“Can you hear me?”
“Not now. Hey, turn the faucet, see what comes out.”
As I reached for the tap, pain shot from my chest to my back. A strangled intake of breath and I grabbed the countertop.
Zak withdrew his head. “You okay?”
For some reason, I didn’t want him to know about the attack, the report the creeps were after, the girl’s head on the beach. I went with, “Mozart tripped me up, and I hit the corner of the dresser.”
Slowly I steadied myself on the rim of the sink. A turn of the handle brought rusty water from the spigot.
“Allow it to run into pure,” Kurt said from the doorway.
Half an hour later, Zak read from the notes on his iPad. “We’re in for a new roof, tiles in the master bath, flagstone, and paint. Sticking with white?
“Semi-gloss.”
He returned to his iPad. “Kurt’s checking the foundation. Let me add up the materials he listed. We talked about a painting over the fireplace.”
“I agree. Maybe something from a local artist.”
“That’s your own problem and expense.”
I watched Zak tap the screen. He could be Irish, I thought, that dark hair and gray eyes. He had taken off his blazer and draped it over the sofa, the lining exposed, the way Dad folded his Brooks Brother jackets, careful with his belongings, his work, his patients—careful with everything except the people he was supposed to care about.
“How do you spell renovate?” Zak asked.
I leaned over his shoulder. “Only one n.”
His shirt smelled of Foca laundry soap and a hint of citrus. I resisted the crazy urge to bury my head in the hollow of his neck, reminding myself this was no time to be romanticizing about a charismatic Spaniard.
“And all new appliances,” he said. “Stove, washer...”
An hour later, I walked Zak to the driveway. Standing beside his car, he held up his blazer to fish through the pockets. “Keys in here somewhere.” He found the Porsche fob and opened the door. “Call if you can’t make it tomorrow,” he said, folding his long legs under the dashboard. “Otherwise, we’re on.”
“Seven o’clock,” I agreed.
He backed out, shifted into drive, and after side-swiping the row of hedges he shot off with a twig of boxwood caught on the grill.
7
Driving away, I took a last look at the house and tried to dismiss the sadness as I pictured my mother’s clouded eyes and white hair. I should be in Texas, home. Surely, she was wondering why I was gone so long. I’d called Pete who was covering for me asking if he could handle my appointments awhile longer, explained that my passport was hung up. For the first time, I felt the ruthless force of homesickness. Ruthless, because romanticizing another place undermines the merits of the place you’re in. I missed my sturdy Spanish-style house near the Gulf of Mexico, its white kitchen, and tiled patio. Would my house-sitter remember to set the timer on the outdoor lights? The almost tangible longing for the familiar came in thoughts of Sunday afternoons when I would make soup for the week. Pea soup with a ham hock: minestrone. Winter nights keeping up with the journals, sitting in front of the fireplace with Mozart asleep beside me. A past I never appreciated until I was far from it in the present.
The sun was beginning its decent into the late afternoon; one minute the fields in shadow, the next, glowing in mauve light. A hawk trembled in mid-air, its underwings flashing red against the sky. An afternoon when you could imagine the lion at peace with the lamb, swords forged into plows.
The ruined nave of the bombed-out church rose above the pines. What about a quick look inside, see how much I remembered from when Dad and I went exploring? Only take a minute. What would it hurt? I swung onto the access road.
The ruts from the tire tracks I’d seen that morning had dried to caramel; the esparto grass still slick after the heavy vehicle had flattened it to muddy straw. Halfway to the church, my tires sank into the mud. The wheels spun. In low gear, I backed up and gunned it. Startled, the car leaped to solid turf.
The tire tracks stopped at the chapel. I got out of the car, trespassing, but who cared? The center of the walk-way bore the single groove of a hand-cart, the kind used to move furniture.
The late sun graced the granite blocks; a gold cross topped the Visigoth cupola. With relief, I saw the magnificent stained-glass windows were unbroken, only the colors muted by eighty years of the dust from a forgotten war. A low hum from behind the building, and I paused—a generator? Marble angels, black with mold, knelt at the entrance. I approached the massive portals, and before I could try the door, it opened, and I was face to face with a Spanish grandmother.
She was one of the Mediterranean ladies who roosted on every door stoop from Lisbon to Athens; black headscarf, long black dress, black sweater and soft black shoes over thick brown stockings. Grandmothers who policed the comings and goings of everyone in the neighborhood, who scrutinized every package delivered, and judged every behavioral flaw that passed under their glittering eyes.
“Hola,” I said, then, “tourist,” trusting the international word to transcend language. It must have, for the woman gave a slight yellow-toothed smile. Her wrinkled skin was weathered, but her cheekbones were high and firm, not pretty, but once handsome was how I would remember her.
“I came to see the beautiful chapel.” I touched my eye. The woman looked me up and down and apparently deciding I was harmless, motioned me inside.
Low wattage bulbs hung from wires crisscrossing overhead; the walls absorbing the light as quickly as the porous stones absorbed the humidity. In the center of the vast room, a child slept face-down on a mat inside a play-pen. Judging from the baseball bats on his pajamas, he was a boy who appeared to be about seven or eight months old. The play-pen was hand-carved with curved spindles topped by a mahogany railing. It rested on a pad of carpet, buffering it from the concrete floor. A brass fixture held the gate shut. An amulet hung from the handle of the knob; a wide-opened eye centered in blue glass keeping watch over the infant.
I don’t like children. That is, as a demographic. I care very much about their well-being, but can’t stand the fussing, screaming, and mismanagement of their body fluids. During my pediatric rotation, I chose to work exclusively with moms: well-baby education, post-partum depression, and medication safety.
I walked around the room with the grandmother behind me, admiring the arched ceiling and marble statue of the Virgin in a dark corner. The place was spotless with a faint smell of disinfectant. No one cleans like a Spaniard. At first, I assumed the woman was a caregiver for the ruins while she also watched her grandchild. But the assumption didn’t jibe with what I saw. A heavy-duty cord ram from a hole in the wall to somewhere behind the appliances, a stainless-steel washer and dryer, a Bosch double-door refrigerator, a state-of-the-art stove vented with a downdraft, and a Penguini portable air-conditioner. All were lined up as if in a showroom. A hospital bed with lowered rails took up the opposite wall. A white Portuguese Matelassé sham matched the Matelassé spread. I suspected the woman slept here with the sides raised when she allowed the kid in bed with her; the rails, not a bad idea. A kitchen table, a crib, a changing stand, holding what could be a lifetime supply of Pampers. In a far corner, a recliner faced a flat-screened TV.
A perfect hideaway. Whoever set the place up had money. So why not keep the kid at home? Or in a posh daycare facility. I thought of the middle eastern amulet and the boy’s thick curly hair. At first, I resisted the obvious—too melodramatic, too preposterous, too unlikely. But there it was, right in front of me—the kidnapped kid, the imam’s son, the hostage. And what better place to stash him away than a ruined church in the middle of nowhere? The ideal site chosen by the revisionist group
of crazy Christians. And what better minder than a Spanish grandmother?
Call the Guardia Civil. As I fumbled in my bag for my phone, it occurred to me the call would bring big trouble for the old woman. Based on nothing more than a hunch, I sensed she wasn’t privy to what was going on—otherwise, she wouldn’t have let me in.
She went to the table and pulled out a chair. An olive oil can filled with petunias sat in the center. She motioned for me to sit across from her. I hesitated, then realized she must be lonely here; no neighbors, only the kid day-in, day-out. I sat on the edge of the chair. “I can’t stay...”
The woman pointed to the child. “Enfirma.”
As in infirmary? Sick? “The kid’s sick?”
The woman seemed to understand that I got it. She crossed the room to the kitchen area. “Medicina,” she said, lifting a gallon-sized glass container of brown liquid. She shook the jar, poured a small amount into an enamel pot, and turned on the stove. The smell of cloves and something astringent filled the air. A minute later, she poured the stuff into a cup.
Kneeling beside the play-pen, she unlatched the gate. The baby stirred. Too lethargic, the cheeks flaked with a thin white crust. Dried tears? Mucus? His head lolled back, then drooped on his chest. The huge, dark eyes struggled to open. The woman groped under his flannel wrap, checking the diaper. Apparently, all clear.
Dehydration? The woman settled him on her lap, dipped a spoon in the cup, and held the spoon to his lips. He made a face, turned away, and batted at her hand. Two more tries and she scored. The next go around, he took a full mouthful and spit it on her dress, a direct hit. No rag in sight, I rose and found a roll of paper towels near the sink.
“Gracias.,” The woman dried the baby’s chin, then her dress. “Enfirma,, she said morosely, as if resigned to being spit upon.
I spoke each word carefully as if slowness itself would translate. “Vomiting? Diarrhea? Hot? Pain?” I didn’t even attempt meningitis or diphtheria...
“No Ingles,” she said, working the spoon. I got up and looked into the gallon jug. A few cloves, a sliver of garlic and a peppercorn floated in the whiskey—or brandy. The woman dandled the baby on her knee, “Ah, Hamid, Hamid,” in a sing-song. She snaked the spoon toward him at an angle.
Radio Gibraltar had not named the imam’s son. But Hamid fit. When I felt the child’s forehead, I found his temperature elevated; a thermometer would help. I tried the word on the woman. No-go. I reached in my purse for a pen and drew a thermometer on a paper towel; lines, numbers in centigrade. The woman smiled as if humoring me. Maybe hand motions. I slid the pen under my tongue, then held the pen to the light and read aloud, “BIC”, feeling like a nut.
The child dug at his eyes with his knuckles, then rubbed his ear. I reached and gently stretched the lobe as if the tympanic membrane would come out to meet me. I’d have given my right arm for an otoscope.
The cup empty, the woman returned the child to the play-pen. He tossed irritably, whimpered, coughed and fell into either a nap or a stupor. In my bag, I had Vicodin, Valium, aspirin and a few lint-covered vitamin C tablets. Aspirin might lower the fever. But with no medical history, I wouldn’t risk it.
The room dissolved into a cave. My heart pounded uselessly as if trying to pound frustration into an otoscope, thermometer, stethoscope. Who cared if I knew the hip bone connected to the thigh bone? I had only what was in my brain, and right now, my brain was no help. Ask me to explain the relationship between acetylcholine and serotonin, ask me the dynamics of hemoglobin, and I could rattle off the answer. But without tools, I was worse off than a chimpanzee that at least had a stone to break an egg. I looked over at the gallon of medicina, the grandmother’s technology light years ahead of mine.
Hamid rolled onto his stomach and kneeling on all fours, crawled to one side of the play-pen, grasped the spindles and struggled, unsuccessfully, to pull himself up. Without thinking, I loosened the kid’s grip on the bars and swept him into my arms, his body against me warm, compact, and heavier than I expected. He whimpered and buried his head in my sweater. Something wet, his nose running against my neck. He needed so much, and I had nothing to give. I swayed, patted his back, and said with a catch in my voice, “I know a squirrel who would like to meet you.”
The door flew open with enough force to drive the lion’s-head ornamental knob into the wall. A rifle hung at the intruder’s side. He was short, burly and unshaven, wearing the thick black pants, woolen cap and blue shirt of a farmer. Grandma quickly drew Hamid from my arms and lowered him onto the mat. The child screamed shrill piercing howls of indignation. The farmer took one look at me and leaned to slide the rifle from his shoulder. My breath stopped. Then he strode past the table to prop the weapon against the wall and let out a stream of angry Spanish. The woman crossed her arms and stared him down. He turned to me and pointed to the door. “Fuera de aqui.”
I got the message. “I’m going, I’m going,” I said, dredging up my few Spanish words. “Ayuda. Please get help por la niño, I mean el ninño, who’s enfirma.”
The man wiped his hand across his mouth and pulled out a chair.
I motioned to Hamid. “Doctor? Baby?”
The man studied me, pointed to the infant, and shook his head, no.
“Ahora.”
He pointed to me, then to the door.
Rude, abrasive, he pushed the envelope of my patience. “I don’t care if you don’t care, but I do. Dumping a baby in this God-forsaken cave without sunshine or medical care.”
The man’s face remained impassive; I lowered my voice to get his attention, not knowing how much he grasped if anything. “I’ll get el doctor who can start an IV, get an ambulance out here and—”
He half-rose and slid back his chair.
I nodded to the woman. “I’ll be back,” and walked out the door without closing it behind me.
Pulling away from the chapel, I gripped the wheel as if it were the guy’s neck. Molecules of anger crashed against the walls of my skull. Ignoring a baby who was spiking a temperature. Allowing him to suffer, hot, aching—how nasty could the guy get? Spaniards. Look at the Conquistadors, I thought. Bad as Nazis, looting, killing. Cortez lives.
But blaming an entire nation wasn’t fair. I took a deep breath and calmed down. The creep in the cave was just another one of the world’s bullies. Yesterday the Americans bombed Mosul. Christian Knights blew up a mosque. Jihadists tossed a bomb into the ferry from Tangier. Compared to the rage that seemed to be sweeping the human race, neglecting a baby was small potatoes.
I turned onto the track leading to the entrance, driving slowly to avoid the ditch of pooled water and mud. Bumping over stony ruts, I heard an engine and looked up just as a black SUV shot from behind the church. How many black BMW SUVs would be in this corner of Spain? More than one would be a stretch. The driver had to be Kurt. For sure he saw my car parked at the church’s entrance. Assuming the kid was the Knights’ hostage meant Kurt was mixed up in the kidnapping. My stomach sank. Where there was Kurt, there was Zak.
As if my anger at the farmer were a weathervane hit by a cross-wind, it spun to become fear for myself. Was my fear real? Or overblown? In any event, Kurt and some of his very bad friends knew that I knew where the hostage was.
8
That night, all night, I wrestled with the bedclothes and the chocking fear Kurt or his fellow Knights would mow me down in a drive-by-shooting, or they would fire-bomb the Renault with me in it. Going back to the church was asking for trouble. But I had to. Having discovered the baby, and promised the grandmother, I felt a moral responsibility to get Hamid a doctor. Maybe into a hospital.
After combing the Net for a likely-sounding local pediatrician and finding not one who I sensed would come to the church w
ith me, on a hunch I called Tony Berringer, the Brit from the walk-in clinic. He had mentioned he didn’t speak Spanish. But that would make no difference to a baby in diapers. I called him with a lame-brained story about an elderly lady caring for a child of absentee parents, and the kid spiking a fever, and me a psychiatrist with no license to practice in Spain—blah, blah blah. He interrupted, asking, “When?” His agreement to come with me hinged on my agreement to wait until the weekend when his clinic was closed. When I got off the phone, I wondered why he said yes at all. Loneliness, I decided. I hadn’t seen a wedding ring, not that I specifically looked for one, but I guessed the isolation of an ex-pat might be getting through to him. Everyday communication dumbed down to adding an “a” to English nouns and hand motions serving as verbs.
The apartment was too hot. I struggled to roll down the cheap microfiber blanket I’d picked up in Carrefour’s. Thoughts of my bedroom in Houston once more triggered the longing to be home. Although my affairs were reasonably under control. Thanks to my lawyer, the hearing for my license reinstatement had been post-phoned. Mom was floating my expenses here, plus, of course, Zak’s charges for services and materials for the summer house renovation.
Zak, I thought of heading to the kitchen for a glass of ginger ale. I returned to bed, adjusted the pillows, and lay on my right side, then tried the left.
From the three weeks, I’d known Zak I’d concluded he was charming, seductive, and grandiose. Based on experience, I knew if I confronted him, asked about the Arab, that instead of an explanation I’d probably trigger an attack of narcissistic rage. If he were in my office—not that he ever would be—I’d run down the indicators for a diagnosis.
But he wasn’t my patient. He was a business friend. One with more impact than just being my property manager would suggest. Maybe it was his energy, dry humor, and intensity. What fun it would be to meet him in Madrid. See his reaction to the El Greco’s, then sit outdoors in Retiro Park. Did Spanish hotels have those high four-poster beds? I stopped the nonsense mid-thought.
The Loss of What We Never Had Page 6