Over the Waters

by Deborah Raney

  He thought, as he did several times each day, of Valerie, and wondered what she was doing at this moment. Was she safe? Was she happy? He smiled to himself. Of course she was happy. He'd never known Valerie Austin to be anything but joyful.

  He, too, had a newfound joy. There was no denying the difference it had made to finally surrender his life to God. He had started attending church, and just last week, he'd joined the men's prayer group that met on Wednesday nights. He was learning and growing in his faith almost faster than he could fathom. And it had changed everything...everything about his life.

  But on days like today, when he looked out over the city and contemplated the amazing ways he'd been blessed, he had an odd feeling that something was missing. Somehow the vastness of his wealth didn't seem like a blessing now that he had seen the other extreme.

  Maybe it was just the fact that he'd started to realize that this world was no longer his home. Maybe his unease was a longing for heaven that the Bible talked about. But though he'd experienced a tremendous healing from the hurts of his past, there were still regrets so deep that no amount of time would heal the pain. No surgery could erase the scars. Perhaps those regrets were the source of his feelings of unrest. Maybe it just came with the territory. Sin--even forgiven sin--had consequences. Sometimes irreparable consequences.

  He could never change the fact that his own greed and selfishness had destroyed his marriage to Janie. He could never go back and make things right with his only son. He could never change the fact that he had deeply hurt the people he loved most and had lost every chance to make things right.

  A melancholy pall shrouded him. Just for a minute, he wished he could lock the doors to his clinics and get back on a Haiti-bound airplane. He'd wished a hundred times that the crisis that had finally softened his heart had happened on the flight into Haiti, instead of when he was leaving the country. How differently he would respond now, given the same opportunities he'd had mere months ago.

  He had dreamed of the children of the Brizjanti orphanages more times than he cared to number. In his dreams, Rocky, who ran so courageously on the soccer field, was no longer lame. Max choked up realizing that Rocky's smile could not have been any brighter had his body been perfectly formed. The boy's joy didn't depend on two strong legs or success at the game. But what would his future be like without a strong body?

  In Max's dreams, Samantha's little Birdy had a smile that rivaled Rocky's, the gaping hole in his face reduced to no more than a thread-thin scar. And though Birdy's scar existed only in a dream, Max somehow recognized that it remained for his sake--Max Jordan's sake. A reminder of what had been before.

  Before what? The question ate at him. God, what does it all mean?

  And then there was the dog. That mangy, skinny hound that had looked at him with such trusting eyes at the gate in front of Madame Duval's nearly every day. Why could he not get that dog out of his mind?

  He turned from the window. He'd left a patient waiting in a treatment room, and his nurse would come looking for him soon. He glanced at the Thomas Tompion clock on his desk. There was a time when a mere glance at that clock had given him a sense of accomplishment. A feeling of having arrived. It was a fancy desk clock. A clock now rendered completely redundant by the digital display on his computer screen. But he'd paid almost a thousand dollars for it one day. Cash. On a whim...just because he liked the way it looked. And because he could. It was a place he'd always wanted to arrive at in life. And the day he'd bought it, that clock had scratched a place that had always itched inside him.

  But the itch had come back. The next time he scratched it with a set of titanium golf clubs. Then the Maserati. And the house on the lake--a six-bedroom mansion for one man who was never home.

  He slid open his desk drawer and pulled out the Bible. He still had the slim New Testament Valerie had given him before he'd left Brizjanti, but he'd gone into a Bible bookstore the day after the emergency landing and bought a complete Holy Bible. He shook his head as he looked down at the leather cover. The finest grain of Morocco leather and gold-embossed lettering. At two hundred dollars, it was the most expensive Bible the retailer had in stock. And he had peeled off the bills to pay for it without a thought. Only the best for Max Jordan.

  He wanted to weep. How could he forget so soon the poverty of Brizjanti? The desperate needs of the children of the orphanage? The dire deficiencies of the hospital where Joshua had died? And here he sat with his thousand-dollar clock and his two-hundred-dollar Bible on a desk that cost three grand, waiting to see a patient who would pay him a pretty penny for a twenty-minute visit and a treatment that might last three months before she was back for another fix from the elusive fountain of youth.

  Had faith changed anything about him? He tossed the Bible back in the drawer and went down the hall to do his job.

  Brizjanti, Haiti, June 12

  Valerie sat at the table in the dining room with Jaelle and six pre-teen Haitian girls. An array of everyday kitchen items was lined up down the middle of the table.

  Valerie picked up an eggbeater and thought for a minute. "Batez," she pronounced.

  "Oui!" the girls shouted in unison, clapping their approval.

  Jaelle pointed to a fork.

  Valerie closed her eyes. She'd seen the word only this morning as she studied the hefty pictorial Creole-English dictionary she'd brought back with her. "Let's see," she said, rubbing her hands together. "I know it starts with an F..."

  "Oui, F." Several of the girls nodded encouragement.

  Valerie gave a low growl. "Ooh...I can't remember. Give me a clue."

  Jaelle laughed, but shook her head adamantly and shushed the younger girls. "Non." Valerie picked up the fork and turned it this way and that, as though the utensil would give her the answer itself.

  She was learning Creole surprisingly quickly. Now that she knew she was here indefinitely, she'd buckled down with her study of the language. But after two months, she still understood far more than she could speak, and this word was being particularly stubborn. Finally, she threw up her hands in frustration. "I give up."

  Jaelle looked around the table, giving tacit permission for the little girls to tell the answer.

  "Fouchet!" they all yelled at the top of their lungs.

  She slapped her forehead. "Oh, of course! Fouchet! I knew that. Fouchet! Fouchet!"

  They tittered at her chagrined reply. When the laughter died down, Mariana held up a teacup.

  "Ooh, ooh, I know that one. Tas te. Right?"

  Seven dark heads bobbed affirmation. Daphney picked up a soup ladle and the game began again.

  Ten minutes later, it was Valerie's turn to be the teacher. She put her index finger on her nose.

  "Nose!"

  She tugged on her ear.

  "Ear!"

  Flawlessly, they recited the English words for eye, lip, forehead, hands and feet.

  "That's no fair." Valerie feigned a pout. "You're much better at this than I am."

  Jaelle translated for the little girls. When she finished, Daphney slid from her chair and came around the table to put a comforting arm around Valerie.

  "Oh, sweetie," she said, giving the little girl a hug. "I was just teasing. I'm fine." She looked up at Jaelle. "Can you tell her?"

  Jaelle smiled. "She knows. She just wants an excuse to hug you."

  Valerie pulled Daphney closer, suddenly feeling sure that God had brought her here as much for her own sake as for what she had to offer the children of Hope House.

  Her days here had flown by, always busy with caring for the children and the dormitories, and with her study of the language and the Haitian culture.

  The rainy season had begun and everyday life was more of a challenge with the phones and electricity out more often than not, and many of the roads into the city nearly impassable. In addition, rumors of unrest in Port-au-Prince were making the rounds. So far, they still felt safe to go into the market near Brizjanti for their weekly needs.

>   Valerie couldn't go there without remembering the first time she'd met Max. She wondered often how he was doing. She prayed for him every morning in her quiet time on the rooftop. She asked God to help him grow strong in his faith and to find lasting peace about Joshua's death. Sometimes she was tempted to pray that she and Max would have a chance to meet again. But it remained an unspoken prayer. She didn't see how that could be part of God's plan given the miles of ocean that separated them.

  She thought of the oft-uttered Haitian farewell: Na we demin si-dye-vle. See you tomorrow, if God wills. It would have to be her attitude about Max Jordan. She had no right to wish for anything else.

  Besides, she was happy. Truly, joyfully happy here. She was where God had placed her. She wouldn't wish for anything more.

  The pounding came again, this time louder. Valerie struggled to climb from the deep valley of sleep. Someone was knocking on the door to her room. "Just a minute," she called. She rolled out of bed and stumbled to the door.

  "Who is it?"

  "It's Betty, Valerie." Madame Phil's voice sounded strained and frightened.

  She flipped the light switch, but nothing happened. The electricity was off again. She grabbed her flashlight from the nightstand and pulled her robe from the hook on the door. Wrapping the robe around her, she fumbled with the latch. "Betty? What's wrong? What time is it?"

  "It's Phil." The older woman's face was ashen with fear. "He can barely catch his breath. And he's wheezing...I'm afraid his lungs are going to start filling up. I don't know what to do."

  Valerie put an arm around her. "Do you want me to go get Samantha?"

  "I don't know. We have to do something!" Her voice climbed an octave, obviously on the edge of panic. Valerie had never seen her so upset.

  "Let me see if I can get through on my phone." She shone the beam of her flashlight along the wall where her cell phone was plugged in to its charger. They'd had very few hours of electricity recently and the phones had been out more often than not since the rainy season started, but with luck, her cell phone would hold a strong enough charge that it would work. If Samantha had her cell phone turned on.

  Valerie punched in her number and waited. No response. She was starting to feel panicky herself. She didn't have the faintest idea what to do for someone in heart failure. She scrolled through the menu on the phone until she came to Max's number. Maybe he could tell them what to do.

  She had his office number, but wouldn't there be instructions for reaching him in an emergency? She punched Send. After a minute, the recording gave a phone number to call in an emergency. She scribbled it on the pad and dialed again. Oh, Father, let him be home.

  What time was it, anyway? She pointed the flashlight's beam on the clock on her nightstand. Two o'clock. She almost hung up. Max would surely be asleep, even though it was an hour earlier in Chicago. But she had to have help. She didn't know what else to do.

  Finally, a sleep-drugged voice answered. "Yes? This is Dr. Jordan..."

  "Max?"

  Several seconds ticked off on the clock. She heard rustling on the other end, then, "Valerie? Is that you?"

  "Oh, Max. You're there. Thank goodness."

  "What's wrong? Valerie, what's wrong?"

  "It's Pastor Phil. I...I haven't seen him yet, but Betty's here and she says he's having trouble breathing..."

  Betty touched her arm. "Is that Dr. Jordan? Tell him Phil's blood pressure has been elevated for several days."

  Valerie repeated the information to Max.

  They had a clear connection and she could hear him moving about, opening a door, then muffled footfalls. She heard the burr of a computer being powered on. Oh, for electricity at the touch of a button!

  "Hang on, Valerie," he said. "I'm checking a medical site online. Just a minute.... Is Madame Phil there with you?"

  "Yes. Right here."

  "Let me talk to her for a minute."

  She handed the phone to Betty, who gave an update on Pastor Phil's condition.

  Then she thrust the phone back at Valerie. "He wants to talk to you again."

  Valerie took the phone. "I'm here, Max."

  "From the sound of things, he probably needs to be on oxygen. Can you get him to a hospital?"

  "I don't know how. The electricity is off and the phones are out. I can't get hold of anybody at Duval's. And even if I could, the roads have been terrible. We've had to go the long way around just to get to the market."

  Max was silent for a minute before he sighed into the phone. "Then you're going to have to do the best you can with what you have there."

  "Okay." She waited, relieved at the hope of something tangible they could do.

  "You need to get him sitting up, if possible. If not, elevate the head of his bed. See if Henri can help you get some cinder blocks or something underneath it. The head ought to be a good eight or ten inches higher than the foot. That'll help keep the fluid from accumulating in his lungs."

  "Okay...okay..." She carried the phone to the side of her bed where she grabbed her notebook and pen and jotted down his instructions.

  "If Betty has any medication that he's been given in the past, find out what it is and call me back. He needs a diuretic and if she has any nitroglycerin, that might help, too. Have him take an aspirin, but limit his fluid intake for now..." He gave a low growl. "Hang on...I'm waiting for a page to load...Okay, this is a long shot, but I've got a site here that's showing some diuretic qualities in various herbs."

  Max mumbled to himself, apparently scrolling through various Web pages in search of information. "It looks like if he's conscious and able to take anything by mouth, you might try having him chew some dandelion leaves or parsley root. Let's see...celery, dill, hawthorn, juniper...I don't know if any of those grow there, but according to this they are all natural diuretics. Maybe some cranberries?"

  Valerie scribbled furiously.

  "He really needs to be on oxygen," Max said. "If you can get him through the night, maybe someone can get him into Port-au-Prince to a hospital. At least they could get him on oxygen and get some basic medications started." He sighed. "I don't know what else to tell you, Valerie."

  "Thank you, Max." She glanced over at Betty, who was hanging on every word. "We'll try what you said," she said into the phone. "You have my number, right?"

  "Unless you've changed it."

  "No. It's the same. Without electricity though, I don't know how long the phone will hold a charge. We'll run the generators if we need to."

  "Okay. I'm going to call a specialist I know and see what he can tell me. I'll call you back as soon as I can." He gave her a cell phone number where he could be reached.

  "Okay. Thank you. I'm sorry to wake you." She knew she needed to hang up, go with Betty to see Pastor Phil. But she dreaded cutting the connection to Max's voice. The cool-headedness she heard there gave her strength.

  "Don't think anything of it. I'm sorry for the circumstances, but...It's good to hear your voice, Valerie."

  "You, too," she whispered.

  "I'll be in touch. And I'll be on my knees..."

  Her heart soared with hope at that. He didn't just say, "I'll be praying." It sounded like a position he was familiar with.

  She slipped on her sandals, and grabbed the flashlight and her notes from Max before ushering Betty from the room.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Philip Greene was lying on his back at an odd angle across the double bed, as though he'd tried to get up and, lacking the strength, had fallen back onto the mattress.

  "Hello, Pastor Phil," Valerie said, taking his hand. "It's Valerie. Henri and Betty are here, too." His hand was cool and clammy--and swollen. She knew that wasn't a good sign, but felt completely inadequate to play nurse. She'd tried to call Samantha again while she and Betty walked across the courtyard to awaken Henri. There was still no response from either Samantha's cell phone or the phone in Madame Duval's office.

  The elderly man opened his eyes and gave a grim smile
. "I'm not doing so hot," he said.

  Betty moved to the other side of the bed, her hair, like Valerie's, sodden from their jog through the rain to the cottage. "We've called Dr. Jordan...back in the States. He wants us to try a few things. Henri is going to raise the head of the bed."

  Pastor Phil nodded, but remained supine on the bed while Henri lugged one of two cinder blocks to the side of the bed where Valerie stood. Betty came around to help and between the three of them, they got the bed propped up. Henri helped Philip Greene sit up on the side of the bed for a few minutes before reclining.

  But it was as if every effort the man made was monumental. He went through the motions of sucking in great gulps of air, his shoulders lifting with each effort, but it was obvious that his airways were compromised.

  Betty turned to the watchman. "Henri, could you go to the kitchen and see if we have any celery or dill seed? Or maybe a can of cranberry sauce in the pantry?"

  The watchman nodded. "I start the generator also, Madame," he said, as he ducked through the door.

  "Yes. Good. Thank you, Henri."

  Valerie bent beside Pastor Phil's bed. "Ou manje jodia?" She shook her head, realizing with surprise that she'd used the Creole without even thinking. "Did you eat today, Pastor Phil?" she repeated in English.

  He looked up at Betty, with a question in his eyes. "Did I, Betty?"

  She shook her head. "Not much. A little tea and toast this morning."

  On the way over, by the light of Valerie's flashlight, Betty had pulled up a mess of dandelions from the ditch outside the gate. Now she pinched off some of the green leaves, mashed them between her fingers and held the green wad to her husband's mouth. "Can you chew this, sweetheart?"

  He balked. "Huh? What's this?"