The Small Fortune of Dorothea Q

by Sharon Maas

  Still: there was Matt, doing his best as a doctor should. Perhaps he had a few breaths left in him. A few. He must have, otherwise Matt would not be working on him, would he? Dorothea had no hope; what could a doctor do, with a brain speared through? Yet still that scream: No No No.

  From the open window of Rika’s window, just above the scene, came an agonised keening, loud, primeval, almost a howl. Rika’s bedroom light was off; Rika was crying to herself, in the dark, all alone. Dorothea longed to go there, place her arms around her daughter, but she couldn’t. Rika’s last words resonated in her heart. I hate you! You bitch! You killed him! She would have to deal with that, but later. First this nightmare had to end. Rajan had to be saved! He had to be saved! Oh Lord! Please! I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! Forgive me!

  Visions came to her of a similar nightmare: seventeen years ago, in a Kitty front yard. Freddy lying on the ground with a garden fork stuck out of his abdomen. Her cries for help, and no help coming; the blood, the blood! Freddy’s life force ebbing from him as the blood oozed from the four wounds in his belly. Dorothea pulling off her blouse, and then her skirt, pressing it against the wounds, and seeing them turn slowly red. The crowd, standing around and gawping and nobody doing a thing. The ambulance, arriving over an hour later, when it was too late and Freddy had bled to death. Her hope and her faith sinking into the darkness as Freddy’s blood sank into the earth. The blackness of despair left behind.

  Not again. Oh, dear God, not again!

  The wail of an emergency vehicle. Thank God, the ambulance. But what could anyone do?

  It wasn’t the ambulance. It was a fire-engine. In a city of wood like Georgetown, fire was taken seriously; there was always the fear of it spreading, growing out of control. Many times, Georgetown had been inundated by fire. Medical emergencies, on the other hand, were private. Not urgent. The ambulance was taking its good time.

  Ma Quint had taken Basmati aside and was holding her, comforting her. Basmati was struggling to get to her son, screaming for him, but Ma Quint held her back.

  Marion and the twins came down the front stairs, drunken with sleep, their hair dishevelled. Dorothea had to keep them away. She couldn’t let them see Rajan.

  ‘Come,’ she said sternly, turning Marion around. She grabbed the boys’ hands, one in each of hers, and led them up the stairs.

  ‘Where’s that bloody ambulance?’ she heard Matt cry. It seemed Rajan had already been cut down from the fence. Everyone was talking, chattering. Cars were stopping on the street, people getting out to come and watch. She felt like screaming at them all. Instead, she took the children upstairs and called the hospital once again. A sleepy voice answered.

  ‘Is the ambulance on its way? I called you twenty minutes ago!’

  The voice on the other end was so disinterested Dorothea wanted to scream and tear its owner apart.

  ‘We still tryin’ to find the duty doctor, Ma’am,’ he said, and yawned into the phone as if to deliberately mock her.

  ‘What! You mean you haven’t sent anyone yet?’

  ‘No, Ma’am. We doin’ we best.’

  Dorothea knew very well what their best would be. Only last week there had been an article in the papers about a woman with a breech baby who had died because the ambulance had never arrived. She knew, because she was the one to write a Letter to the Editor complaining about the lackadaisical emergency services of the Georgetown Hospital.

  ‘You stay sitting there!’ she commanded the three children, who, not yet quite awake, were sitting around the dining table waiting for further instructions, rubbing their eyes and yawning. The twins were as tame as lambs at this time of the night; thank goodness for that.

  Dorothea called Dr Ray Wong, their own general practitioner and a personal friend of the family. This was an emergency.

  ‘I’ll come,’ said Ray, and Dorothea breathed out. Forgive me! Heal me! Save me!

  But, said a stern voice within her, what’s the point? The boy is dead. You saw him. Nobody could survive that. No ambulance and not a hundred doctors.

  But a tiny spark of hope glimmered within her. Matt was there, and Ray was on his way.

  * * *

  Rika had stopped her howling. Dorothea debated whether to go to her, but knowing Rika, remembering her last words and the fact that she, Dorothea, was responsible for this present catastrophe, it was better to stay away. Stay far away. Rika was a loner; she dealt with every drama in solitude. It had always been that way. Rika rejected her; how much more would be that rejection now! No: better to leave Rika alone. They would deal with her the next day. Right now, the emergency was Rajan, not Rika. Perhaps Ma should go to Rika; but Ma was busy tending to Basmati, who was still in hysterics. Later she’d send Ma to Rika. But hopefully, Rika had cried herself to sleep. She would be calmer in the morning. Or not, as the case might be. But everyone else would be calmer, at least.

  She had to do something about those children! This was no place for them; but now they were awake and too excited to go back to bed. Already the twins were at the window now, thrilled at the sight of the fire-engine, wanting to see the fire. Dealing with them would also keep her busy.

  Dorothea picked up the phone again and dialled Leo’s number, her brother-in-law. After a while, Leo’s wife picked up the phone.

  ‘Belinda, we have an emergency here. Can you take the children for the rest of the night? I’ll drive them over. Marion and the twins. I’ll explain when I get there.’

  ‘Of course!’ said Belinda. ‘Bring them over.’

  So Dorothea herded the children back down the stairs and into her car, under great protest: the boys because they would miss all the fun (Where’s the fire? Anybody dead?) and Marion because she thought she could somehow help. ‘I could serve drinks and snacks,’ she offered.

  She drove them the five minutes to Leo’s house in Kingston, where Belinda and Leo were up and full of concern. Belinda gave her a cup of tea ‘to help her relax’, and Leo insisted on coming back home with her, because maybe he could help in some way. When she returned the crowd had grown yet more; several cars had followed the fire engine and were now parked all along Lamaha St, as well as those passing by who had stopped out of curiosity. Their occupants had gathered round to watch the goings on, rather disappointed that there wasn't an actual fire. Dorothea, enraged, shooed them away and stood guard to keep them from returning;

  otherwise they'd have possibly pushed away the doctors in their eagerness to ogle.

  There was still no ambulance; but she hadn’t expected one anyway. Rajan lay on the ground, the tip of the wooden spike still sticking out of his head. Matt and Ray were working on the wound; they had stopped the bleeding, it seemed. Dorothea swayed; she was going to faint. No, she wasn’t. She had to know.

  ‘Is he …?’

  Humphrey looked up. ‘He’s still alive,’ he said.

  ‘Oh thank – thank God!’

  Thank you! Oh, thank you! You saved him! Now save me! Give me peace!

  ‘By a miracle,’ added Matt. His face was glum.

  ‘But, Dorothea – we can’t do much,’ said Ray, also looking up. ‘He can’t survive this. Not possible.’

  That’s when Dorothea finally burst into tears. She had not cried for seventeen years, not since the night when Freddy died, when the ambulance had finally come and the paramedics had declared him dead and covered him with a white sheet and packed him into the back of the vehicle like a slab of meat. She had howled in despair then, just as Rika had howled this night, but never again. Back then, it was Humphrey who had comforted her. And now, again, it was Humphrey. He rose to his feet and put his arms around her. She cried into his chest.

  ‘My fault! All my fault!’ she blubbered, and in her heart she wailed: I’m sorry! So sorry! Forgive me, save me! Heal me! Make me whole!

  Humphrey did not contradict her. He only held her, strong and silent. Dorothea let herself cry. Gave herself permission. She disintegrated. Dorothea Quint was not real. She was a mirage,
an image. Hard as steel on the outside, only to protect this inner core, this softness, this vulnerable truth. Hardness was not strength. She had played a loser’s game. And now she was nothing, just a withered vine in Humphrey’s arms.

  Finally she stopped crying. The fire engine had provided a stretcher and they had manoeuvred Rajan onto it and were transporting him to Ray’s car, which was a station-wagon whose back seats could be lowered to create an almost flat space at the back. They shoved the stretcher in. It was a little too long; the flap at the back had to remain open. Matt climbed into the back with Ray; he crawled into the space between the lifeless body and the side of the car, to hold on to Rajan and make sure he didn’t fall out. Humphrey climbed into the passenger seat, Ray into the driver’s seat. He leaned out of the window.

  ‘Call the Medical Arts Centre,’ he said to Dorothea. ‘There’ll be a duty nurse – tell her what happened, and to prepare the emergency room for us. Tell her to call Dr Ali – the surgeon. We’ll be there in ten minutes.’

  ‘I will,’ promised Dorothea, and she did. And after she had done so she got into her own car and drove to the MAC in Thomas road. Basmati came with her, and, because Basmati clung to her and would not let go, Ma Quint. The Medical Arts Centre was a private hospital where several doctors, Ray included, had their surgeries: the best hospital in the country, as up-to-date as possible. Damn the Georgetown Hospital! Damn the non-existent emergency services! Damn them all!

  But, a little voice argued, they probably couldn’t have helped anyway.

  Rajan is going to die. You saw him. He is half-dead already. Dorothea, this is a second man’s blood on your hands. First Freddy, and now Rajan. All because of your interfering, ferocious temper. All because, as Rika said, you’re a bitch. Oh Lord, have mercy!

  * * *

  In the morning Rajan was still alive, by some miracle. Matt, Ray, and Dr Ali had worked on him for hours. Humphrey and Dorothea, Ma and Basmati, had waited in the waiting room, taking turns to nap, leaning against one another, or lying across the chairs and resting a head on the other’s lap. At one stage they had needed blood; all four had been tested. Dorothea was found to be a universal donor. She had given blood, and returned to the waiting room. To wait, and nap, and worry, and cry.

  They had stabilised Rajan and put him into an artificial coma. There was nothing more to do. Everyone was exhausted.

  Dorothea drove them all back home. Matt was saying that in spite of the best they had done, Rajan would probably die the next day. They had not been able to remove the piece of metal still stuck in his head. His own skills were not up to it; he was not a brain surgeon, after all. And though Dr Ali was a surgeon, he too was not trained for such a sensitive operation.

  ‘Removing that pole needs an expert,’ said Matt. ‘We can’t do it; to do so would risk opening a major artery. And there’s only one expert I know of who can do it. My friend, Professor Cohen. But he’s in Chicago. I’ll call him first thing tomorrow.’

  A chill went through Dorothea. She could not say a word. Rajan would die. Tomorrow. How could she ever face Rika again?

  Rika. Where was she? The Annex was still dark and silent; was she asleep? Hopefully. Dorothea tentatively tried the handle on the door. It moved, but the door would not open. Rika had locked herself in. In a way, Dorothea was glad. She could not face Rika. She could not tell Rika that Rajan would die. Not tonight, at any rate.

  Rika would have fallen asleep from exhaustion. Just as she, Dorothea, was about to do. She went up to her room and got into bed. Humphrey’s arms were waiting for her. She cried herself to sleep, and vowed to turn over a new leaf.

  She slept until midmorning. Matt had been up much earlier; he had tried and failed to get hold of his friend Professor Cohen, who, it turned out, was vacationing in Florida. A few more calls, and Matt had managed to speak to Professor Cohen – whom he called Josh – at his hotel, and describe the case to him in detail. At breakfast he was smiling.

  ‘The Prof’s the best!’ he said. ‘He’s sending a medical plane for Rajan! He’s going to operate on him himself!’ He looked at his watch. ‘The plane’ll be on its way right now.’

  As if on cue, the telephone rang. Humphrey answered it, called Matt, who listened for a while, spoke a few words, and returned beaming to the table.

  ‘I told you: he’s the best! Pulled a few strings, and hey, presto! The plane should be landing at Ogle just after midday. There’s some red tape to cut through regarding landing permits, visas and the like, but he’s done this before and knows the ropes.’

  Dorothea let out a whoop of delight. ‘What do you think, Matt? Can Dr Cohen do it?’

  ‘If anyone can, it’s him!’

  ‘But,’ said Humphrey slowly. ‘I can’t afford this, Matt! A plane, all the way from America! That’ll cost a fortune!’

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Matt. ‘I’ll pay for it.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘Not another word,’ said Matt. ‘What are friends for? I’ve got the money. We’ll do it.’

  ‘I can’t thank you …’

  ‘Where’s Rika?’ asked Ma Quint suddenly.

  ‘Still asleep, probably,’ said Dorothea. ‘She’d locked her door last night. She must have been in shock.’

  ‘Did nobody attend to her?’

  ‘Well – no. We were all too busy with Rajan,’ said Dorothea. ‘And I had to get the children away. But you know Rika – she likes to be alone.’

  ‘But I’m sure she would have appreciated a little comfort,’ said Ma Quint. ‘Oh dear. I suppose that was my job. She wouldn’t have accepted it from you, Dorothea.’

  ‘Exactly!’ said Dorothea. ‘She must hate me more than ever now.’

  Ma Quint scraped back her chair. ‘That’s true. This is my job. I’ll go to her now. Let’s hope sleep has calmed her down. And at least we have some good news for her.’

  She hurried from the room. A few minutes later she was back.

  ‘I’ve been calling and knocking but she won’t answer the door!’ she said. ‘I need the spare key.’

  She ran upstairs, returned with a key, and ran over to the Annex. Again she was back.

  ‘Rika’s gone!’ she cried.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  RIKA

  She had taken Mummy’s hand in her own and held it, crying and speaking at the same time.

  ‘Mummy!’ she cried. ‘Oh Mummy! I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!’

  And then she was still, quite still, crying silently, Mummy’s hand in hers. Mummy lay as ghostly still as ever. A living corpse, her mouth caved in, hollow-cheeked as she was not wearing her dentures. And then …

  A slight flutter, as of a baby bird awakening to life.

  Rika sat up straight.

  ‘Inky!’

  Inky looked up. ‘Mmmm?’

  ‘She moved! Her fingers, they moved!’

  Rika loosened the fingers of her hand clasped around Mummy’s, whose own hand now lay still on her palm, as if the baby bird had died.

  ‘No!’ Inky stared at her grandmother, corpselike as before. Rika held her breath. Had she imagined it? Was it wishful thinking? But then it happened again. The fingers twitched in Rika’s hand. They both leaned in, called out together:

  ‘Mummy!’

  ‘Gran!’

  ‘We’re here!’

  ‘Can you hear us?’

  ‘It’s me, it’s Rika! Come back! Come on back! I love you!’

  Nothing. Rika and Inky fell into silence, watching. And then … Mummy’s eyes twitched, just a little. And her fingers, again. Inky took her other hand, and that twitched too. Rika beamed at Inky.

  ‘She’s waking up!’ she whispered. The tiny bird trembled ever so slightly in her hand, fleshless and silky. She shuddered at the joy of it.

  Mummy’s eyes opened a slit. Inky pressed the bell for a nurse. People came, people in white, doctors and nurses. They hustled and bustled around Mummy, all white efficiency and care, and partitions went up, the lights w
ent on. They shooed Inky and Rika from the bedside, out of the ward. Out in the corridor they clasped each other in joy and comfort and hope.

  * * *

  Later, much later, all was quiet again. Mummy lay there, still as a stone except for the gentle rise and fall of the bed-sheet over her breast. Her eyes were open just a slit. Sometimes she blinked. Rika and Inky gazed at her face, holding their breath, waiting for a miracle. Life had returned to this fragile body; but what quality of life?

  Then, Mummy turned her head towards Rika. She seemed to be straining to lift it. Inky reached over and held it up, plumped up cushions beneath it, and then Mummy opened her eyes fully. Her lips parted. She croaked, trying to speak. Her tongue slid gently over her bottom lip. She made a little chewing motion with her toothless mouth. Hands twitched, little birds fluttering again. And then the moment came where she seemed to pull all her faculties together in one great grasp at life. Her eyes flew wide open, her gaze found Rika, and it was as full of fire as ever.

  ‘Now we is quit!’ she said, lisped. Her eyelids fell shut, she shuddered, and her head fell back against the pillow.

  Rika gasped in horror. ‘Is she …?’

  But then the whole little body shuddered from toe to tip as it took one deep breath, and relaxed again into sleep.

  When Mummy woke up completely Rika was right there, waiting.

  ‘Mummy,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry. So sorry!’ She could hardly see for the tears welling in her eyes. She sniffled and blew her nose and leaned in to hug her mother. Mummy raised an arm, thinner than ever before and almost weightless, and placed it around Rika’s shoulder. She patted Rika on the back.

  ‘Is what you got fuh be sorry?’ she muttered.

  ‘For being the biggest asshole on earth,’ Rika blubbered.

  ‘So,’ said Dorothea. ‘You an’ me gon’ be friends at last?’

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  INKY

  Gran’s complete awakening was slow but steady. Mum took a few days leave and I took a few days off from work, and we took turns at her side. She seemed not to appreciate our company at all. It was the same bossy Gran of old who returned to us, much worse for wear; her voice with half the volume and lacking the increased authority of a rollator to barge her way through life. She was crotchety about being tied to a hospital bed, and having a man across the way from her – the same man – who really did nothing more than lie there all alone.