The Waiting Rooms

by Eve Smith

  The New York State Department of Health has released figures that show a sharp rise in hospital infection rates of Methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus (MRSA). According to the report, there has been a dramatic increase in the number of resistant infections, which mirrors similar increases in other cities, both in the US and abroad. ‘We have already seen fatalities from MRSA sepsis and pneumonia,’ said one doctor in a New York hospital. ‘We’re not alone. Our medical practice is now reliant on a few costly antibiotics that are still efficient in treating these infections. But if MRSA continues to expand the scope of its resistance then we will be in a very dark place indeed.

  MARY

  I lean over the wooden rail and gaze at the vast riverbed below. The silvered veins of the mighty Olifants flow nearly six hundred kilometres through South Africa into Mozambique, nourishing a catchment area over twice the size of Wales. Sprinklings of waterbuck and impala graze its banks: grey and gold flecks against the grass. The river’s rush is accompanied by a refrain of hippo honks and puffs that sounds like someone learning to play the tuba. Their glossy backs plunge out of sight and minutes later resurface, as if they’re playing a game of hide and seek; their bulging eyes keep watch above the water.

  I have ventured north in search of an elusive woody shrub. Luckily for me, this necessitates a stay at one of the most scenic camps in the park. The bush savanna is denser here, with the usual proliferation of mopane, red bushwillow and leadwood; from this high up, on the balcony, the trees look like stubble covering the ground. In the distance, a baobab’s ancient trunk thrusts skyward, its gnarled branches straggling out like roots, as though some toddler giant plucked it from the earth and, for a laugh, put it back upside down. It’s easy to imagine how it was, five million years ago, when the hippos’ ancestors, the mega-herbivores, roamed these lands.

  I feel a hand on my shoulder. I spin round. ‘I … You made it!’ I remember where I am and just manage not to throw my arms around Piet’s neck.

  He grins. ‘Couldn’t pass up an opportunity for this view.’

  It’s a hell of a journey; I never thought he’d come. I gaze at him, skin prickling as the air charges between us.

  ‘How long did it take?’

  ‘Seven hours.’ It should take at least eight. My eyebrows rise. ‘Ja, I tanked it.’

  I allow myself a discreet brush of his arm. I can’t stop smiling. ‘Come on. I think I owe you a coffee.’

  We take a seat by the edge. A vervet monkey scampers past, eyeing up the plates on a recently vacated table. Just as it’s about to strike a waiter strides over and shoos it away. The animal scowls at him and takes refuge under a cactus, its fur shimmering like silver in the sun.

  ‘So,’ says Piet. ‘How’s it been? Any luck?’

  I tap my seat. ‘Not yet. But I have it on good authority where to look.’

  The plant I seek only inhabits the dry mountain slopes in the north. Aptly named the resurrection plant, it can survive extreme dehydration until, with the onset of rain, its seemingly dead brown leaves unfurl and turn a dazzling green.

  ‘Like you said, the oil from its leaves is highly prized,’ I continue. ‘It’s not only used to cure respiratory and urinary infections. It’s also used by local tribes to dress burns and wounds.’

  ‘Encouraging.’ He nods. ‘The records did suggest there could be antimicrobial activity.’ He rubs his eyes. ‘Let’s hope one of them comes good soon.’

  Piet looks exhausted. It could be the drive, but I suspect there’s more to it. As we order our coffees, a little girl with wavy blonde hair runs up to the railing, clutching a small furry giraffe. The hippos erupt in another tuneful blast, and she squeals with laughter.

  I keep my voice neutral. ‘So, how are things back at the ranch?’

  ‘Oh, you know, the usual. Some good, some bad. Making progress with the antivirals.’ His mouth pinches. ‘Still being given the run-around by our friend. Even Dodonaea viscosa can’t handle the resistant TB strains.’

  His eyes move past me, to the river. I follow his gaze. On a far bank I spot movement: the slow, purposeful lumber of an elephant navigating the rocks, one of thousands that come here to drink.

  ‘On the plus side, we’re getting some traction with it against Streptococcus pneumoniae. Which is something, at least.’

  ‘That’s good.’ I hesitate. ‘And MRSA?’

  His expression darkens. ‘Nothing. Despite all the money we’ve thrown at it.’ He shakes his head. ‘God, the things I’ve seen … you wouldn’t believe it. Like a battleground.’ He heaves out a sigh. ‘I saw this one kid in the hospital, thigh bandaged up. He’d trodden on some glass, cut his foot. The infection hadn’t responded to treatment. They’d taken half his leg off, for Christ’s sake: there was nothing else they could do. It’s like we’ve gone back a hundred years.’

  I don’t know what to say. I remember those horror stories my grandmother told me. About soldiers in the First World War. How many of them died, not just in combat, but afterwards, from infected wounds and disease.

  The young girl dances her giraffe along the rail, chattering away and singing to it. Piet’s face lifts. She looks a little like that photo of his daughter: the one he carries round in his wallet. He didn’t show me it, of course. I suppose you could say I was curious.

  I curl a strand of hair round my finger. ‘Cute, isn’t she?’

  His eyes follow her along the balcony. ‘At that age, they usually are.’

  My chest tightens. No one ever said that about me.

  Piet reaches under the table and gently squeezes my hand. He leans closer. ‘I’ve missed you.’

  I study the arch of his lips; inhale his salty tang. The longing pulls at me, reeling me back in. ‘I’ve missed you too,’ I whisper, as my fingers curl over his palm.

  All of a sudden there’s a scream. I’m out of my chair without even registering what’s happened. It’s the girl: she’s somehow managed to heave herself up onto the rail and is dangling towards the electric perimeter fence, her little legs kicking out furiously behind. I lunge forward, seize her under the arms and yank her back onto the balcony.

  Tears bubble from her blue doll eyes. She’s trying to tell me something but her words are strangled by sobs. ‘It’s OK,’ I say, as her tiny body presses against me. ‘Ssh. I’ve got you now.’

  ‘Jesus, Susie!’ A woman dashes over and snatches her up, eyes wide with fright. ‘How many times have I told you to stay away from the edge?’

  The little girl points at the fence and wails, her face all blotchy and red. The woman clutches her to her chest, kissing her hair. ‘There, there,’ she whispers, rocking the child gently. ‘It’s OK, baby. You’re safe.’ She takes a long slow breath and mouths at me: ‘Thank you.’

  I nod. Her daughter doesn’t stop crying.

  A cluster of staff appear on the balcony and start talking to Piet; there seems to be a lot of gesticulating. It’s only when I join him by the railing that I realise why. Piet points at something lying in the dirt on the other side. The amber eyes of a small, furry giraffe peer up at me.

  ‘Ah. So that’s it,’ I say.

  ‘Yeah. I think she might have been attempting her own rescue operation.’

  I smile and shake my head. ‘All in the name of love.’

  One of the waiters fetches a rake. Piet slings it over the rail, inches from the fence.

  ‘Careful.’ I frown at the electric wire, which is buzzing slightly. ‘I wouldn’t want such a long journey to go to waste.’

  Piet grins and deftly hooks the toy with the rake. As he hoists it up, the giraffe’s neck flops sideways and it topples to the ground. He quickly scoops it up again. An African starling flits onto the emerald spike of a candelabra tree. It cocks its head and regards the levitating giraffe with one glassy eye.

  The rake reaches the top of the railing. As Piet pulls it closer, the head tilts and the animal slips off. Piet mutters something under his breath. I think of that arcade game, with t
he soft toys and the claw. The odds aren’t good.

  On his next attempt, Piet has to lean right over the rails to reach it. I grip the back of my chair. I’m beginning to hope that damned toy plummets over the edge.

  ‘Gerry!’ The little girl breaks free from her mother and races over just as the giraffe falls a third time. By now the entire restaurant is watching.

  Piet adjusts his grip on the handle and spears the animal with two of the rake’s teeth. The girl sucks in her breath but doesn’t protest. He flips the rake, cradling the toy in its head, and, in one swift movement, swings it over the rail. The onlookers burst into applause.

  Piet squats down in front of her and eases the giraffe off the prongs. ‘Look who’s back from his big adventure.’

  She eyes Piet for a second and grabs the toy. She squeezes it into her chest. ‘Naughty Gerry!’ she scolds, with a wag of her finger. ‘I told you not to play on the rails.’

  After much thanking and hugging we eventually return to our table. Our coffees have gone cold so they bring us some more. I smile at Piet and clench my hands together in mock-adulation. ‘My hero!’

  Piet rolls his eyes. ‘I hooked a stuffed animal. It was you who saved the girl.’ He takes a sip. ‘That was impressive, you know. It’s like you acted on instinct. A mother’s instinct.’

  I pick at my shorts. ‘Oh, I wouldn’t go that far.’ My smile hardens. ‘Not if my own mother’s instinct is anything to go by.’

  Piet puts down his cup. ‘Listen to me, Mary.’ He takes my face in his hands. ‘We may be the product of our parents, but we are not bound by the same thread of their mistakes.’ He gazes at me. ‘You’ll make an excellent mother.’

  The blood rushes to my cheeks. Don’t be absurd, I think. In what dimension of reality would that ever happen?

  But then I meet his gaze and, just for a second, dare to imagine. A soft-skinned baby, jiggling on my knee.

  Golden curls.

  Pudgy toes.

  Saucer eyes. The colour of a monsoon sky. Before the rain falls.

  Something inside me unfurls, like a flower.

  I smile. ‘Maybe.’

  CHAPTER 24

  KATE

  ‘Tell me again: exactly what did that tracer guy say?’ Mark sucks in his cheeks, eyes riveted to the article. As if, unobserved, the words might explode.

  I slump deeper into the cushions. I’ve just put in a ten-hour shift. ‘It’s definitely her: the Brotanol woman.’ My voice is brittle; it could crack any moment. ‘At least now I understand why that terrier at the alumni office chewed my ears off.’

  Mark frowns. ‘But how does he know? For certain?’

  My fingers peck at a loose thread on the sofa. ‘Oh, he found some insurance records or something. Matched up her NR number.’

  Mark’s eyes widen. ‘Is that even legal?’

  ‘I didn’t ask. I’ve moved to a need-to-know basis. And right now, I need to know who she is. Or was.’

  The familiar crease creeps into his cheek: it always betrays him. He gets up and starts to pace. ‘Jesus, Kate. This is a lot to take in. I mean, that drug poisoned people. A lot of people. Many of them children…’

  I feel an uncomfortable tightening in my chest. ‘I know. No wonder she didn’t want any contact.’

  I remember the day this leaked. Who could forget those terrible pictures? They had to put the directors under police protection.

  Hundreds Alleged To Have Died in South Africa after Being Given TB ‘Miracle Cure’…

  Shocking as this discovery is, a small part of me is reassured. It might explain why she shut me out.

  Mark sighs. ‘Wasn’t she the scientist who was supposed to have discovered it? That plant?’

  I expel a long, slow breath. ‘That’s what the investigation said.’

  He shakes his head. ‘Imagine working with Piet Bekker. That must have taken some guts, to testify against him.’

  I stare at the grainy black-and-white photo that Harry sent me from the news archive. The picture’s been enlarged and the quality isn’t great, but I can still make out her features. She has what Pen would have called an intelligent face: aquiline nose, strong cheekbones, high forehead. I can’t tell what colour her eyes are, though. They’re fixed on Bekker as he is led up the steps.

  Mark halts at the sideboard. ‘They reckoned he was in with the top guys at EAA. That he helped mastermind the attacks.’

  ‘So they claimed.’

  He fixes me with a stare. ‘So, what’s your take on it?’

  I bide my time before answering. For some reason, I’m wary. I’m never wary, in front of Mark.

  ‘Well, I guess Janet was right. This birth-mother business is complicated.’ My eyes veer back to the photo, as if it possesses some kind of magnetic charge. ‘You really might not like what you find.’

  His face softens. ‘Kate, are you sure you want to carry on with all of this?’

  Well, you’ve changed your tune, I think, but I know that’s below the belt.

  ‘No one will judge you if you don’t.’

  I bite my lip. ‘I kind of feel I have to, now I’ve started … even though it scares the shit out of me.’

  Mark nods in that slow, thoughtful way that’s a sure sign he disagrees but knows better than to tackle it head on.

  ‘It’s easy to jump to conclusions,’ I say. ‘But it was chaos back then; the pandemic was reaching its height. Who knows what kinds of pressures were brought to bear? I mean, how many other drugs were fast-tracked and failed that we don’t even know about? Maybe they were just the ones that got caught.’

  The obstinate child in me wants to convince him, even though I’m barely convinced myself. ‘And it’s still not clear what her role was in all this. She may not even have known about those other trials.’ I notice Mary’s hands. They’re clenched so tightly around her bag that I can see the whites of her knuckles.

  Mark looks at his feet. I can guess what he’s thinking. I’ve only known this woman’s my mother for a couple of days and already I’m leaping to her defence. But, like so many of our spats, I’m compelled to keep fighting my corner long after I’ve realised he’s right.

  ‘Pharmaplanta folded, didn’t it?’ He wisely moves the conversation on. ‘Was that before his court case or after?’

  ‘After. But I conducted a little research of my own. It went into receivership and was scooped up by one of the big guys. They stripped all the assets and closed it down.’ I give him a sideways glance. ‘Guess who the raiders were.’

  Mark rubs his forehead. ‘Go on.’

  ‘The very same company that developed Rackinol.’

  Mark’s mouth falls open. ‘You’re kidding?’

  ‘Nope. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?’

  Rackinol: the wonder drug, the first new class of antibiotic in over thirty years. It only took a few months for some strains to develop resistance. But at least it actually worked.

  Mark slumps down next to me. ‘So then. What’s the plan of attack?’

  ‘Well, rather unhelpfully, Mary’s dropped off the radar. All the usual avenues have drawn blanks.’ I sigh. ‘So Harry’s got two theories. She spent a good chunk of time in Africa. If she died overseas, the death may not have been registered here. She was still in the UK when they closed the borders. But some people with connections still managed to get out.’

  Mark frowns. ‘Surely customs would know whether she left the country or not? If he can hack into her insurance records I imagine immigration is a walk in the park.’

  I take a breath. ‘Not necessarily. Harry’s contacting the embassies in the countries she used to visit.’ Mark’s frown deepens. ‘I know it’s a long shot. But Harry’s prepared to give it a try.’

  Mark snorts. ‘I’ll bet he is.’ His voice drops to a mutter. ‘As long as the meter keeps running.’

  I stand up and walk over to the window. I’m beginning to understand why I felt wary.

  He clears his throat. ‘So – what’s the other
theory?’

  I turn to him. The sticky legs of impatience are crawling all over me. ‘She may have changed her name.’

  Two pink circles appear on Mark’s cheeks. As if they’re embarrassed on my behalf.

  I clasp my arms. ‘Imagine the shit she must have got! All those patients’ relatives and friends. Not to mention the press. They turned those guys into pariahs, and who can blame them? Maybe she wanted a fresh start. I mean, look at what happened with the alumni office, twenty years on. People still must be prowling around.’

  Mark’s tongue probes the back of his mouth as if he’s trying to dislodge something from behind a molar. ‘OK … but if she’s still in the country, what’s the problem? It must be on record somewhere.’

  ‘Jesus, Mark! Because if you change your name by deed poll, it doesn’t have to be registered anywhere, OK? It’s like searching for a fucking needle in a haystack!’

  Mark looks as if I’ve just slapped him. A distant burst of laughter echoes outside.

  I run my hands over my face. ‘Sorry. I’m just a bit … This is difficult for me too, you know? It’s been a very long day.’

  He blinks. The confusion in his eyes makes me think of Sasha and my heart twists. ‘I’m just trying to get my head around it, that’s all, Kate.’

  I sink down next to him. ‘Sorry. I know. Believe me, so am I.’

  I decide to navigate to safer ground. ‘According to the records, she never married. Not under her birth name, anyway.’ I glance at Mark. ‘And she didn’t have any more children.’

  When Harry first told me this, I was glad that she wasn’t the matriarch of some new family. Glad that I was the only one. But I feel differently now. Part of me yearns for a brother or sister. Someone I could share this with.

  ‘A career lady, then?’ ventures Mark.

  ‘Until it all went belly-up, yes.’ I think of the other photo. I’m suddenly not so sure I want to show him. But if I start with secrets now, who knows where it might end?

  ‘Come and look at this.’ I sit down at the computer. Mark peers over my shoulder as I load the file. Rows of men and women in evening dress gaze back at us from the screen. ‘Check out the third row from the front.’