Read Online Love in the Driest Season by Neely Tucker - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Neely Tucker
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high clamor when Vita walked in, with children crawling on playmates or eating or being changed or crying in their cribs. The second crib on the right was still. Vita looked down to see Chipo wriggling silently. She was struggling to breathe. Vita pulled open the child’s clothes and was stunned to see Chipo’s heart ricocheting off her chest, each beat etching a sharp tattoo against her rib cage. She could scarcely open her eyes, the lids puffy and discolored. Her diaper was filled with diarrhea. It appeared no one had touched her since the previous evening.
Vita didn’t hesitate. She picked up the soiled infant, rushed out of the ward, turned into another short hallway, and barged into Stella’s office. “I’m taking her to the hospital,” she said. Stella looked up, startled. She stood up, looked Chipo over, and quickly agreed with Vita’s decision. Protocol was for a worker to take the sick child to the hospital in the orphanage’s van or to have the hospital send an ambulance. Vita had no legal authority to admit the child to a hospital. But the situation was critical, and Stella gave Vita directions to the public ward of Harare Hospital.
Vita got back in the waiting cab and ignored that. She told the driver to rush to the Trauma Center, a privately run, cash-only clinic that offered the country’s best medical care. They pulled up to the emergency entrance in a screech. The gatekeeper peered inside, saw a black woman with a child, and refused to open the gate.
Vita responded with a Motown flair for the direct. “My baby is sick!” she shouted, coming halfway out of the car. “Now open this gate before I beat your behind into the asphalt!”
Startled, the man did.
Inside, the doctor on call took Chipo from Vita and placed her on an examining table. Chipo was in a frenzy by now, screaming and shaking her arms and legs. The doctor looked at Vita, slowly shaking his head.
“It’s her heart,” he said.
He gave her an injection to calm her, then transferred her to the Avenues Clinic, the town’s premier hospital. He scribbled a note that she was to be taken to one of the only pediatric cardiologists in the country, Isidore Pazvakavambwa.
When Dr. Pazvakavambwa touched Chipo, she screamed as if her skin were on fire. Vita was so upset that nurses had to lead her from the room. She sat in the gloomy hallway until Dr. Paz, as Vita began calling him, appeared. He was an albino, his pale face almost hidden beneath a large safari hat and thick glasses. When he learned Vita was not the child’s birth mother, he was touched by her devotion, for his own youth as a social oddity had taught him something about the fate of left-behind or ostracized children.
He asked for Chipo’s history. Vita relayed the tale of her birth and hospitalizations. He said the child had been born prematurely, perhaps by as much as a month. Her vital organs were very weak, especially her heart. She also had pneumonia and bronchitis. “If she makes it through tonight, the immediate danger will be past,” he said. “But that is only a chance. She is a very sick child.”
Vita rushed to buy diapers, bottles, clothes, and formula—the hospital did not provide any—and settled in for the vigil. Chipo had been placed in an outdated oxygen tent, actually a clear plastic shell that fit over her head. She was so small that it could have covered her entire body. There were two other children in the four-bed ward, with equally concerned mothers. They regarded Vita with glares. Her clothes, the goods she had bought Chipo, and her direct manner in talking with the doctors and nurses were conspicuously Western and upscale. She didn’t need to be told she was resented. It was the first time in her life that she didn’t feel like an African American. The looks she got made it clear: She was an American, period.
The women turned inward then, and each settled in for the long hours ahead. There was little Vita could do but tap on the plastic
Vita didn’t hesitate. She picked up the soiled infant, rushed out of the ward, turned into another short hallway, and barged into Stella’s office. “I’m taking her to the hospital,” she said. Stella looked up, startled. She stood up, looked Chipo over, and quickly agreed with Vita’s decision. Protocol was for a worker to take the sick child to the hospital in the orphanage’s van or to have the hospital send an ambulance. Vita had no legal authority to admit the child to a hospital. But the situation was critical, and Stella gave Vita directions to the public ward of Harare Hospital.
Vita got back in the waiting cab and ignored that. She told the driver to rush to the Trauma Center, a privately run, cash-only clinic that offered the country’s best medical care. They pulled up to the emergency entrance in a screech. The gatekeeper peered inside, saw a black woman with a child, and refused to open the gate.
Vita responded with a Motown flair for the direct. “My baby is sick!” she shouted, coming halfway out of the car. “Now open this gate before I beat your behind into the asphalt!”
Startled, the man did.
Inside, the doctor on call took Chipo from Vita and placed her on an examining table. Chipo was in a frenzy by now, screaming and shaking her arms and legs. The doctor looked at Vita, slowly shaking his head.
“It’s her heart,” he said.
He gave her an injection to calm her, then transferred her to the Avenues Clinic, the town’s premier hospital. He scribbled a note that she was to be taken to one of the only pediatric cardiologists in the country, Isidore Pazvakavambwa.
When Dr. Pazvakavambwa touched Chipo, she screamed as if her skin were on fire. Vita was so upset that nurses had to lead her from the room. She sat in the gloomy hallway until Dr. Paz, as Vita began calling him, appeared. He was an albino, his pale face almost hidden beneath a large safari hat and thick glasses. When he learned Vita was not the child’s birth mother, he was touched by her devotion, for his own youth as a social oddity had taught him something about the fate of left-behind or ostracized children.
He asked for Chipo’s history. Vita relayed the tale of her birth and hospitalizations. He said the child had been born prematurely, perhaps by as much as a month. Her vital organs were very weak, especially her heart. She also had pneumonia and bronchitis. “If she makes it through tonight, the immediate danger will be past,” he said. “But that is only a chance. She is a very sick child.”
Vita rushed to buy diapers, bottles, clothes, and formula—the hospital did not provide any—and settled in for the vigil. Chipo had been placed in an outdated oxygen tent, actually a clear plastic shell that fit over her head. She was so small that it could have covered her entire body. There were two other children in the four-bed ward, with equally concerned mothers. They regarded Vita with glares. Her clothes, the goods she had bought Chipo, and her direct manner in talking with the doctors and nurses were conspicuously Western and upscale. She didn’t need to be told she was resented. It was the first time in her life that she didn’t feel like an African American. The looks she got made it clear: She was an American, period.
The women turned inward then, and each settled in for the long hours ahead. There was little Vita could do but tap on the plastic
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