by Helen Hardt
I exhaled, knowing I’d never get back to sleep. My medical residency cured me of needing a decent night’s sleep; I was used to operating on two or three hours and then crashing for twelve. Shifts as an island practitioner were significantly less grueling, although yesterday’s emergency with four-year-old Juan took me back to my early days as an intern when my God Complex was still developing.
Fear. Panic. Indecision.
Florencia and Juan lived on one of the nearby islands served by the Isla Tortuga Verde Clinica Medica. The young mother arrived after a forty-minute boat ride, Juan limp and pale in her arms. My Spanish was limited, so I had trouble understanding her rapid-fire explanation, but when the little boy began convulsing, I recognized the febrile seizure.
High fever, vomiting, loss of consciousness, repeated episodes of seizing. Florencia confirmed all of the symptoms.
I quickly diagnosed a severe middle ear infection as the cause of Juan’s high fever. Treating something like this on the mainland where modern equipment and medication were readily available wasn’t a big deal, but on a remote Caribbean island, medical situations could quickly go south with little warning.
After administering antibiotics and starting an IV to keep the boy hydrated, Florencia and I sat watch as the hot, sunny day faded into a balmy twilight, eventually passing into nighttime. Juan’s temperature dropped without another seizure, easing our concerns.
I stood and stretched, unknotting my cramped muscles. As soon as Martina, my part-time aide, arrived, I promised myself a leisurely swim out to Shark Rock. Maybe catch a few winks on the warm sands that ringed the tiny chunk of land a quarter mile offshore.
Until then, strong, hot black coffee would keep me going. I levered the footrest back into place and then pulled the back of the chair into an upright position. Worn and cracked and God knew how old, the recliner was surprisingly comfortable. I’d discovered that about many things on the island. Old, dented, a missing piece or two, the shine long ago worn off but still useful. Hell, that described me.
Yep, time for coffee. When my thoughts started leaning toward the philosophic, melancholy wasn’t far behind.
I paused to pull the treatment room door closed and then padded down the hall to the kitchen, the tile floor cool and a little gritty. Salt and sand were part and parcel of life on a tropical island. The salt air rusted anything metallic while the wind-blown sand scoured away the rust, along with paint, fabric, the top layer of epidermis…you get the idea. What it couldn’t remove was the islanders’ resilience and joie de vivre.
I filled a kettle with water and set it on the stove to boil. One of the perks enjoyed as the island physician was round-the-clock electricity. A small electric plant generated power for the island, but consumption was restricted to the hours between seven a.m. and nine p.m. Some households had small generators powered by diesel fuel, but most, especially the older folks, made do.
The soft shuffle of footsteps alerted me that Florencia was awake. I added an extra scoop of coffee to the French press and grabbed another mug.
“Juan, he is sleeping.” She tugged nervously at the neckline of her shirt. “No more sacudida?”
“I’m not sure what that means.” I held my thumb and index finger apart about half an inch. “Yo solo hablo un poco de español.”
“Solo hablo un poco de ingles.” She laughed, teeth white against her golden-brown skin.
“Little bit of English?” When she nodded, I pointed at my chest. “Little bit de español. What is sacudida?”
She thought for a second and then jerked her arms and rolled her eyes. “Juan? All done?”
“Si.”
Martina was more than my aide. She was invaluable as a translator, fluent in Spanish, a bit of French, and the local patois. I’d have to ask her to explain about the infection and the seizure so Florencia would be prepared if it happened again.
Florencia eyed the coffee, raised her brows, and reached for a nearby cabinet.
I nodded approval for her to make herself at home in the kitchen and moved out of her way as she assembled eggs, leftover rice, and a couple of mangos. Ah, breakfast. My stomach rumbled, reminding me Juan’s emergency pre-empted dinner.
I handled coffee while Florencia prepared the rest of the meal. The horizon was pink when she handed me a plate loaded with sticky rice, sliced mango, and scrambled eggs. I filled both of the mugs and wandered out to the veranda while she returned to Juan’s room.
I ate. I drank. I inhaled and exhaled. I listened to the rustle of palm fronds. I watched the surf run up to the edge of the sand and chase itself back to the ocean. I just was, and it was enough.
Sitting in silence, without thoughts circling through my head like a runaway carousel, was as much a learned skill as drawing blood or setting a broken bone. When I first arrived on Green Turtle Island, I rushed through each day like I had at Boston Medical Center.
Doc Rodriguez taught me to slow down. How to sit still and relinquish the need to control my thoughts and feelings, and how surrendering was actually empowering. The man saved my life, and I would do anything for him.
Anything.
So far, he hadn’t cashed in that chip, but I’d be ready when he did.
I made a circuit back through the clinic to rinse my plate, refill my coffee, and check on the boy. Florencia had drifted off again, so I collected her dishes, dumped them in the sink, and ran water over them.
I dropped into the metal chair on the veranda, a comfortable seat that accommodated my long torso and legs. It didn’t rock but had enough spring in the design to achieve a pleasant bounce.
I sat. I drank coffee. I bounced.
I’d saved Juan.
Life was good.
Martina marched into my office, her flip-flops smacking against the tile. “Dey boat is here to take Florencia and Juan home. Okay for dem to go?”
I looked up from the backpack I was stocking with supplies and read the text in my line of vision.
I’m a Virgin (But This is an Old Shirt)
Martina, a fifty-something widow with skin the color of cinnamon, collected slogan T-shirts, which she wore over long skirts banded with multicolored horizontal stripes. I hadn’t seen this one before.
“Nice shirt. Curious fact to advertise.” I tipped my head toward the bold lettering.
“No time for dah small talk. Edgar ready to go now.”
“Fine. Did you check Juan’s temperature one last time and prepare the medication I ordered?”
“Of course, Doctor Man,” she huffed.
“I have to ask, Martina. It’s just a way of making sure we don’t overlook something that could jeopardize our patients’ health and wellness.”
“I know dat, Doctor Man.” She grinned, wide enough to reveal the spaces where she was missing all four first molars, and then shuffled back down the hall. “I just give ya hard time.”
“I love you, Martina,” I shouted after her.
“I know dat, too, Doctor Man.” She cackled, the sound triggering my own laughter.
The recliner wasn’t the only thing I’d inherited from Doc Rodriguez. Martina was a second or third cousin on Doc’s mother’s side of the family tree, and she’d worked at the medical center since she was fifteen. With no children of her own, she poured her heart and soul into those served by the clinic, dispensing unsolicited wisdom and advice along with medicine and bandages. Most days, I operated under the delusion that I ran the clinic. When I got a bit too full of myself, she wasn’t afraid to remind me who the real boss was.
I added another bottle of ibuprofen to the pack and zippered it shut. Slipping on a grungy pair of Nikes and shoving my Oakleys atop my head, I slung the bag over my shoulder.
“I’m leaving, Martina,” I hollered into the clinic and headed out the back.
“Don’t run over dey turtles.”
I rolled my eyes, but warmth spread through my chest. I heard that corny line every time I headed out for my weekly round of house calls. Martina w
as a cross between a doting grandmother and sarcastic teenager. She and Doc were the closest thing I had to family and part of the reason I was happy to remain on the island.
I unlocked the small shed behind the clinic and wheeled out the all-terrain mountain bike I’d splurged on so I had reliable transportation. Most of the folks came into the clinic, but a few lived up on Corcova Mountain. Older islanders who weren’t always receptive to medical advice but who welcomed a visit from Doctor Man.
First stop was Alonso Rodriguez, Doc’s younger brother, who owned a small farm at the base of the mountain. I coasted down the dirt trail leading to his small tin-roofed house, squinting against the sun’s glare to locate Al. His favorite place to avoid the noonday sun was the shade of a huge tamarind tree in front of his house. I realized he already had company and then recognized Doc.
“Luka!” Al bellowed a greeting as Doc waved.
I leaned the bike against a scrubby palm and strode across the short patchy lawn. Doc stood and held out his arms for a brusque embrace, a little unsteady on his feet. Al settled for a handshake.
“Looking a bit shaky there.” I supported his elbow as he sat back down, eyeing him with concern. “How are you feeling?”
“These legs’ve been walking the earth for eighty years. They get tired now and then.” Waving a hand dismissively, he grunted. “I’m fine. A few aches and pains, but I woke up this morning. Makes it a good day. Seeing you makes it a great day.”
I poured a glass of guava agua fresca, topped off the men’s drinks, and then snapped open one of the battered lawn chairs Al kept stacked against the tree trunk and got comfortable.
“Why didn’t you come by the clinic?” I asked.
“Al picked me up at the dock. He had a load of produce going over to Belle Isle on the ferry.”
“How long are you staying?” I chugged half the refreshing drink and wiped the sweat off my forehead.
“Until Friday. Island hopping is taxing when you’re my age.”
Two references to his age in under a minute. My stomach coiled in on itself like a rolling hitch knot.
“I’m glad you came by,” Doc said. “I need your help.”
The solemnity of Doc’s gaze warned this wasn’t a simple favor. Didn’t matter. All he had to do was ask. “Name it.”
“The clinic is at risk of losing its funding through Care for All.” Half-turning toward his brother, Doc explained the significance. “CFA is a nonprofit that funnels financial support for medical resources in communities where none exists. They provided the seed money for our clinic twenty-five years ago. Without their help, there’s no money for salaries or supplies and zero chance of upgrading the equipment.”
Doc’s news was a shock but not a surprise. Everything in the clinic was secondhand. Medication was in short supply so reserved for critical situations. Even something as basic as an IV, like the one I set up for little Juan, was a carefully calculated decision. Did the patient really need it?
“I can afford a salary cut.” I curled tense fingers around the canning jar that held my agua fresca. “The clinic provides housing for me, and you know how many of the patients barter food or labor to pay for their care.”
“Thank you, Luka.” Doc’s voice thickened. “That’s very generous, but a temporary solution, at best. We may not have to resort to drastic measures if CFA can develop another channel for funding.”
“It sounds like they already have a Plan B.” I wiped the condensation from the glass and flicked it away.
“I went to medical school with Stanford Deacons,” Doc said. “His son, Alistair, is on the nonprofit’s board of directors. They’ve hired an advertising agency in Denver to create a public awareness campaign to drive donations to CFA so they can continue their work. So we can continue our work.”
“How long before we know if their plan pays off? Isla Tortuga Verde Clinica Medica probably receives a tiny percentage of the aid they hand out. The money is life-or-death for us but nothing more than a few digits on one of their spreadsheets.” I didn’t bother hiding my cynicism. I’d seen how big hospitals prioritized budgetary line items. A small clinic like ours was way, way down on the list.
“That doesn’t matter, my friend.” Doc patted his hand on my arm. “We’re in this together. If CFA fails, we’ll have to secure funding elsewhere. Do you want to spend your time caring for patients or meeting with men in suits and ties?”
Damn. The old man knew exactly what button to push to get the response he wanted from me. Wasting time on hospital politics was one of the reasons I quit Boston Medical Center.
“Great.” I slapped a hand to my knee, the crack of skin on skin loud in the humid air. “I’m not sure how we can help Care For All raise millions of dollars, but if I have to stand on the corner with a bucket and a cardboard sign, I’ll do it.”
The lines radiating from the corners of Doc’s eyes deepened as he smiled. “That won’t be necessary. They need something different, and I volunteered Isla Tortuga Verde Clinica Medica to help.”
I lifted the glass to finish off the agua fresca.
“Someone from the advertising agency will be here on Friday. She’s spending the next two weeks with us to learn more about the clinic. She’ll be collecting photographs and video footage for the campaign.” Doc cashed in his chip, and I almost choked. “Luka, you’re the new spokesman for CFA.”
3
Britt
“Is this your first visit to the islands?” A guy giving off beach-bum vibes joined me at the prow of the passenger ferry, leaning his forearms along the metal railing.
“It is obvious?” I gave him an appraising look from my peripheral vision.
Deep tan a shade or two darker than fried chicken. Long hair he kept shoving out of his face. Baggy khaki shorts, a faded tank, and beat-up canvas slip-ons.
Nope. Not what I had in mind for a no-strings vacation fling.
“Only the virgins ride up front. Taking pics to show their coworkers back home. Hootin’ and hollerin’ every time they see a dolphin.”
“Not a fan of tourists, are you?”
“Nah, they’re all right. Just predictable.” He inched closer. “Now you… I can’t get a read on you. You’re dressed for a week at one of those all-inclusive resorts. I call ’em Disneyland for grownups. I heard you tell the captain you’re going to Isla Tortuga Verde, and there isn’t a fancy resort on that rock. They don’t even have WiFi.”
I stared, not willing to believe something so outrageous from a stranger. Okay, maybe the resort was wishful thinking, but I thought WiFi was a given except in the most remote corners of the world. Wasn’t that why Elon Musk kept launching new satellites?
No internet? He had to be wrong.
“You called Isla Tortuga Verde a rock. Is that like a cay or atoll?”
The guy snickered, and I made him a double nope.
“Rock. Island. Same thing.”
A sinking sensation warred with motion sickness. I’d come to the front of the boat in hopes it would ease the nausea. Now my travel guide was shattering my tropical island fantasy.
“Maybe you’re scouting out a place to retire. Lots of expats relocate to the islands. Nice weather. Laidback lifestyle. White sand beaches. Friendly locals.” He pretended to stretch his arms and moved toward me. “You’re kinda young to retire. Unless you’re independently wealthy.”
“I’m here for work. Two weeks and it’s back to the nine-to-five grind. No time to get friendly with the locals.” I felt like a mean girl when his cocky attitude deflated. “Thanks for the conversation, though.”
He looked at me with puppy-dog eyes and an icky grin, and I regretted the impulse to be nice. Some guys interpreted any signal you gave them as a one-way sign pointing to the sack.
“How long before we arrive at Isla Tortuga Verde?” I couldn’t stand much more time with this Caribbean Casanova.
“Next rock on the right.” He pointed to a green mound rising out of the azure water.
&n
bsp; In the distance, beyond Isla Tortuga Verde, I saw dark humps—more islands. When I’d boarded the ferry, the captain told me the region was dotted with small islands. As I looked at each separate bump of land, they appeared lonely and isolated. I could relate. Ever since Mona and Nick “just happened,” I felt like an outsider, like I’d lost my place in the grand scheme of life. My life. The perfect life I’d been living and creating, hammered into smithereens by their happiness. I hated feeling like that, but what bothered me more was how bitter and petty and wretched I was becoming.
I grabbed my backpack and walked to the other side of the ferry. The boat was about forty or fifty feet long, had a covered seating area under the pilothouse, and an engine that wheezed like a smoker with emphysema. Its green-and-white paint was faded, the metal fixtures rusted, but the vessel plowed smoothly through the water, churning up a white wake.
The Caribbean Sea was breathtaking, but I was too exhausted to appreciate the view. I dropped onto a wooden bench, put my feet up on the railing, and watched the island take shape as we got closer. Seymour had given me three days to prep for an intense two-week assignment—the campaign that could make or break my career. He’d lent me his executive assistant to make sure everything got done, but it was still a scramble. I hadn’t read any of the research Louella assembled and was walking in cold. I’d snatched a few hours of sleep each night and then was up at four this morning for the trip. Two planes and a ferry to get from Denver to a rock in the Caribbean.
It was the perfect excuse to skip Mona and Nick’s gender reveal.
Time to take off the cranky pants, Grasshopper.
I bet Master Po never told Caine to take off his cranky pants.
Still, the old Chinese guy was right. Letting my attitude show was unwise. For this campaign to be a success, I needed the cooperation of Dr. Luka Stanic and his patients. I had two weeks to collect enough material for an integrated marketing communication. Photographs, video, and personal interviews that I’d take back to Denver, piece together with corporate facts and figures, weigh against market and demographic research, and unveil as a series of compelling stories designed to inspire people to open their wallets and give, give, give.
