When Death Comes for You

by Marjorie Florestal

  “Thank you,” she said.

  John grabbed the T-shirt off the back of the chair and handed it to Gigi before leaving the room.

  With Gigi’s help, Renée struggled into her clothes. She felt better on shedding the hospital gown. “What happened with Dr. Simmons? You didn’t seem yourself.”

  Gigi shrugged. “I guess he reminded me of someone.”

  “Who?”

  “My father.”

  Renée wondered at the kind of parents who adopted a child but were incapable of making her feel loved. Was it because Gigi was mixed race? She started to ask, but the other woman changed the subject.

  “What is this about a poultice? What happened at Rose Fleurie’s house?”

  Renée stood, feeling armored against the world in her slacks and borrowed T-shirt. “I don’t know.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  I’m Drowning

  They left the room a few minutes later to find a scowling John stationed outside the door.

  “What’s wrong?” Renée held tightly to Gigi’s arm as she took her first tentative steps into the hall.

  “I’ve got to report to work.” He stared doubtfully at her halting footsteps. “Should I get a wheelchair?”

  “I can take her back,” Gigi said. “I have a driver with me.”

  “Go,” Renée insisted before he could object, “I’ll be fine.”

  He looked from one to the other. “You’re sure?”

  They both nodded. He gave Gigi a grateful smile and hurried away.

  Gigi led her down the hospital corridor. With each step, Renée gained confidence and strength. By the time they entered the brightly lit admitting area, she was walking on her own.

  “Sit here.” Gigi guided her to a lumpy armchair. “I’ll get your paperwork. It’s quite a project, believe me. It’s the worst part about being admitted.”

  “You were admitted? What happened?” Renée scanned her friend’s body, as if she could spot any bruises, sprains, or broken bones that might lie beneath Gigi’s long-sleeved sundress.

  “I told you, I had a small accident.”

  A small accident wouldn’t get her admitted to a busy military hospital. “Is it your shoulder? Did Adam hurt you again?”

  Gigi stiffened and glared at her. “I’m a big girl, and I don’t need a mother.”

  “I just want—”

  “Let me go check on your paperwork.”

  Gigi flounced off before Renée could finish her sentence. The woman was stubborn. She claimed to be a big girl, but she was acting like a child playing a dangerous game. She did need a mother, someone who could tell her she didn’t have to put up with the likes of Adam Hartmann.

  When Gigi returned, she carried a stack of papers an inch thick. “You weren’t kidding,” Renée said, eyeing the papers in horror.

  “I’m afraid not,” Gigi said. “You get started on these, I need to check in with my driver.”

  Twenty minutes later, Renée signed the last form and absently massaged her rib cage. The pain that had been a constant companion was gone. She wasn’t even sore. What happened in Rose’s bungalow? The grinding of herbs, the tea, the singing—could any of that stuff have really healed her? It was too strange to believe.

  She glanced at the front entrance. Where was Gigi? If her friend didn’t show up soon, she would have to call out a search party.

  A door swung open and chaos descended on the room. A swarm of white-coated doctors and nurses converged on a woman lying immobile on a gurney. They moved like a finely tuned orchestra, shouting as they went:

  “I need her vitals.”

  “Where’s that drip?”

  “How long has she been out?”

  “We need to move stat!”

  Just as suddenly as they’d arrived, the crowd disappeared through a swinging door marked “Emergency.” They left behind a dark-haired nurse and a child screaming at the top of her lungs. “Let me go. That’s my manman. She needs me. Let me go!”

  Renée instantly recognized Lucie. She rushed over to the little girl who was fighting to escape the nurse’s restraining arms.

  “Young lady, I need you to—”

  “I know her,” Renée interrupted. “Lucie, what is it? What’s wrong?”

  At the sound of her voice, Lucie wiggled free and launched herself at Renée.

  “It’s Manman,” she said. “They won’t let me go with her, but she needs me. She won’t understand what they are saying. Please, will you tell this lady I must speak for my manman?”

  The nurse stepped forward. “You’re a relative, ma’am?”

  “I’m an attorney,” The statement was true, as far as it went. “What happened?”

  “Her mother was brought in for an emergency. That’s all I can tell you right now. Can you wait with the child until we know more?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  The nurse nodded, grateful to be relieved of responsibility for the distraught child. She walked away, leaving Renée to handle Lucie.

  Renée took a seat and held the little girl in her lap. Lucie was dressed in frayed shorts and a T-shirt that had faded from red to pink. Her eyes were glazed and wide with shock. She collapsed, sobbing. Renée held her tight, rubbing her back and soothing the child as best as she could.

  When the sobbing ended, Lucie sat up and tried to dry her tears on the edge of her T-shirt. Renée reached for some tissues on a nearby table and handed them to the little girl, watching as she scrubbed her cheeks dry.

  “Will Manman be okay?” Lucie asked.

  Renée wasn’t sure how to respond—she didn’t even know what was wrong with Yvette. She decided to keep it neutral. “The doctors and nurses are helping her.” The answer was apparently good enough, at least for now. Lucie nodded and leaned back against Renée. “Can you tell me what happened, sweetheart?”

  “Manman got very sick. I went to the soldiers and asked for help.”

  “Sick how?”

  “She was . . .” Lucie frowned in concentration. “Vomiting?”

  “Your mom was vomiting? Do you know why?”

  “She is pregn—” She clamped a hand to her mouth, her eyes stricken.

  Renée’s heart ached for this little girl who knew too much about grown-up things. “Don’t be afraid to tell me, honey. I’m here to help.”

  Lucie’s bottom lip trembled, but she continued. “Yesterday, I came here with Manman for her vaksen—for her shot. But the doctor would not give it to her.”

  “Why not?”

  “He was very mean. He said he would not touch Manman cuz she had AIDS, and he didn’t want to get sick. He said she was pregnant, but the baby would get AIDS, and they would both die.”

  Renée felt tears sting her eyes, but she quickly blinked them away. “Do you remember the doctor’s name, honey?”

  Lucie shook her head. “He was old with white hair and big white sousi.” She traced a straight line across her forehead.

  “Eyebrows,” Renée offered, stifling a groan.

  “Eyebrows,” Lucie repeated, rolling the word on her tongue and filing it in her memory bank.

  “I’m so sorry that happened to you, sweetheart,” she said, swallowing the lump in her throat.

  “Am I going to die too, Renée? The doctor with the big eyebrows would not tell me.” Her lips trembled, and tears filled her eyes.

  If Dr. Simmons had been in the room, she would have choked the life out him. How could a man sworn to do no harm have treated a woman and child so terribly?

  “I promise, I’ll do everything I can to get you some help,” Renée said, hugging Lucie tightly.

  The little girl looked up with hope in her eyes. “And Manman and Papa too?”

  Renée nodded. “I’ll do my best.”

  Lucie gave her the tiniest smile and finished her story. “When we got back to the camp, Manman and Papa talked. I don’t know what they said because they told me to leave the tent. Then when it was time to go to bed, Manman was not there. This m
orning, she was very sick. She’s been sick all day. That’s when I asked the American soldiers to help her.”

  “You did great, sweetheart.” Renée sifted through everything Lucie had told her. Could Dr. Simmons have made a mistake? Yvette wasn’t on the HIV registry. If her illness was caused by her pregnancy and not the disease, perhaps there was hope.

  Lucie began singing to herself:

  Noye mape noye

  Noye mape noye

  Erzulie si’w wè mouin

  Tombe nan dlo

  Pranm non

  Sove lavi an mouin

  Noye mape noye

  Renée tried to keep her voice steady as she tilted the little girl’s chin to look straight into her eyes. “Where did you hear that song, honey? It’s so pretty.”

  Lucie puffed out her chest. “Manman taught me.”

  “Do you know where she learned it?”

  Lucie shook her head.

  “Do you know what it means?”

  The little girl dutifully translated, her brow wrinkled in concentration:

  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

  It was Rose’s song, there was no mistake. Renée had heard it twice, and each time, it had shaken her to the bone. Now that she understood the words, it was even more haunting. “When did your mommy teach you that song, Lucie?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Was it when you lived in Haiti or when you came here?”

  “Here.”

  What was the likelihood Yvette hadn’t learned the song from Rose? She wouldn’t take those odds. But how did the two women meet? “Did Rose Fleurie ever come to visit you?” she asked Lucie, trying to sound casual.

  The girl shook her head.

  “Did you and your mommy ever visit her?”

  Lucie shook her head again. “Papa would not allow it. He says Madan Fleurie is bad.”

  “Why?”

  Lucie shrugged. “I don’t know. Manman likes her, but Papa says we are good Catholics, so we should not worship vye zidòl. I don’t know what that means.”

  A decade of Sunday school had taught Renée exactly what that meant. False idols. An abomination. She wouldn’t explain that to a child. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Manman told me I should sing this song whenever I’m afraid, and I would feel better.” Lucie blinked back tears and admitted in a small voice, “I’m still afraid.”

  Renée kissed the little girl’s forehead. “I know, honey. I’ll stay with you for as long as it takes, okay?”

  Lucie nodded, but her shoulders drooped, and she kept biting her lower lip to keep it from trembling.

  “Why don’t you draw a picture for your mom?” Renée grabbed her pen and two sheets of paper from the stack of hospital forms—Uncle Sam would just have to deal with knowing a little less about her. She offered the art supplies to Lucie.

  The little girl brightened. “I can draw a picture of the big house I’m going to make for her when we go to America.”

  “I’m sure she would like that, honey.”

  Lucie settled into her own seat and tackled her drawing with all the enthusiasm of a seven-year-old. Renée watched for a while, and when it was clear that Lucie was engrossed in her work, she said, “I’m going to talk to the nurse. You stay right here.”

  Lucie nodded without looking up.

  Renée headed for the nurses station. The dark-haired young woman who had taken charge of Lucie was there, shuffling papers.

  “Is there any news?” Renée asked.

  The nurse could not have been at her job for very long—she hadn’t yet perfected the mask of professionalism. Her eyes glistened. “Dr. Cosgrove will be with you soon. We should wait—”

  “Tell me,” Renée said, though she already knew.

  “I’m afraid we couldn’t save her. I’m sorry for your loss.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Seawater

  Dr. Amelia Cosgrove was a brilliant infectious disease specialist judging from the numerous framed degrees and board certifications that lined her wall. Other than those marks of distinction, the office was understated—almost drab. It was painted white, like everything else in the hospital, and furnished in the careless style of a government office: black swivel chair, a large desk, a couch that looked like someone might have slept on it recently. On the windowsill, a lone ficus with drooping leaves straddled the line between life and death.

  “You’re the attorney for the family?” Dr. Cosgrove asked as she ushered Renée to the couch.

  “I’m with the Haitian Resource Council. We’re helping the refugees.” She tried to be as truthful as possible. “Can you tell me what happened to Yvette?”

  “The patient arrived nonresponsive. We attempted to revive her but were ultimately unsuccessful. She died of renal failure.”

  Renée carefully evaluated Dr. Cosgrove. The woman was something of an enigma. Like her office, she gave off a no-nonsense air with her cropped black hair and serviceable shoes. But she still managed to seem approachable—even caring. She had personally delivered the news of Yvette’s death to Lucie, kneeling to give the sobbing child a long hug. She had also insisted on speaking to Renée privately, rather than sharing details of a mother’s death with a little girl. Luckily, Gigi had returned by then, and Renée could leave Lucie in her care.

  “I understand Yvette had AIDS?” It was surprising that the illness had already progressed to kidney failure.

  “She had HIV, the virus that causes AIDS,” Dr. Cosgrove corrected. “We had not yet made her aware of her diagnosis because—”

  “She knew she had HIV,” Renée interrupted. “Dr. Simmons told her.”

  Dr. Cosgrove frowned. “That’s not possible. We only recently learned of her status, and we did not have an interpreter to inform her. The only person available was her young daughter. I decided it would be too traumatic for the child.”

  “Dr. Simmons does not share your ethics. He told Lucie that her mother had AIDS and was going to die—and so would her unborn baby. Lucie had to translate that.”

  Dr. Cosgrove briefly shut her eyes. “When?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “Of course. I was out for a few hours and . . .” She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. This should never have happened, and I assure you that Dr. Simmons will answer to the medical ethics board for his behavior.”

  Renée didn’t know if she could trust this woman, but the doctor was off to a good start. “Yvette was not on the HIV registry. Do you know why?”

  “As I said, she was only recently diagnosed. Some people will test positive for antibodies as early as two to four weeks after exposure, most others will take a month. But a few can test negative for as long as three to six months. Ms. Destin’s exposure was either fairly recent or she fell into the latter category.”

  Renée could feel a pit growing in her stomach. “Does that mean Lucie could also be positive and we just don’t know yet?”

  “It’s possible,” Dr. Cosgrove said. “We’ll have to test her again in a few weeks.”

  Renée nodded. It was the best they could do.

  Dr. Cosgrove seemed to weigh her words carefully as she spoke. “Now that I know Ms. Destin was aware of her diagnosis, her death raises additional questions.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, she didn’t die because of her HIV status. She was in reasonably good health, and with proper medical care, she could have expected to live several more years. Her renal failure was the result of an excess of sodium chloride. It prevented her kidneys from maintaining an isotonic state, thus causing an imbalance in the body’s regulatory mechanism.”

  Renée quickly lost the thread of the conversation. “Bottom-line it for me, Doctor.”

  “She died from drinking too much seawater.”

 
Whatever Renée might have been expecting, this wasn’t it. “What are you talking about?”

  “Let me explain.” Dr. Cosgrove hurried to her desk and returned a moment later with a pad and several colored pencils.

  Renée watched her scribble on the pad and was reminded of Eric and his drowning stick figure. She pushed the memory away.

  Dr. Cosgrove turned the pad to face Renée. She had drawn two plump kidney-shaped lobes in a human body with arrows pointing in various directions. “The cells in our body depend on a certain amount of sodium chloride—salt—to maintain the body’s chemical balances and reactions. Most of us eat way too much of the stuff, but that’s where our kidneys come in. They are the filters that regulate sodium levels. They do so by storing excess salt in the form of urine in the bladder. We get rid of it when we pee.

  “But the kidneys cannot adequately process seawater because it is hypertonic—that is, it contains more salt than human blood. It’s made up of three percent salt, but our kidneys can’t make urine from a concentration greater than two percent. When we drink seawater, the kidneys must leach freshwater from our cells in order to dilute the salt concentration.”

  Renée nodded, beginning to understand the problem. “The kidneys divert water that is needed for other cell functions?”

  “Exactly,” Dr. Cosgrove said, giving Renée the pleased smile of a born teacher. “The more seawater we drink, the more it depletes water from our system. The kidneys rob Peter to pay Paul, so to speak, until we’re bankrupt. Dehydration sets in, and the body tries to compensate for the fluid loss by increasing the heart rate and constricting blood vessels. The kidneys are trying to maintain blood pressure and blood flow to our vital organs, but after a while their coping mechanisms fail. The vital organs receive less blood, which leads to coma and organ failure. Ultimately, we die of seawater poisoning.”

  Renée stared at the diagram. “Can I take a closer look?”

  Dr. Cosgrove tore off the sheet and handed it to her.