time. If your medicine will help me do those things, I will take it.”

  The crowd fell silent once more. Then a woman said, “I will take your medicine.”

  A young man followed, then two more women, until it became a chorus. “I will take your medicine.”

  “I will take your medicine.”