by Shana Burg
In no time, we’re racing down the hill, back to Lake Malombe.
“My father’s a real doctor. He works at the Machinga District Hospital.” My voice cracks. “Could you take us? Please!”
“Wish I could, my friend. But Machinga is several hours from here. See the sun? That means …” Derek rubs his fingers together, the international sign for money. “Got to get back to business before all the customers leave my shop. But tell you what,” he says. “There’s a couple inside right now that’ll be heading up your way first thing in the morning. Bettin’ you could hitch a ride.”
“We cannot wait to sunrise,” Memory says.
“Malaria,” Saidi adds. “May be bad kind.”
Derek looks back at us. “Listen, kids. If it was the vicious sort of malaria, that healer on the hill would’ve given him a fair go. Would’ve kept him overnight.”
“That man only witch doctor!” Memory cries.
“He’s a crackpot!” I shout. “He stole my money. He gave us this.” I shove the jar of blue liquid toward him. Derek glances at it.
“Dunno,” he says. “I’ve seen stranger. Could work.” He sighs like he’s really torn up. “Listen, I can drop you kids at the minibus stop for no extra cost. I assure you, though, the little chap will be fine. He’s a bit sunbaked is all.” He pulls over to the side of the road. “Now, about that four thousand,” he says.
“I told you. The witch doctor took it!”
The back of Derek’s neck looks like a snow cone getting filled with cherry syrup.
“I swear, I’ll mail you the money. The second I get home. All four thousand—plus a tip, of course. A big tip! Or you can ask my dad for it.”
“Get out of here!” Derek snarls. “All of you. Out!”
We open the SUV door and scurry away like panicked geckos.
“How can we take the minibus? We don’t have enough left for even one of us to travel,” I say.
“We must beg the driver for a ride,” Memory says.
So we wait and wait, while Saidi holds Innocent, who is still asleep, and I pace back and forth, back and forth. I want to ask why Innocent doesn’t swallow little white pills each week like I do. I want to know how it’s possible that one little mosquito bite can make someone sick. But instead, I look on silently as Memory pours the drink into Innocent’s lips, which are no longer pink but more of a bluish white. A man and woman on mopeds speed past us to the beach as the potion dribbles back out onto Innocent’s shoulder. If we had mopeds, we wouldn’t have to wait for the stupid minibus. Who even knows if the driver will take pity on us and help us out?
The tourists lock the bikes that they no doubt rented from Derek. Before they mosey down to the beach, they tuck something into the bag on the back of one of the mopeds. I think I know what it is.
Innocent’s teeth chatter. His eyes are half closed, but the parts I can see are all white, and I don’t need any more inspiration than that. I’ve never stolen anything in my life. Still, I don’t think a good person would just stand around at a minibus stop and hope for the best.
I glance at the couple, two silhouettes ankle-deep in water. “Be right back,” I tell Memory and Saidi. When I get to the mopeds, I glance around to make sure no one’s looking. I slip my hand into the side pocket of the bag. I feel a couple of pens, and maybe a paper clip or two. Then I hit gold. And voilà! We’ve got a ride home.
I run back to Saidi and Memory with the keys to explain the plan. At first, Saidi isn’t sure he can go along with it, but after Innocent lets out a moan, he agrees: we don’t have another choice.
Without actually getting on the mopeds, I give Saidi and Memory a riding lesson. All those outings on mopeds with Mom during Dad’s medical conferences come in handy. “It’s a lot like riding your bike,” I tell Saidi. “Except that it’s electric.” I pantomime how to flick the switch, rev the motor with the handlebar, and work the brake.
I pace the sidewalk. Too risky to take them now. The tourists are still so close. The man wraps his arm around the woman, points out at the water. That’s when we all remember Agnes. There she is, a tiny dot on a green toy boat floating in the middle of the lake. “She shall at last receive her sunshine,” Saidi says.
“And her exercise,” I add.
Finally, the couple wades into the water and dives underneath. Now’s our chance. “Tiye tonse!” I say.
Memory and Saidi climb onto one moped with Innocent sandwiched between them. I take the other. I wish we had helmets, but what can we do?
“Changu!” Memory says.
We turn the keys and pedal like mad. Saidi takes the lead. It’s a good thing he knows the way, but it’s a bad thing—a very bad thing—that he’s never driven a moped before, because it wobbles and tilts to the side. The only reason he doesn’t drop Innocent is that he keeps putting his feet on the ground.
But after about fifteen minutes, he catches on. We fly, then, across the miles into the last shades of day. The whole time, the red dust swirls up from the road and dances like an angry spirit under the dwindling sun. And I’m screaming inside. Screaming that my father isn’t here. Screaming that I need my mother. Screaming that Innocent had better be okay.
I try to hold the edge of my T-shirt between my lips to stop the dust from going down my throat, but the wind rips it out of my mouth and screeches in my ears. I squint to keep the dust from sticking in my eyes. I can barely see Saidi as he veers onto a smaller road. I follow him into the misty, shadowy light of dusk until the clouds crack open, the leaves shiver, and lightning flashes, bright and terrifying. “Watch out!” I yell. The words blow back in my ears, a senseless hum.
It’s too late.
Saidi pounds the handlebars with his fist. I slow to a stop.
Memory wants to know what’s wrong, even though it’s completely obvious. The bike is stuck in a mud puddle. Well, it’s obvious to Saidi and me, but not to Memory. She can’t understand how something like a puddle can stop us from getting to the hospital, to my father, who can save her brother’s life. But what can Saidi do? The tires are caked in mud.
Memory gets off the moped and sloshes out of the puddle with Innocent in her arms. Meanwhile, I hand Saidi the wet towel from my backpack. “The tires!” I shout over claps of thunder. “Wipe them!” Then I trudge through the mud to the edge of the road and put my hand on Innocent’s leg. It’s freezing, and now my towel’s soaked. Why don’t I have something warm and dry to wrap him in? A blanket, a coat, anything! Is this what happens when someone dies? I wonder. Do dying people turn cold?
The last time I ever saw my mother, she was in her hospital bed. I reached over and held her hand. But was it warm or cold? Warm or cold? I’m desperate to remember, but I can’t, so instead I shout to Memory, “He’ll be fine!”
A sheet of rain brushes across us like the bristles of a paintbrush. In the slate-gray light, Memory looks at me hard. “You American,” she says. “Yet you do not know everything. You rich, yes,” she shouts over the rain. “Therefore, you do not know.”
The heavy rain washes me in a coat of gloss, sealing me in a separate world.
I search the sky.
But it isn’t there.
Not a glimmer, not a sliver, not a hint of moon.
It’s dark by the time Memory grabs Innocent off the moped seat and we all run inside.
Lanterns light up the hospital waiting room. Mothers and fathers huddle on the ground, children stare at the ceiling, grandmothers rock on their heels.
A man in blue hospital scrubs steps in.
“Emergency!” I yell.
His jaw drops. When I see the gap between his front teeth, I recognize him. He’s Mr. Malola, the clinical officer. I met him in Mkumba village my first time there. “Not to worry,” Mr. Malola says. “The electric shut off many time in the storm.” He holds a cell phone, using it like a flashlight.
“Where’s my dad?” I shout. “Dr. Silver?”
“I’m sorry,” he says. “Your daddy’s not here.” M
r. Malola glances at his clipboard. “Abdallan Sikochi.”
An old man stands with a baby in his arms.
“I need my dad!” I yell. I don’t feel like myself. I don’t feel like anyone I ever knew. I rush to Mr. Malola. “Look!” I point at Memory and Innocent. When he sees them, I exhale. Now I know he’ll take me to my dad. My dad who says miracles happen in hospitals every day. I’m sure Innocent will be one more.
One more miracle.
Mr. Malola holds open a door. The old man and the baby disappear through it. “Your father knocked off several hours ago, Clare,” he says. “The cell phone is good for light but not for calls, so I cannot contact your daddy for you.”
What is this man talking about? My father said he was working today. I’ll have to run back into the operating room and find him myself. I don’t have time for this nonsense. Innocent doesn’t have time. But I can’t get through the doorway because Mr. Malola grabs my arm. “Your daddy has gone home,” he says.
I stare at the empty space between his two front teeth. “Home?”
Mr. Malola nods.
But now we’re at the hospital. That’s what’s important. We’re at the hospital. Someone will help us. Someone has to.
“Malaria!” I scream. My head burns. I’m furious. “See that boy? He has malaria. Or pneumonia. Something bad!”
“I’m afraid he must wait,” Mr. Malola says, and sighs. “We are overcrowded. I shall bring acetaminophen.”
I might not be a doctor, but I sure know what that big word means.
“What?” I say. “You’re going to bring pills for a regular old fever?”
Mr. Malola has already gone, so again, I move past the people. Past a baby with skin stretched like Saran Wrap over his ribs. Past a girl who looks like a skeleton. Past a man asleep on the floor. To Memory, who looks up at me, her eyes searching, wide.
“The clinical officer will bring a pill,” I say. I don’t tell her it’s a pill that won’t fight malaria. I don’t tell her that after everything, my father isn’t even here. But Saidi knows something is dreadfully wrong. He takes my wrist and pulls me outside, where I heave out a huge sob and share the news.
“Where is your daddy?” Saidi asks.
“Home,” I say. “Waiting for me.”
Saidi leads me across the lot to the mopeds. I’m too shaky to drive, so I get on the back of his bike and hold on to him tight.
We’re at my house in no time. I pound the front door. There’s no answer. I grab my key out of my back pocket, but my hands are trembling so badly that it takes three tries before I can fit the key in the lock and open it.
When I do, it’s too quiet. Too dark. “Dad!” I shout as we dash inside. My voice bounces off the walls. I check my watch: 8:15. I flip on the light switch, bolt to Dad’s bedroom, and yell for him over and over, even though it’s totally obvious: he’s not here.
“Clare!” Saidi calls.
I run to the kitchen, where he holds up a note:
Clare—
Where are you?
Stay put. Gone to look.
Dad
Sweat drips down my forehead.
Cold sweat.
I’m chilled to the bone.
Even though Saidi cuts the motor at the road, the people who live near the edge of Mkumba village hear the moped and run out of their huts, startled by the noise.
Saidi talks to a few teenagers, who point to a group of men sitting by a fire playing a game of bawo. We race over to them. Sparks spit at our knees while Saidi asks if they’ve seen the doctor.
One of the men looks up. “Kapoloma,” he says.
The smoke burns my nose.
“Next village,” Saidi tells me, and we sprint back to the bike.
We get to Kapoloma village in a few minutes. We ditch the moped on a patch of dirt and bolt toward the huts. Before we reach them, though, three women walk by. One carries a pot in her hand.
“Adokotala ali kuti?” Saidi asks.
The women talk to each other like they’re washing dishes by the river, like we’ve got all day.
“Let’s go!” I whisper.
The lady with the pot taps a crooked finger against her forehead and points to the other side of the village. Across the field, a bunch of little boys are drumming under the stars. When we get closer, Saidi shouts out to ask if anyone has seen the doctor. The boys stop their music. “Chauko,” one says, and points to a nearby hut.
In seconds, we’re panting outside of it. Other than the pit latrines, it’s the first hut I’ve seen with an actual door. Saidi bangs on it.
But the village chief doesn’t open the door. My father does. He looks frantic. He grabs my shoulders, shakes me hard. “Where were you?” he yells. “I was worried sick.”
There’s a slow clunk, clunk, clunk as the chief lumbers over.
And I’m still trying to remember how Mom’s skin felt the last day I ever saw her. She was in the hospital bed. I reached over and held her hand. But was it warm or cold? Warm or cold? I’m desperate to remember, but I can’t.
We tell Dad about Innocent.
“Meet us at the hospital,” Dad says to Saidi.
Then Dad and I bolt to the Land Rover, which is parked in a ditch across the road. Dirt whirs under the car wheels and the night wraps me up. We turn off the main road onto the narrow path.
I see a dot of light.
A dot of life.
The hospital.
I close my eyes
I hear Dad.
“IV drip!”
“Wrap blankets.”
“Twenty milligrams.”
I hear Dad.
“Save this boy!”
I hear Dad.
“I saved him!”
I hear Dad
in my mind.
As soon as we burst into the hospital, I point to Innocent, who’s still curled up on Memory’s lap in the corner. Dad walks over, puts his hand on Memory’s back. She nods, and Dad lifts Innocent and carries him across the waiting room.
Memory and I follow them down the unlit hallway into the pediatric ward. Except for the IV drips, it hardly feels like a hospital. It reeks of chlorine. The beds—slabs of wood with thin mats—are full of tiny children, two or three on each one. A red number is spray-painted on the white wall above each bed.
Dad sets Innocent down on bed number eight, right beside a little girl. He disappears into the hallway and returns with a pair of rubber gloves and a stethoscope. After he listens to Innocent’s heart, he pulls up Innocent’s eyelids one at a time.
I shudder. For a second, Innocent looks dead.
Dad calls to the nurse, who’s on the other side of the ward placing a blue mask over the face of a baby. A tube connects the baby’s mask to a bag the nurse has in her hand. She opens and shuts her fist. Opens and shuts it, trying to send air from the bag into the baby’s lungs.
With the other hand, the nurse holds up a finger, telling us to wait. But we can’t wait. Not a blink, not a heartbeat, not a breath. Doesn’t she know?
Dad pricks Innocent’s finger, draws blood.
Then, clang! The nurse wheels a metal pole across the room. The pole has a bag filled with liquid attached to the top of it. Memory and I scramble to the end of bed number eight, out of the nurse’s way. We watch her push a long needle into Innocent’s arm and tape it there so it won’t fall out.
“He’s getting fluids now,” Dad tells us. “The blood test will be done soon. Then we’ll know what type.”
“What type?” I say, not understanding.
I look at Memory. Her eyes are wide. She is very still.
“What type of malaria. I’m afraid Innocent has malaria. He’s in a coma.”
“That’s it?” I scream. “That’s all you can do? Give him some fluids?” Here’s Innocent in a hospital bed, lips parched, eyes half shut. The boy who cried because he thought I was a ghost. The boy with the dimples who stared at my freckles. The boy who stood in the standard one doorway, arms and legs stret
ched wide, blocking my escape. I wanted to run from Innocent that day. But I’ll never run from him now. “Do something!” I shout. I’m burning up. Really burning up. “Operate! Give him a shot!”
Dad puts his arms around Memory and me as the nurse slips a blue mask onto Innocent’s face.
The chills are back. The nurse says to ride them. I ride them.
Around and around.
I close my eyes, watch them prick circles around my belly. Around my back. All around me. I’m freezing. Freezing cold. “The window,” I say. I think I said it. “The window.” But my lips are stuck together. Dry.
When I wake again, I’m burning. I remember the lake. A lake of boiling water. A big lake of hot Banja tea. I’m falling. Into the lake.
Falling.
“Save me,” I say. I think I said it.
“Sweetie,” Mom says. She has a paintbrush in her hand. She sets it down next to the canvas on the easel. There’s a basket of apples on a table. Mom’s painting a still life. Back to basics, after so long.
I inhale acrylics. I love that smell. The smell of desert turquoise, lemon yellow, Mars black. The smell of secret colors no one knows but us.
Mom kisses the top of my head. She sets a cool washcloth on my forehead. “Quite a day!” she says, and laughs, a deep belly laugh.
Mom’s always here when it counts.
Count sheep.
Count scorpions.
Count all the wild beasts while my ears ring, ring, ring.
Later, I wake up in a puddle of sweat. A breeze blows through the window. Dad sits in a chair beside me. “It’s horrible,” he says into his cell phone. “The worst.”
I swallow. Well, I try to swallow. But I can’t. I reach for my phone. I need to call Memory. To tell her the news: I’m dead.
Maybe it will be too much.
I cry a tear. At least, I think I do. I stick my tongue out to taste it, but it isn’t there.
“Hey, Mom,” I say.
She turns from the canvas.
“If a tear falls and no one feels it, did it fall?”
