by Vivien Vale
But Addie needs me.
To keep her safe.
Whether she likes it or not.
Adelaide
“Hold him, please,” I say to Faraja, my assistant. “Tell him it will stop hurting in a moment.”
“Yes, Dr. Adelaide.”
I watch her turn to my patient and speak to him in his mother tongue.
He nods, clutching his injured arm, but his eyes are terrified. I can feel rivulets of sweat moving down my back and beading on my forehead, but I make a real effort to keep my expression composed and smiling.
Faraja helps the man lie down on the table, and I tell her to hold him around the waist.
“I’m going to pull on your arm,” I say to him in a calm voice, as Faraja puts her arms around him. I brace my foot against the table, gently straighten his arm, and start pulling on it.
“Oueee!” the man yells, then says something I can’t catch that’s probably the equivalent of Let go of me, you stupid bitch.
I keep my grip on his arm, pulling until I feel the ball of his humerus bone slide back into the shoulder socket. Almost like throwing a switch, the man stops yelling and blinks in surprise.
“Better?” I say, and he nods.
Then he climbs off the table and scurries away, almost as if he’s worried that I’ll start pulling on some other part of his body.
As I straighten up, my back and arms sore from wrestling with him, I hope that he’ll stay out of range of his mule’s kicks from now on.
And I thought I was fit. Workouts at the gym are nothing compared to this.
I brush ineffectually at the coating of dust and dirt on my once-clean shirt and khaki shorts and almost laugh at myself. Face it, Adelaide, you aren’t going to be clean again for a long, long time.
These are the joys of working for Doctors Without Borders in a remote, dusty village in Kenya. Oh well. At least no one expects me to be glamorous.
“Well done, Dr. Adelaide,” Faraja says admiringly as she cleans off the table.
“It looks worse than it really is,” I say, tugging the elastic out of my long blonde hair and fluffing it to get some of the dust out before twisting it into a ponytail again. “Kind of hard on the patient, though.”
Faraja grins, her white teeth flashing against her chocolate brown face. I was lucky to have her as part of my nursing staff at this tiny village medical clinic: university-trained in Nairobi, speaks excellent English, and is already one of my best friends here.
“It makes you look like a miracle worker,” she says in her lilting accent. “It’s no wonder that the villagers love you.”
I smile again, turning to wash my hands in the basin.
It’s an amazing feeling, to practice medicine in a place where people are so grateful simply to have the attention of a doctor, even a white woman doctor from the United States.
It’s taken me a while to earn their trust, but we’re getting there. As I scrub at the dirt under my fingernails, I can still hear my family’s voices echoing in my head.
“You graduated from Johns Hopkins top of your class,” my father said. “You could work in any hospital in the country. Why are you going to Africa?”
My mother: “With our family connections, you could have a private practice for only the best people.”
And my brother, Sten: “Are you crazy? White girls like you—especially rich white girls from prominent families—aren’t common in Kenya. You might as well be holding a sign that says, ‘Kidnap me.’”
They couldn’t understand that I have a responsibility to use my skills where they’re needed most—precisely because I don’t have staggering college loans to pay. Besides, I don’t want to run a pricey private practice. I need to be here.
“I could use some breakfast,” I comment, drying my hands by waving them in the air. “How about you?”
She shakes her head. “No. I will go home and eat. I will return in a while.”
I stretch, yawning. It’s early, and I’d been pulled out of bed by the man’s yells before the sun was completely over the horizon. Faraja must have heard him, too—hell, the whole village probably heard him—and she was here in a few minutes.
Good thing, too. Takes two to wrestle with a dislocated arm and get it back in its socket.
Coffee. I need coffee. Fortunately this is Kenya, land of coffee.
“Sounds good,” I tell Faraja. “I’ll see you later.”
She gives me a casual wave as she heads across the dirt towards her own hut.
Kichaka, who is also part of my nursing staff, has just arrived.
I smile at her gratefully as she brings me a bowl of ugali—boiled cornmeal—and bananas. I thank her.
“It is good that you could help Jel,” she tells me. “But he needs to get a mule that does not kick him.
Her daughter, Johari, appears in the doorway, dressed in her school uniform. “I think he is here every week because of something the mule did to him,” she giggles.
“If this happens again, I’ll teach you what to do,” I tell Johari.
Her face lights up. She’s told me she wants to be a doctor someday. She’s 16, and I’m going to teach her as much as I can so that she can get into a training school in Nairobi.
I take my bowl and the mug of coffee that Kichaka hands me and go outside the clinic to sit on the bench outside the door. Already, the sun is superheating the air, and the humidity is a thick blanket, even in the shade of the clinic hut.
I look at the other huts that make up this small village. With their thatched roofs, they cluster beneath palm trees, surrounded by hard-packed dirt that creates swirling eddies of dust with every passing footstep.
I drowse a little in the heat, grateful for a few moments of peace before the day’s flow of patients begins. I think about how very far away I am from the manicured green lawns and grand houses and air conditioning of Greenwich.
Mom would be having a fit if she could see me now, I think with a grin. It’s a pretty satisfying thought.
I wish my phone worked so that I could snap a selfie and send it to her. Here she is, your sweaty, filthy daughter in her dirty clothes…completely happy.
“Doctor Lady?” A soft voice stirs me out of my daydream, and I open my eyes.
A young woman stands in front of me, a small girl clutching her hand and staring at me with big eyes.
“This, my girl, Hasnaa. She…she is not…” The woman breaks off in frustration.
“Take your time,” I tell her gently in Swahili, standing up.
“My little girl Hasnaa does not want to move or play. Maybe she is sick.”
“Let’s bring her inside,” I say. I can already tell that, like many children and adults in this village, she is not getting enough to eat. “How old is she?”
“She is six years.”
I frown. At six, she should be much taller.
I gently lift Hasnaa onto the examination table, and the little girl does not protest but just sits listlessly. Another bad sign.
I examine Hasnaa’s teeth, listen to her heart, and take her pulse. “What is she eating?” I ask the mother. “Is she getting milk? Meat?”
The mother makes a small gesture. “She eats ugali. Sometimes, there is milk from the cow, but not much. A little meat when we have it.”
I turn to my supply cabinet and find some multivitamins and a powdered protein supplement.
“Take this,” I tell the mother, pressing them into her hands. I explain how to mix the powder with clean water. “This should help Hasnaa gain some weight. Then she will be stronger and have more energy.”
The mother listens intently, studying the packets, then nods. She gathers up her daughter and starts to leave, then turns back, slips something off her arm, and presses it into my hand. It is a beautiful beaded bracelet.
“Thank you, Doctor Lady,” she says.
As she leaves, with Hasnaa still clutching her hand, I slip the bracelet onto my wrist. I don’t expect payment from any of the villagers
. That’s why I’m here.
But these people find small ways, small gifts of appreciation.
This is so, so much better than treating a bunch of fat society women with imaginary ailments.
“That is not all,” Kichaka tells me, smiling and brandishing a small plucked chicken. “Jel’s wife, she just brought this for you. To thank you for fixing his arm.”
My heart twists in my chest. “They don’t need to do that…”
Kichaka shrugs. “It is their way. And they want you to know that having you here is very important.”
“But so many of them don’t have enough to eat,” I say helplessly. “I don’t need to take food away from them.”
“Perhaps I can cook it, and we can share it with the patients who most need it,” she suggests. “Like Hasnaa.”
“Yes, that’s a wonderful idea!” I say eagerly. “After all, in America, we say that chicken soup can cure anything.” It sounds stupid even as I say it.
“So I guess that there is no need for all your medicines?” Kichaka replies, her expression clearly confused.
“It simply means food is one more way to help those who really need it,” I say, my voice firm. “And that’s what matters.”
She nods and disappears into the back of the hut. I lift my hair off my sweaty neck for a moment, hoping for a small cooling breeze, and swallow the last of my coffee.
This isn’t an easy life, compared to home. But right now, I wouldn’t trade it for anything. Sten was wrong, thinking I’d be in danger.
I am perfectly safe.
Adelaide
It’s been a long, hot day and an even longer night.
I’m wiped. Exhausted. Spent.
And it’s not even over yet.
“You’ve been drinking the well water?” I ask as my current patient vomits into a bucket that I had placed in front of her only just in time.
“We all drink the well water.” She glares up at me ungratefully, and considering her current state, I don’t take it personally.
“Which is why you all have food poisoning.”
I fish out my own canteen and hand it over to her. It has a little salt and a little potassium mixed into it already—electrolytes are crucial in this stage.
“Here. Sip on this for now. Sip,” I warn as she raises it to her lips to guzzle. “Your stomach is in a delicate place right now—and tonight won’t be enjoyable for you, either. But you should feel better by morning. I’ll be back then to check on you.”
That stupid well is making me fume.
This—all of it—the heat and the smells and the thankless work and the vomiting—this is what they don’t tell you when you’re dressing Dr. Barbie in her lab coat. Being a doctor isn’t hopping in your little pink convertible and coming home to a handsome, loving Ken waiting for you at the Dream House every night.
It’s mostly just work—nasty, crappy work.
I don’t do it for the Dream House, though.
Or for my own hunky, clean-cut Ken, either.
I do it because I’m a doctor.
I do it because these people need help, and there’s no one else to give it to them.
I took an oath, and I’m going to keep it.
That’s why tomorrow morning, I’ll be back here bright and early…and on barely any sleep, from the looks of things.
Time flies when you’re mopping up sick, I guess.
My head aches. When I move to stand, I realize that my body aches even more. Probably just from working so hard today—and from staying up so late.
That’s what I figure, anyway—until, that is, I see him.
Out in the moonlight, his figure framed by darkness and stars…
It’s been ten long years, but I’d recognize those broad shoulders and that easy gait anywhere.
Ford Armstrong.
Against all odds, walking back into my life.
That’s how I know I have Dengue Fever. Not a doubt in my poor, exhausted mind. I’m obviously hallucinating—and what a gorgeous hallucination it is, too.
But then a wave of rationality hits me.
It can’t be Dengue—because if it were, I would have been lying in bed with a high fever and a rash and hemorrhaging manifestations long before the psychosis presented.
Which leaves only one possibility…
God.
It’s really him.
My feet do the moving for me as I draw closer to him. I’m grateful for that much—because if my brain was in charge right now, I’d be frozen in place out of shock.
With every step, my heart beats a little harder.
He’s gorgeous.
Scruffy and bearded, dark blonde and blue-eyed…
Handsome as ever.
Ford Armstrong’s good looks always did give him a direct line to my heart.
“Addie,” he croaks, hitting me with a tired, roguish smile.
His voice sounds so dry that now, instead of pounding, I can feel my heart break.
I almost regret handing over my canteen now…because if I had it here, I would have his head in my lap, smoothing his brow and dribbling water between his parched lips.
It’s not until he draws closer still that finally I start to see all the cracks in my Adonis. Ford Armstrong was never as spiffed and shined as the other boys at St. Anthony’s, but despite his good looks…even I can admit that he looks like hell.
“Ford,” I breathe, raising a hand to his chest. My fingertips brush against his dirt-covered, sweaty t-shirt, touching him just barely at his sternum.
When I make contact, it sends shivers up and down my spine like I’m touching an electric current.
“What happened to you?”
And Ford Armstrong—being Ford Armstrong—only shrugs and laughs.
“Not anything you need to worry about,” he says, looking down at my fingertips at his chest before meeting my eyes. “I’m here now. That’s what matters.”
I eye the scrapes and bruises on his bulging biceps suspiciously, his being so blasé right now only making my suspicion grow.
“That brings me to my next question, actually.” I drop my hand from his chest, fighting back a blush. I cross my arms over my chest instead. “What are you doing here, Ford?”
He laughs again, like I have to be joking…then looks suddenly taken aback.
“Sten didn’t tell you,” he says in a deadpan.
I take a step back. “What didn’t he tell me?”
“Christ,” Ford swears. “Of course he didn’t. I mean, I knew you wouldn’t like it, but the least he could have done was let you prepare…”
“Prepare for what?!” I say—a little louder than I should.
I hear the shuffling of the half-dozen villagers I just startled awake with the sound of my voice and immediately feel bad—and I feel even worse when I see Ford’s eyes dart around our surroundings, looking concerned.
“I’m here to protect you, Addie,” Ford says, his voice hushed.
He puts his arm around me protectively—not like we’re high school sweethearts on a stroll through the moonlight, but like there’s an active shooter lurking around every corner and he’s trying to put his body between their bullets and my skin.
“And you couldn’t have picked a more difficult place to do it, huh?” he asked.
“I don’t need protection,” I hiss as he guides me to the shelter of the overhang of a nearby hut. “And I definitely don’t need you.”
“Then why are you trembling?” he asks.
I look down at my hand, the way it’s shaking.
Yeah, it’s probably for the best if he attributes that to fear right now. That way, he doesn’t realize the real reason.
I’m trembling because of him.
I’m not scared of Ford. Sure, he disappeared seemingly off the face of the earth after our one night together…but when you’re around someone as big as him and as brave as him and as self-sacrificing as him, it’s hard to be scared.
No, I’m not afraid of Ford in
the least.
I’m afraid of myself.
Because if my hands are shaking now, just from being this close to him…
What happens when he makes me smile for the first time in ten years? Makes me laugh? What if he walks in on me while I’m changing and—
“Your cheeks are red,” Ford says, raising the back of his hand to my cheekbone. “Are you okay?”
I’m not okay—and as soon as he touches me, I’m more certain than ever about that. His skin is warm, but my face is burning so hot with embarrassment that he almost feels cool…
“I’m fine,” I spit, pulling away. “What’s not fine is you being here—and you know it, and so does Sten. Whatever he’s paying you to be here, I’ll double it if you leave.”
“Sorry, sweetheart.” Ford shakes his handsome head. “It doesn’t work like that.”
“It doesn’t work like this, either!” I have to stop myself from raising my voice again. “This is my life, Ford. You don’t just get to come waltzing into it and—”
I lose track of my argument as I see an expression cross Ford’s face. It’s a little bit dark, a little bit foreboding, and in ten years, I haven’t forgotten what it means when he sets his jaw in that way.
I might have picked this fight, but he’s about to end it.
“Let’s get one thing straight, princess,” he says, looming over me. Suddenly, I feel incredibly delicate—and impossibly small. “You’re a wealthy heiress playing doctor in one of the most dangerous hot zones on the planet right now. You think some warlord is going to care that you’re a doctor when he sweeps through this villages and starts taking hostages, trying to get himself on CNN?”
I open my mouth to argue back, but Ford is on a roll—and it’s no use.
“They’re not going to care that you’ve got a medical degree,” Ford warns me, his voice low. “You’ll be lucky if they even realize you’ve got money attached to your name. No—there are dangerous men in this neck of the woods, Addie. Men who will take one look at a pretty little blonde like you with those blue eyes and those luscious lips, prancing around in these tiny fucking shorts, looking like you do…”
He plucks at the hem of my khaki shorts, his fingertips brushing against my thigh.
I draw a quick breath in as he touches me.