Over the Waters Page 3

  "That's the last one. Leave it be and come with me." She draped both their dish towels over the rack by the sink.

  "Yes, ma'am."

  She glared at him, curbing a smile. "Don't give me that 'yes, ma'am' business. You just follow me and do what I say."

  He grinned and gave a sharp salute.

  She rolled her eyes at him and led the way through the courtyard to his tiny room behind the boys' dormitory. Josh undid the latch for her, then followed her in, leaving the door ajar several inches. A slight breeze stirred the drab muslin curtain that hung at the single high window.

  Josh's room was tidier than she'd expected. His shirts were hung crisply on wire hangers, two or three to a peg on the wall opposite his cot. The bed wasn't what Samantha would have called "made," but the sheet and light blanket had been pulled up over the pillow and it looked as though an effort had been made to smooth out the worst of the rumples.

  She went over to the bed and threw back the covers. "Get in."

  Josh tilted his head and stared at her. "You don't take no for an answer, do you, lady?"

  "Nope. Get in."

  He gave a hoarse laugh that triggered another convulsion of deep coughing. When it subsided, he bent to take off his tennis shoes and placed them side by side at the end of the bed. He started coughing again and collapsed on the edge of the mattress, struggling to catch his breath.

  Samantha stood over him, waiting for the spasms to pass. She put one hand on his shoulder. Even through the thin cotton of his shirt, his skin was fiery hot beneath her touch. "Josh, you're burning up! Have you taken anything to bring your fever down?"

  "I took some ibuprofen a couple hours ago."

  "On an empty stomach, no doubt."

  He gave her a hangdog look, and crawled into bed. He didn't protest when she pulled the sheet over him, but sank into the pillow and closed his eyes.

  Samantha felt his forehead with the back of her hand. If she had to guess, she'd say his temperature was spiking around 102, in spite of the ibuprofen he'd supposedly taken.

  "I'll be right back." She grabbed a pitcher from the small table that served as his desk, and went outside to the pump to fill it. Back in his room, she poured cool water into the cup that sat on his nightstand. "Here, drink this."

  He pushed himself up in the bed, his arms trembling violently as he tried to support his weight. She set the pitcher down and put her right arm around him, holding his head up enough to take a few sips. But he choked on the water and fell into another fit of coughing.

  When he finally settled down, she gently slid the bandanna from around his forehead and soaked it in the pitcher, wringing it out and folding it into a cool compress. She held it against his forehead and felt it grow warm almost instantly. She dipped it back in the pitcher again and again, applying it to his temple and his neck.

  He allowed her silent ministrations and, for a minute, she thought he'd drifted to sleep.

  But then his eyelids flew open and he tried to raise his head off the pillow. "Will you check on Kala for me when you leave?" he croaked.

  "Joshua, you need help. You're the one who should be in the hospital."

  He shook his head. "No. Don't, Samantha."

  "You know I'm right."

  He ignored her concern and put a hand on her arm. "You will check on Kala?"

  "I will. But not until I hear you snoring. I don't trust you not to get right out of this bed as soon as I turn my back."

  He flashed her a wan smile. "Don't worry. This pillow feels too good. But don't forget Kala, okay?"

  "I'll check on her, I promise. Now go to sleep. You worry me."

  She sat beside him in silence, listening to his labored breathing, watching him fidget with an edge of the sheet that hung over the flimsy mattress.

  Finally his hands stilled and his breaths took on an even cadence, though the rattle in his lungs scared her to death. She went out to the pump and rinsed the pitcher and filled it with fresh water. She took it inside and set it by his bedside. She smoothed the sheets over him one more time and went to check on Kala.

  The older girl who had been here earlier watching the babies--Samantha thought her name was Esther--was nowhere to be found. Kala was the only one in the room. It was quiet except for her breathing, rife with that ominous rattle that too often foreshadowed pneumonia. Like Josh's. The ancient vaporizer Josh had set up earlier sat dead in the corner, a victim of the fickle electricity that plagued the village.

  One skinny little arm was flopped out over the low bedrail. Samantha tucked it back inside the rail and smoothed the sheets. They were damp and brackish with the scent of perspiration. She put a hand on the little girl's cheek. The child didn't even stir. But her face felt as hot to the touch as Joshua's had, and her ebony skin had begun to take on the pinched, wrinkled appearance that indicated dehydration.

  Samantha felt the thin wrist for a pulse. It was steady, but slow. Josh was right. Kala needed to be in the hospital, on IVs and respiratory treatments.

  She straightened the slight body in the bed and tucked the sheet lightly around her, then hurried to locate Madame Duval.

  A sudden afternoon thunder shower pelted Samantha as she ran across the lawn to the main building. She found the orphanage director in her office, which overlooked the grounds.

  When Marie Duval looked up to see Samantha standing in the doorway, she put down her pen, rested well-padded elbows on the desk and steepled her fingers. She ran a plump hand through her short, tight curls and let out a sigh. "Oh, Samantha. Are you as exhausted as I?"

  Samantha never grew tired of the native woman's melodic, lilting Creole. But she offered only a thin smile, knowing she was in for an argument. "Kala Loutrel needs to be in the hospital, Madame Duval. Dr. Josh thinks so, too. And I think Dr. Josh needs to be admitted himself. The man won't rest for a minute and I'm afraid he's on the verge of pneumonia. I put him to bed a few minutes ago...before he practically passed out."

  Madame Duval raised two perfectly arched brows, but already she was shaking her head. "We won't be sending anybody to the hospital. We can care for them here as we always have."

  "Please, Madame. Kala is dehydrated and she's not keeping anything down. We've had the vaporizers on as much as we can, but it doesn't do much good if the electricity is off." Her voice gained steam as she pleaded her case. "Kala's so small...She can't go long without fluids. You know we don't have the equipment to care for her properly. Please, Madame Duval..."

  Samantha could see the struggle on the older woman's face. Finally, her broad shoulders sagged. "All right, then. You will take Kala. But you stay with her and supervise her care." She shook a thick finger in Samantha's face. "I will not lose another child to that place."

  "And Joshua?" Her voice broke.

  Samantha squirmed under Marie Duval's scrutiny. She always felt as though the woman could read her thoughts. She tried to erase her mind of Joshua Jordan, but instead felt her cheeks burn.

  "You truly think Dr. Josh needs to be in hospital?"

  "I do, Madame Duval. You only need to look at him to see he's getting worse."

  Madame Duval rose ponderously from her desk and turned to pull a key ring from a peg high on the wall behind her desk. "You will take the Land Rover."

  Samantha wanted to hug her. "Thank you, Madame Duval."

  The older woman looked at her sternly. "You must leave immediately. You must not be on the roads after dark."

  Chapter Four

  It took all the strength Samantha and Marie Duval had to get Joshua into the front seat of the dark-green Land Rover. His vitality seemed to have evaporated as quickly as the brief afternoon rains.

  "Use your seat belts," Madame Duval ordered. They never used the grimy seat belts. But Samantha dug them out of the crevices of the seat and Joshua let her fasten the belt around him. He slumped against the window in the front seat, while they settled little Kala on a pallet of blankets in the back.

  Madame Duval tucked a lunch cooler
behind the driver's seat. "You should have enough money to get more food in the city if you need it. Be sure to go to Hopital Sainte Anne. Nowhere else," Marie Duval told Samantha sternly. "My friend will meet you there. Do you have the map I made? And the note for the hospital?"

  "I have them." Samantha patted her pocket and climbed into the dust-caked Rover.

  "Good, good." Madame Duval repeated the directions to the small private hospital, before closing Samantha's door. "God go with you." She leaned through the open window and kissed Samantha's cheek. "We'll be praying. Call as soon as you can."

  Samantha saw the worry etched on Madame Duval's ebony forehead and she compelled her smile to reflect a confidence she didn't feel. "I will."

  She backed the Rover around and started down the path to the front gate. At the gate, Alex, the caretaker, unfastened the lock and waved as she drove through.

  The roads seemed bumpier than usual. Samantha cringed every time her precious cargo was jerked and jolted as she navigated the dilapidated vehicle over the narrow streets leading to Port-au-Prince. Behind her, Kala moaned, only half conscious.

  Samantha had driven to the market in Brizjanti by herself once or twice, but never all the way into the city. As she pulled onto the main highway, a large truck roared into her lane, passing an oncoming car. The truck's bed was piled high with what looked like fifty-pound sacks of potatoes. She sucked in a sharp breath and swerved out of its path. The Rover veered dangerously close to the edge of the road. One wheel slipped into the ditch. A bridge abutment loomed in front of the grille. She slammed on the brakes. Her heart stopped. She eased back onto the main road, her knuckles turning white on the steering wheel. Another split second and they would have crashed into the bridge.

  As the truck sailed by, inches from the Land Rover, the men perched atop the burlap bags whooped and waved at her.

  Her heartbeat kicked back in gear, making up for lost time.

  She looked over at Josh, still leaning against the window. He appeared to be asleep, but at that moment, he reached out and touched her arm.

  "Be careful," he mumbled. "You know what they say, don't you?"

  "Huh?"

  "There are only two kinds of drivers in Haiti."

  "What are you talking about, Joshua?" Didn't he know they'd almost been killed?

  He turned his head to catch her eye and a slow smile spread over his face. "There are two kinds of drivers in Haiti," he repeated. "Defensive--" he paused for a split second before delivering his punch line "--or dead."

  She rolled her eyes, but couldn't help laughing. "Well, if you don't want me to be the latter, you'd better quit distracting me with your stupid jokes."

  "Okay, okay. I'm done." He started to say something else but his words were lost in a fit of coughing.

  Samantha cut her eyes from him to the road and back again until she was sure he was okay. Finally, gulping for breath, he reached over the back seat and patted Kala before sagging against his door again.

  Samantha prayed under her breath as she drove. Father, help me get there in time. Help me find the hospital.

  Thirty minutes out of Brizjanti, after stopping half a dozen times to let pedestrians and livestock cross the road, she fell in line behind a late-running tap-tap. The lumbering taxi truck was loaded to overflowing with passengers and baggage. The Land Rover could easily have gone around it, but the tap-tap's sheer bulk parted traffic like the Red Sea, and Samantha merely followed in its wake. Thank you, Lord, she whispered.

  The sidewalk vendors were beginning to pack up their wares for the day as she bounced through the city streets. After two wrong turns, she turned onto Rue Chareron and followed the signs, many of them painted on the sides of the buildings, to the Hopital Sainte Anne. She squeezed the Rover into a narrow space in the potholed street in front of the hospital. The sun slunk below the skyline, forming a wavering backdrop to the building.

  With a short blast of the horn, she cut the engine and jumped out. She opened the back car door and lifted Kala out. Alarm shot through her as the little girl sprawled limply in her arms. "Hang on, baby," she whispered. "We're almost there, ti pitit."

  She slammed her door shut and spoke to Josh through the open window. "Stay here. I'll be right back."

  It frightened her that he didn't protest, but instead nodded almost imperceptibly. Clutching Kala to her chest, she reached in and laid on the horn once more before running around the back of the vehicle toward the entrance.

  A small crowd of Haitians materialized from nowhere, gathering around her as she approached the door.

  "Blan-an malad, wi," an old woman called out, pointing back to the Rover. That white guy is sick.

  Several wandered over to the curb, murmuring their curiosity. "Sa li genyen?" What's wrong with him?

  Samantha was accustomed to the inquisitiveness, especially where Americans were concerned, but their distracting questions angered her now. Ignoring them, she elbowed her way through the crowd and went inside.

  An orderly met her just inside the entrance. "I have a sick baby." She held Kala out to him like a bag of sugar. "She's dehydrated," she explained in her halting Creole. "My friend is out in the car. He's a doctor, but he is ill also." She spotted a wheelchair folded up in the corner by the vacant nurses' station. "May I use this?"

  The orderly nodded and took the child from her arms. "I take the baby," he said slowly, obviously recognizing her limited knowledge of his language.

  "Thank you." She hastily set up the wheelchair and rolled it outside to the Rover.

  A few of the Haitians still loitered near the building. Joshua appeared to be sleeping. He jerked and lunged for the dashboard when she unlatched his door.

  "It's okay," she said. "It's just me. Can you manage the chair?"

  Without speaking, he eased his legs over the side of the seat and slid down to sit on the running board and try to catch his breath again. Samantha's blood pressure plummeted. Josh was deteriorating quickly. She moved the wheelchair beside the Rover and put an arm around him, hoisting him to his feet. He turned and plopped into the chair, seeming barely able to cooperate as she lifted his feet onto the chair's footrests. She slammed the car door shut with one hip and pivoted the chair around to back it through the wide hospital doors.

  The entrance was empty. Joshua started coughing again from the exertion. She pushed him down the tiled corridor until she spotted a different orderly round the corner and head in the opposite direction. "Wait," she shouted. "Please..."

  He spun around and stared at her, curiosity plain on his face. "Yes, Mademoiselle?"

  The Haitian man had kind eyes and she found comfort just looking into them. "Please, can you help? This is Dr. Joshua Jordan. He's very ill."

  She pulled Madame Duval's note from her pocket and handed it to the man. He glanced at it, and handed it back to her. "He is an American?" The man's hospital ID badge said his name was Albert Reaux.

  "Yes." Samantha nodded. "He's been helping at the Duval Children's Home where I work. I am Samantha Courtney. But Dr. Jordan needs to be admitted. Can you help?"

  "What is wrong?"

  "I think he has pneumonia," she said.

  As if on cue, Josh started another spasm of uncontrollable coughing.

  Albert Reaux gently pushed Samantha's hands from the wheelchair and took a firm grasp on the handlebars. "I take him," he said in English. He pointed her down the corridor in the direction from which she'd come. "You take the letter. They tell you where the patient is when you are fini."

  "Thank you. Thank you so much." Samantha leaned down and put a hand on Joshua's arm. "I'll find you as soon as I get the admission forms filled out, okay?"

  He merely nodded, looking miserable and disoriented.

  "Please hurry," she whispered to the orderly.

  "No problem." The man gave her a reassuring nod. "Everything be oh-kay."

  Twenty minutes later, after the woman in admissions had located Madame Duval's nurse friend, Samantha made her way t
o the main nurses' station. They told her where she could find Kala and she hurried off down the corridor, searching ward numbers as she went. It was a small, private hospital, with only about fifty beds. She found Kala in a ward with several other young patients. She appeared to be sleeping, but she was restrained with ropes in the high crib-like bed. Samantha had been in enough Haitian hospitals that the sight of a child tied with ropes to a railed bed no longer shocked her.

  She walked over to the bed and reached out to push a dark curl off the little girl's damp forehead. Kala's breathing was shallow but even, and an IV dripped life-giving fluids into her body. Samantha thought her color looked better already. She waited for the lone nurse in the room to finish replacing an IV bag that hung over another crib. When the nurse finally looked her way, Samantha asked in Creole, "How is she doing?" She repeated her question in English, hoping the woman was fluent.

  "She is very weak," the young nurse replied in halting English. "It is good you brought her to hopital. She would surely have died."

  Samantha reeled back on her heels at the nurse's blunt assessment. "But...She'll be okay now?"

  "She is much better already. As you can see. She is blessed by God."

  "Yes. She is. Thank you," Samantha murmured. "I'll come back to check on her later tonight."

  She stepped into the hallway and after a couple of wrong turns, stopped a nurse who was hurrying by. "Hello. Please...I'm looking for Dr. Joshua Jordan."

  "I'm sorry. There is no doctor here by that name. You must have the wrong hospi--"

  "No, no...You don't understand. Dr. Jordan was admitted here. Just a few minutes ago. He's a patient."

  The nurse smiled at the misunderstanding. "Oh, the American? I believe he has already been moved to a ward. You should ask at the front desk."

  Samantha sighed and backtracked down the hall. She found Joshua in a dreary room across from the nurses' station. Two other men in the beds on the opposite side of the ward appeared to be sleeping. A third man looked out the window, which faced an unpainted cinder block wall.