Cutting for Stone - Abraham Verghese [67]
“Hema, Hema, what have you done,” he muttered to himself, convinced that the worst had happened and Hema had returned married. Why else would Almaz stay so late except to tell him this? She and the whole world knew how he felt about Hema. The only person who didn't know was Hema.
The ghostly figure ran over to the passenger side, opened the door, and climbed in. Bowing her head and in the most formal tone and without meeting his eyes, she said, “I am sorry to bring you bad news.”
“It's Hema, isn't it?”
“Hema? No. It is Sister Mary Joseph Praise.”
“Sister? What happened to Sister?”
“She is with the Lord, may He bless her soul.”
“What?”
“Lord help us all, but she is dead.” Almaz was sobbing now. “She died giving birth to twins. Dr. Hema arrived but could not save her. Dr. Hema saved the twins.”
Ghosh stopped hearing after her first mention of Sister and death. He had to have her repeat what she said, and then repeat again everything that she knew, but each time it came down to Sister being dead. And something about twins.
“And now we can't find Dr. Stone,” she said at last. “He is gone. We must find him. Matron says we must.”
“Why?” Ghosh managed to ask when he found his tongue, but even as he said that he knew why. He shared with Stone the bond of being the only male physicians at Missing. Ghosh knew Stone as well as anyone could know Stone, except, perhaps, Sister Mary Joseph Praise.
“Why? Because he is suffering the most,” Almaz said. “That is what Matron says. We must find him before he does something stupid.”
It's a bit too late for that, Ghosh thought.
CHAPTER 12
Land's End
THE MORNING AFTER the births and the death, Matron Hirst came to her office very early as if it were any other day Shed slept but a few hours. She and Ghosh had driven around, hunting for Thomas Stone late into the night. Stone's maid, Rosina, had kept a vigil in his quarters, but there had been no sign of him.
Matron pushed away the papers stacked on her desk. Through her window she could see patients lined up in the outpatient department, or rather she could see their colorful umbrellas. People believed the sun exacerbated all illnesses, so there were as many umbrellas as there were patients. She picked up the phone. “Adam?” she said, when the compounder came on the line. “Please send word to Gebrew to close the gate. Send patients to the Russian hospital.” Her Amharic, though accented, was exceedingly good. “And Adam, please deal with the patients who are already in the outpatient department as best you can. I'll be asking the nurses to make rounds on their wards and to manage. Let the probationers know that all nursing classes are canceled.”
Thank God for Adam, Matron thought. His education had stopped at the third grade, which was a shame, because Adam could have easily been a doctor. Not only was he adept at preparing the fifteen stock mixtures, ointments, and compounds which Missing provided to outpatients, he also had uncanny clinical sense. With his one good eye (the other milky white from a childhood infection) he could spot the seriously ill among the many who came clutching the teal-blue graduated Missing medicine bottles, ready to have them refilled. It was a sad fact that the commonest complaint in the outpatient department was “Rasehn … libehn … hodehn,” literally, “My head … my heart … and my stomach,” with the patient's hand touching each part as she pronounced the words. Ghosh called it the RLH syndrome. The RLH sufferers were often young women or the elderly. If pressed to be more specific, the patients might offer that their heads were spinning (jasehn yazoregnal) or burning (yakatelegnal), or their hearts were tired