by A W Hartoin
“Yes. Absolutely.”
He jumped over the side and ran through the water to Lucia. Either he was one hell of an actor or Lucia was just incredibly unlucky. How many stingray attacks could there be a year?
Alex helped me off with my tank and BCD and I went over the side into the perfect water. I had a flash of the plume of blood flowing out from Lucia’s thigh. That didn’t feel like an accident. It just didn’t. A siren sounded in the distance as I sank down beside Lucia. Her face was twisted in pain.
“Did you get a glimpse of anything?” I asked.
“There was something there.” She gasped.
The ambulance pulled up next to us on the sand and two EMTs got out. Graeme and I stepped back, while they assessed her. When they were done, they each took an arm and started to pull her to her feet.
“Wait,” I said. “What are you doing?”
“Taking her to the hospital,” said the older of the two. He had the air of someone who’s seen too many accidents to care much anymore.
“Put her on a stretcher. She can’t walk.”
“No stretcher. We carry her.”
“What do you mean no stretcher?” I looked in the ambulance and sure enough there was no stretcher in the back and, frankly, not much else. “Where is it?”
“It’s on the other side of the island. Car accident.”
“Are you saying you have one stretcher and you share?”
The EMT narrowed his eyes at me. “This is not America. You don’t get everything you want all the time.”
Graeme put his finger in the EMT’s face. “She doesn’t want a stretcher. She needs it.”
Spitball pushed Graeme’s arm down. “It doesn’t matter. Let’s get her to the hospital. ASAP.”
Graeme insisted on putting Lucia on the small pallet in the back of the ambulance. It was crazy. A patient lying on the floor.
“Mercy,” said Lucia, drool rolled down her chin and her words slurred. “I don’t feel good.”
“That’s not right,” I said, trying to get in the ambulance.
The EMT pushed me back. “It’s just a puncture.”
“Not with drooling. It’s something else. Let me in.”
Lucia slumped and her hand hit the floor. Graeme looked at me. “What is it?”
“I don’t know.” I tried to push past the EMT, but he knocked me aside.
“We have rules in this country,” he said.
“Oh, yeah,” I yelled. “You have rules, but no stretchers apparently.”
Graeme looked around the ambulance with increasing panic. “Is this okay?”
“They use clean needles,” I said.
His sides started to heave as he began to panic. “But what about the rest of it?”
“You don’t have a choice.”
“But—”
The EMT slammed the doors and the ambulance peeled out, spraying me with sand.
“Shit! Spitball, where’s the hospital?” I asked.
“Coxen Hole. I’ll take you.”
We ran through the alley between our resort and another, ending up next to a group of scooters.
“Are you kidding me?” I asked.
“Hey,” said Spitball. “I flew missions over hot zones. I don’t do slow.”
And he didn’t. I have no idea what he did to that scooter, but it went like a crouch rocket. We zipped through traffic, weaving around rusted-out vehicles and fruit stands. When we got to Coxen Hole I was glad I had a grizzled old guy named Spitball with me. That town made North St. Louis look like a retirement community. Grungy concrete buildings were packed together and the narrow twisted roads were filled with vehicles that appeared to be held together with baling wire. Some of the houses or shops were painted bright pastels, that only made them sadder with all the dirt and exhaust giving them a grayish tinge.
Spitball zipped around an ancient Toyota pickup with at least ten kids in the bed. They smiled and waved. I waved back and was struck by their faces, happy, full-cheeked, and bright-eyed. Would American children be so joyful in such circumstances? I doubted it. I wouldn’t have been. Actually, everyone on the street seemed equally cheerful. They moved about their day in colorful clothes, kicking up dust on the sidewalk and not noticing that the buildings they passed looked ready to topple over on them.
“There it is,” said Spitball as he braked hard.
I saw nothing that would pass for a hospital. Maybe it was on the other side of the prison ahead to our left. It had high concrete walls with razor wire on top. I knew prisons as well as hospitals. Dad visited some of the people he helped to convict, usually women, but sometimes men. Dad didn’t look like he had any soft spots, but they were there. He understood circumstances make you who you are and he insisted I understand it, too. Mom didn’t know, but Dad took me on his visits sometimes. Some of the people I met when I was ten were still there, wearing orange and eagerly waiting behind plexiglass for Dad to appear.
We idled behind a late model Ford covered in scuba stickers. I tried not to look at the prison. There was no one to visit. No information to gather. But I still felt the heaviness settle on me. It came every time, that thick darkness, it said you go in, they might not let you out. Dad never asked me how I felt as a kid going in those places or how I felt as an adult going in to get some information for him. He said it was important to see what we do. How things end up. People don’t disappear. They go into a kind of stasis. It was important to know. I think he also thought it would keep me on the straight and narrow. I didn’t have any real criminal tendencies, so I think we could’ve skipped it.
Our tires squealed as Spitball hit the gas and we sped through a narrow opening between resort vans. He hung a left, pulled up to the prison, and stopped at the guard shack. A guard in a green uniform stepped out, carrying an AK47.
“Hey, Mr. Spitball. How you doing?” asked the guard.
“Can’t complain. Ambulance come in?” asked Spitball.
“Yeah. A couple minutes ago. It got one of yours?”
“Sure does. Stingray barb in the leg.”
“That’s some nasty shit.” The guard waved us in.
Spitball parked under an overhang and we went in the emergency entrance. There were dozens of people waiting in gray, uncomfortable chairs like any other ER. Spitball waved down a nurse in green scrubs and asked about Lucia. She was back with the doctor. The nurse didn’t know much, except she was conscious. I blew out a breath and leaned on the wall. Between Lucia and the whole in-a-prison feeling, my legs were shaking.
“She’s a nurse,” said Spitball. “Can she go back?”
“Family?”
I almost lied. “No.”
“You’ll have to wait out here,” said the nurse.
“She’s talking and coherent?” I asked.
“She was when she came in.” She looked down at her chart. “Stingray barb. Not serious.”
“She was drooling in the ambulance. I think she passed out.”
“Drooling?”
“Yes. Definitely,” I said. “Something else is going on. There might be poison involved.”
The nurse didn’t raise an eyebrow or look remotely interested. “I’ll tell Dr. Navarro.”
We found a couple of chairs in the corner between a man holding a bloody rag over his face and a kid throwing up in a bucket. This was way too much like my regular life. Where was the vacation in my vacation? I went back and forth between wanting to assess patients and wanting to get the hell out of there. Since my kit was back in the room and I didn’t have any gloves (gloves were absolutely required) I went to sleep on Spitball’s boney shoulder.
A half hour later, I woke to the smell of hot chocolate. I opened my eyes to see a chipped mug under my nose. It held a thick foamy brew. Heaven.
“Where’d you get that?” asked Spitball.
“Made it,” said Aaron. He looked down at me from behind glasses that had a couple of dead bugs spattered on them. I’d never been so happy to see him. Which isn’t s
aying much, since I’m never happy to see him at all. Except when he’s saving my life. That happens more than I liked to admit.
He gave me the mug and I took an experimental sip. Perfection with a hint of cinnamon. Aaron rubbed his hands together and bounced up and down. “How’s it?”
“Wonderful. Where’d you get hot chocolate?”
“Jesse let me make it in her kitchen.”
“Who’s Jesse?” I asked. When Aaron looked confused, I said, “Oh, never mind. How’d you get here?”
“I brought him,” said Mauro.
I don’t know how I didn’t notice him before. His taut brown leg was a foot away from me. Mauro looked so good. His hair was all mussed up from the wind, not like Aaron’s mussed. Mussed good. He exuded confidence, and I was stressed out and exhausted. It was one of those times I wanted a handsome man to hug me, chastely of course. Well, mostly chastely. Because handsome helps. Don’t try to say it doesn’t. Spitball would’ve hugged me, but he smelled like cigarettes and had skin like leftover toast. Aaron didn’t bear considering. Before I could launch myself at Mauro, a new nurse came out. She pointed at me. “You can come back.”
I stood up and that’s when I realized I still had on my penguin wetsuit. I couldn’t take it off. We were in a hospital and all I had on underneath was a swimsuit. I sighed, gave my mug to Aaron, hitched up my crotch and waddled out of the waiting room behind her. The rest of the hospital was better than the outside portrayed. The walls were whitewashed and the floors were clean. I did feel a bit like I’d stepped back in time to the fifties. Everything was utilitarian and hard. There were no fountains or music, carpet or cushy chairs.
We went around a corner and passed a long line that extended down the corridor. The patients stood back-to-back, but looked like they shouldn’t be standing at all. Their skin sagged on their sallow cheeks. Several had Kaposi’s sarcomas, purplish tumors on their arms and faces. All the patients hung onto the handrail. Without it, I don’t know if they could’ve stayed upright.
We turned another corner and I touched the nurse’s arm. “Were those AIDS patients?”
“Yes. The clinic is always busy.”
“Why are they standing in the hall?”
She glanced at me, her dark eyes angry and resigned all at once. “There’s no room. We’re not exactly the Taj Mahal here.”
Since the Taj Mahal was a mausoleum, I had to disagree. “You can’t find chairs for them?”
“I would if I could. We have one of the highest rates of AIDs in Central America.”
“I had no idea.”
“Nobody does.” She stopped at a door. “We’ll release her after they pay.”
“Release her? She’s been here like a half hour. What about the drooling?”
“They say she can go. It’s a minor stab wound.”
She ran to catch up with another nurse and I went inside. Lucia lay on a narrow hospital bed. Her leg was well-bandaged, her eyes shut, and she was very relaxed. Graeme sat next to her on a wooden chair with her hand pressed to his cheek.
“How’s it going?” I asked as I took her pulse. Not bad.
“I’m okay,” said Lucia, slightly slurring her words.
“I don’t know what to do,” said Graeme. “They’re going to release her like this.”
“What did they give her?”
“Nothing. Can you go to the pharmacy for us?” Graeme asked. “I don’t want to leave her.”
“She’s this relaxed with nothing? What about a local? Where’s the IV?”
“The nurse said it’s near the end of the quarter and they’re running out of everything.”
Lucia’s head rolled around on the pillow. “I feel so weird.”
“How’s the pain?” I asked.
“It hurts, but I don’t really care.”
Graeme kissed her cheek. “I don’t understand what’s going on.”
I put on my it’s-totally-fine face. “What did the doctor prescribe?”
Graeme handed me a script for penicillin. That wasn’t good enough. Lucia needed a broad spectrum antibiotic.
“What about a painkiller?” I asked.
“They don’t have any opiates,” he said. “But he gave her a tetanus booster. Is that right?”
“Yes. We always want tetanus up to date with a puncture. Mind if I take a look?” I asked.
“Go ahead.”
I undid Lucia’s bandage. The wound looked clean, but there was significant swelling and reddening around the site. Lucia reacted to the pain, but she was loopy and it was freaking me out.
“Excuse me,” said a man behind me.
I turned to find a doctor in a crisp white lab coat. I felt like I’d been caught sticking quarters up my nose. He had that disapproving grandpa thing going on.
“Hello,” I said, trying to muster up as much dignity as I could given what I was wearing. “I’m Mercy Watts, friend and nurse.”
He relaxed and put out his hand. “I’m Dr. Navarro. I’ve treated the wound and Lucia’s ready for discharge.”
“Great. Can I speak to you outside?”
He didn’t look surprised. He probably got that a lot from tourists. We stepped outside and closed the door.
“How can I help you?” asked Dr. Navarro.
“When Lucia was put in the ambulance, she was drooling copiously and I believe she passed out. There may be poison involved.”
“Yes, the nurse told me. But Mrs. Carrow was conscious when she arrived. There was some drooling, but it dissipated when I irrigated the wound. There must’ve been minimal venom involvement. There’s no evidence of poison.”
“Did you do any blood work?”
His brow wrinkled. “No. She recovered quite quickly. What do you suspect happened?”
“Succinylcholine chloride to be exact.”
“That’s very specific. Why in the world would you think that?”
“She’s oddly relaxed and drooling isn’t exactly common after a stab wound of any kind. This is the second accident Lucia’s had since she’s been on the island.”
“You think the stingray injected her with succinylcholine chloride?” He raised a bushy eyebrow at me.
“I don’t think it was a stingray.”
“Well, it presents like one.”
“The barb could’ve been dipped in it,” I said.
“I’d say it was possible, if she wasn’t underwater at the time. The water would’ve washed it off before it got in her system.”
“I know, but something’s not right. We need to call the police.”
He sighed and put a hand on my shoulder. “It won’t do any good. This island it’s…not well-policed. They come over from the mainland, do their time, and get out. And today they’ve got their hands full. We’ve had three assaults and a murder in the last twelve hours. Even if they believed you, we couldn’t prove it. Succinylcholine chloride clears the system quickly and that’s with a large dose.”
“The perfect poison,” I said. “Do you believe me?”
He gave me a patronizing smile. “I appreciate your concern. My advice: send her home early. Home is the best place for her to recover.”
Unless it’s not. Graeme will be there and I won’t.
“Don’t the police care about the tourists? If something happened to Lucia, it would be bad for business,” I said.
“This was an accident. It happens, especially with tourists,” said Dr. Narvarro.
How convenient.
“You have her prescription. I’ll have her wheeled out to a cab.”
“We don’t need the penicillin. I brought Keflex.”
“You came prepared.”
“Nurses,” I said. “It’s what we do.”
“Any painkillers?”
“Norco.”
“That will work fine for her.”
I reached for the doorknob, but he held me back. “You seem like a girl with connections.”
“Really,” I said, indicating my awesome saggy-butted wetsuit.
“You think so?”
“I see past that. You have a certain confidence about you. The kind of confidence that comes from wealth and security.”
I kept my face blank. I wouldn’t have mentioned Myrtle and Millicent, if my life depended on it.
“We need help. You can see the state we’re in. Medications are hard to come by. Tourists bring them in, but they are often expired. We run out of painkillers, antibiotics, and insulin nearly every quarter. We were lucky to have the tentanus booster. If you have any connections. If you can do anything, it would be a great good.”
A great good. How The Girls would like that. Their money was this unseen ocean that I always knew about and stood on the edge of with it lapping my toes. That ocean was unreachable now because of Brooks and his ridiculous lawsuit. My parents were paying their expenses for the moment. Even if they could access their fabulous wealth, I didn’t know how to ask them to do something. I’d never asked for anything. It would’ve been ridiculous to do so with all they’d done for me. But Roatan might be the right thing to ask for, if I could stomach it.
“I’ll see what I can do. I can’t promise anything.”
“All I ask is that you try.”
“I’ll figure something out.”
Then he hugged me. I was so surprised, I didn’t react. Not counting Pete, the only time a doctor ever hugged me was to cop a feel.
Dr. Navarro pulled back. “Thank you.”
“I’ll do my best. Tourists really bring you expired meds?”
“It’s better than nothing most of the time.”
“I guess so,” I said.
A nurse called Dr. Navarro away and and I went into Lucia’s room. “Okay. Here’s what we’re going to do. I brought Keflex and Norco with me. That’s what we’re going to use.”
Lucia pushed herself upright. “That sounds good.”
“I don’t know about that,” said Graeme. “Dr. Navarro prescribed the penicillin.”
“What I have is better,” I said.
Graeme shifted in his chair and avoided looking at me. “I don’t mean to be rude, but…”