“That’s awful,” Christine said.
“What about the man?” Joan asked angrily.
“They didn’t say,” Paul said.
They went back to the trail.
“Why does everything here bite, sting or want to eat you?” Christine asked.
“Not everything,” Paul said. “There are things to heal as well. For instance”—he took a few steps to where a tangle of vines grew down from a tree—“this vine is an antitoxin for the guajave viper. Guajave is one of the few vipers that’s not brightly colored, so it’s hard to see. And, unfortunately, it’s not only aggressive, but its venom is highly toxic. If you’re bitten, you’d never make it out of the jungle alive.”
“Last year Leonidas was bitten by one of them. He found these vines and began chewing them. Then he cut more and brought them back to camp. He boiled them into tea and drank it. As you can see, he lived. Every bad thing in nature has its opposite. There’s a tree out here that can cure kidney problems. There are more than two hundred plants proven to be anticarcinogenic.”
As they started off again, Paul looked at Christine. “Are you sure you’re feeling okay?”
“No, I don’t feel too good.”
“What do you feel like?”
“Kind of crummy. Like I’m coming down with the flu.”
Paul put his hand on her forehead. “You’re a little warm. But it is pretty hot.”
“I’m sure it’s nothing,” she said.
A few minutes later they were paddling back toward the lodge.
Chapter
Twenty-Five
Christine is sick. I have found it useful to remain as clinically detached as possible, as the depth of my fear would do neither of us any good.
PAUL COOK’S DIARY
Lunch was a salad made mostly from fruits that no one had seen before and a fish-and-rice concoction made from a large piranha that Marcos had caught that morning.
Paul had gone back to his bungalow for a short nap and came back to the comedor to eat lunch. Most of the group had already eaten and a few of the teenagers had set up a Monopoly game on one of the tables. Neither Christine nor Joan was there.
“Hey, Paul,” one of the boys said. “Want to play?”
“Have you started?”
“Just about to.”
“Sure. I’m the terrier.”
“I’m already the dog,” a girl said. “You can be the wheel-barrow.”
“All right. Let me get my lunch.”
Rosana heaped two large paddles of rice on his plate and he joined the teenagers at the table.
Paul had just passed GO when Joan walked into the comedor. She walked directly to him. “Paul, Christine’s not doing well.”
He looked up from the game. “What’s wrong?”
“I think she has a fever. She was moaning and saying strange things.”
Paul stood. “Hate to do this to you guys, but I’ve got to go.”
As they walked to the bungalow, Paul asked, “Have you given her anything?”
“I gave her some Tylenol. And I put a wet cloth on her forehead.”
Inside the room, Christine was lying on her back under the mosquito netting. Her skin was pale and the sides of her face were beaded with perspiration. Paul sat down next to her.
“Hey. What’s going on with you?”
“I’m not going, Paul.” Her speech was slow and slurred.
“Where aren’t you going?”
“I don’t want to see any more crocodiles. They scare me.”
“You don’t have to.”
Her chest rose and fell with her labored breathing.
“Joan says you’re not feeling well.” He pulled up the mosquito netting, tying it above her. Then he lifted the cloth from her forehead and felt the damp skin beneath. “You’re hot.”
“I feel…sunburned.”
He turned to Joan. “Go to my room. I’m in Vampiro, it’s the second bungalow on the other side of the comedor. Next to my bed there’s a purple vinyl bag. You can’t miss it. Please get it for me.”
“Okay.” She left. Paul turned back to Christine and gently pulled the hair back from her face.
“How else do you feel?”
She hesitated. “I don’t feel…right.”
“Can you describe it?”
“I feel…fuzzy. Like my head’s floating.”
“Do you have any rashes?”
Pause. “I don’t know.”
Her head fell to one side and Paul let her rest there. Joan returned, breathing heavily from jogging across the compound. She gave the bag to Paul. He set it on the ground, opened it and took out a thermometer.
“Chris, I’m going to take your temperature. I need to put something in your mouth. Can you open a little for me?”
Her lips slowly parted. He slid the thermometer under her tongue and her mouth shut around it. Joan looked at him anxiously.
He kept time on his watch. After two minutes he pulled the thermometer out and held it up to the window. He frowned. “How long ago did you give her the Tylenol?”
“Maybe a half hour.”
“She’s at a hundred and three.” He returned the thermometer to its case and turned back to her. “Chris, do your joints ache?”
Her voice was weaker. “My eyes hurt.”
“How about your joints? Your elbows, shoulders, knees…”
“I don’t know.”
He looked at her quietly for a moment. “Have you had any mosquito bites?”
“She has,” Joan said. “We talked about them last night.”
“When did she get them?”
“Back in Puerto Maldonado.”
“Chris, what shots did you have before you came?”
Her answer came in short puffs. “Tetanus. Hepatitis.”
“Did you have a malaria or yellow fever shot?”
“They said we didn’t need it.”
He slowly exhaled. “I wish they wouldn’t tell everyone that.”
Joan bit her lip. Paul stood, his hand still on Christine’s shoulder. “I’ll be right back.” He walked outside and signaled Joan to follow him. Her face was tight with concern.
“What does she have?” Joan asked.
“I can’t be certain yet, but I’m pretty sure that it’s one of three things—malaria, yellow fever or dengue fever. My best guess is dengue fever.”
“What’s dengue fever?”
“It’s another disease carried by mosquitoes. There’s been an epidemic around here.”
“Is it fatal?”
“It can be. But I’d take it over malaria or yellow fever.”
Joan began wringing her hands. “Shouldn’t we get her to a hospital?”
“She’s not up to the travel. Besides, there’s nothing a hospital within a thousand miles of here could do that I can’t.”
“When will we know what she has for sure?”
“Within the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours. If she really starts complaining of joint pain, we’ll know it’s dengue. Whatever it is, she’s going to be pretty miserable for the next week.”
“…But we’re leaving the jungle tomorrow.”
“She’s not. When was the last time she ate or drank anything?”
“I don’t know. Not since we came back this morning.”
“We need to keep her hydrated. Go to the comedor and get a couple bottles of water. Do you know who Jaime is?”
“The little guy from the orphanage?”
“Right. Find him and tell him I need to talk to him.”
“But I don’t speak Spanish.”
“Just say my name. He’ll figure out the rest.”
“I’ll be right back.”
She ran off. Paul went back inside. He reached into his bag and brought out a container of Vaseline. He rubbed some across Christine’s parched lips. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”
Five minutes later Joan returned with the water and Jaime, who looked at Paul anxiously.
“Jaime. Christine está muy enferma. No puedo salir de la jungla con el grupo. Tu tendrás que llevarlos sin mí.” Christine’s very sick. I won’t be able to leave the jungle with the group. You’ll have to take them out without me.
He nodded.
“Necesitas llamar a Jim y decirlelo que ha pasado. Ellos necesitan llamar a la madre de Christine. Díganle que no se preocupe. Después regresa a El Girasol y mira cómo están las cosas. Gilberto y Marcos te llevarán a Puerto.” You will need to call Jim and tell him what’s happened. They need to call Christine’s mother. Tell her not to worry. Then go back to El Girasol and keep an eye on things. Gilberto and Marcos will go with you to Puerto.
“Sí,” Jaime said, and left the bungalow.
Paul took a pillow from another bed and pushed it under Christine’s head. Then he unscrewed the cap from the bottle and placed its rim against her lips. “Christine, you need to drink.” Her lips slightly parted and he poured the water in her mouth, occasionally stopping so she could swallow. When half the bottle was gone, he let her head back down.
“Good job.” He took the washcloth from her head and poured the cool water onto it. He wrung it out over the floor then put the cloth back over her eyes.
“Paul?”
“Yes?”
“I want my mother.”
“I wish she were here,” he said.
She didn’t speak for a while. “Am I going to die?”
“No. But you’re very sick.”
“What’s wrong with me?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
“Please don’t leave me.”
“I won’t.”
“Men always leave.” A tear ran down the side of her face. “I’m afraid.”
“I won’t leave you,” Paul said. He wiped her tear with his finger. Then he leaned over and kissed her forehead. “I promise.”
Chapter
Twenty-Six
A door was slightly opened in Christine’s soul…
PAUL COOK’S DIARY
The jungle was black except where the moonlight pierced the canopy and glistened from the moist surface of vegetation. It was possible to believe that there were spectators just beyond the cleared ground of the compound, hidden but watching, like a theater audience after the lights are dimmed.
It was half past three in the morning and the group had stumbled to the comedor. They dropped their bags and sat on the floor against the wall, the teenagers sleeping against each other while others yawned and grumbled about the insanity of a 3 A.M. wake-up. It was the only way they could get out of the jungle and back to Puerto Maldonado in time to make the flight out.
Paul had slept in the room with Christine while Joan had moved to the Vampiro bungalow so she could dress and pack without waking her. When the group had assembled, Jaime woke Paul, and he pulled on his clothes from the day before, slipped on sandals and followed him back to the comedor. Paul looked over the group. He thought they resembled a scene from Dawn of the Dead.
“I know you’re tired, but once you’re back on the river, you can sleep. I won’t be going back with you. Christine is too sick to travel, so I’ll be staying here to take care of her. You’re in good hands. Jaime, Marcos and Gilberto will be taking you back. Thanks again for all you’ve done to help the people down here. I hope to see you all again. Travel well.”
With that the group rose to their feet. Paul shook a few hands and everyone gathered their bags and followed Jaime to the boats. Paul followed them down to the dock and saw them off, then returned alone to the bungalow.
He put his hand on Christine’s forehead. She was warm, but not enough to warrant concern, so he crawled back under his mosquito netting and fell asleep. He woke two hours later to Christine mumbling. The sun had barely begun to soften the darkness and he could see her moving uncomfortably under the net, her head turning from side to side.
“I need to call.” She said. “I’ve got to call them.”
Paul rolled from his bed and went to her side. “Who do you need to call?”
“The caterer.”
“It’s okay,” he said.
“It’s not okay,” she protested, “There won’t be enough éclairs.”
“I’ll call the caterer,” Paul said.
“Okay. Okay. You call.” She calmed and her breathing slowed. A minute or two later she said, “Martin?”
Paul took her hand.
“Martin. What’s wrong with me?”
Paul rubbed his hand along her face. “There’s nothing wrong with you.”
“Why don’t you want me?” She began softly whimpering, and though her eyes were closed, tears seeped up through her eyelids and ran down her face. “Where are you going, Daddy? When are you coming back? Why don’t you want me?”
Paul took her hand and held it tightly, and she gripped his with equal force, as if she were falling. Her rambling degenerated into incoherent babble as she fell back asleep. The last words Paul understood were, “Don’t leave me.”
Chapter
Twenty-Seven
Each moment with her has carried her deeper into my heart.
She is afraid I’ll leave her. How could she know that I cannot bear the thought of being without her.
PAUL COOK’S DIARY
Late afternoon of the second day a storm moved in. The monkeys’ chatter grew louder under the burgeoning clouds and the jungle fell into shadow. The rain pounded on the bungalow’s roof, and water fell from the thatch eaves to the dark red dirt below, running in a million small veins back to the lake. It is the way of the jungle—all water seeks larger water.
Paul never left Christine’s side. He watched the storm come and was glad the group had gotten out before it hit. He lit a candle inside the bungalow. The generator had been shut off, as they couldn’t risk running out of gas.
He had placed a chair next to Christine’s bed and checked her temperature every four hours. It kept steady at around 102 degrees, spiking at times as the acetaminophen wore off. Paul had treated dengue before. Several years earlier, on a humanitarian expedition in the jungle, a child and an old man were brought to him infected with the disease. The child lived; the old man didn’t.
Though he worried about Christine, he held himself apart from his fears with a clinical distance. It wouldn’t help her to see him afraid.
Rosana brought food for them and cold packs from the refrigerator. She made strong tea from the bark of the cinchona tree.
Christine ate little but Paul made her drink. Dehydration was his greatest fear. As twilight fell on the second day, she spoke his name. For the first time in hours she was coherent.
“How long has it been raining?” she asked.
“A few hours. Do your eyes still hurt?”
She lightly nodded. “And my back hurts. It feels like something is poking in my bones.”
Paul was relieved: It confirmed that she had dengue fever. The mortality rate of dengue was considerably lower than that of yellow fever or malaria. “It’s the fever. It will go away.”
“It hurts.”
He gently rubbed her arm. “I know. But it will go away.”
It wasn’t until the next evening that Christine fully realized that the group had left the lodge. She asked about Jessica.
“She’s in Cuzco,” Paul said.
“When did she leave?”
“She never came. She stayed with Jim.” Paul looked at her sympathetically. “Do you remember?”
“When he fell,” she said. It seemed to her like such a long time ago. She breathed in deeply.
“Did Joan leave?”
“She left two days ago with the group.”
“Who’s still here?”
“Me,” Paul said. “And Rosana and Leonidas.”
“My mother will be worried.”
“Jessica will call your mother.”
“She’ll be so worried.” She closed her eyes again. After a few more minutes she asked, “When can I go home?”
“When you�
�re well enough to make the trip. After the fever breaks.”
“Will you be leaving too?”
“Not without you.”
“Do you promise?”
“I won’t leave you, Christine. I promise.”
She squeezed his hand tightly and closed her eyes again.
It rained all that night and the next day. Christine’s condition was stable, though a few times her temperature rose higher than 104. Paul would damp her forehead and neck with cool water until her temperature fell. On the fifth day of her illness the rain stopped. Gilberto and Marcos returned with the canoes and the report that the group had made the flight out of Puerto.
Paul ate and slept in the room, reading from a stack of books Rosana had brought him from the comedor.
It was the middle of the sixth night when Christine’s fever broke. Her teeth chattered and she moaned loud enough to wake Paul; he climbed out of bed and went to her side, laying his hand across her forehead. It was wet and her hair was damp at the roots. Her nightshirt was soaked through.
Paul took a towel from the bathroom and softly patted her face and forehead; then he lifted her nightshirt up over her head and gently dried her body. Her skin pebbled with goosebumps in the cool air. When he finished, he pulled one of his own shirts over her and lifted the blanket to her chest. Then he sat back on the stool next to her bed.
The moon peered through a flat ceiling of clouds and lit the bungalow, illuminating Christine’s face in a pale glow. In medical school he had been taught the importance of remaining emotionally detached from a patient, and in this case he had failed utterly. He had been at her side for nearly a week, and the longer he was with her, the closer he felt to her. He looked at her now as if she were a sleeping Juliet laid on her bier.
“You have no idea how beautiful you are,” he whispered, “or what you’re doing to my heart.”
She didn’t move and he leaned over her and softly kissed her lips. She showed no reaction but turned her face slightly toward him and sighed. He lay his head next to her body and fell asleep with exhaustion.
The Sunflower: A Novel Page 18
