Cutting for Stone - Abraham Verghese [83]
“What will you do?” Harris asked, but then he realized he knew the answer.
Matron smiled, her eyes almost disappearing as her cheeks pushed up, giving her a childlike quality. “That's right, Mr. Harris. I pray. Then I take it out of the building fund or whatever fund has money. The Lord knows my predicament, or so I tell myself. He must approve the transfer. What we are fighting isn't godlessness—this is the most godly country on earth. We aren't even fighting disease. It's poverty. Money for food, medicines … that helps. When we cannot cure or save a life, our patients can at least feel cared for. It should be a basic human right.”
Harris's anxiety about the steering committee had all but gone.
“I'll confess, Mr. Harris, that as I get older, my prayers aren't about forgiveness. My prayers are for money to do His work.” She reached out for his hand and held it in both of hers, patting it. “Do you know, dear man, that in my darkest moments, you have so often been the answer to my prayers?”
Matron felt she had said enough. It was a gamble. She had nothing to put on the table but the truth.
CHAPTER 15
Crookedness of
the Serpent
THE NEWBORNS SEEMED UNREAL to Ghosh, all noses and wrinkles, as if they'd been planted in Hema's house, a lab experiment gone awry. Ghosh tried to make appropriate noises and act interested, but he found himself resenting the attention they were getting.
It was five days since Sister Mary Joseph Praise's death. He had stopped by Hema's house in the early evening before setting out to look for Stone. He'd found his Almaz there, very much at home, immersed in the task of caring for the babies, barely registering his presence. The last few days, he had been forced to make his own coffee and heat his own bathwater. Matron, Sister Asqual, Rosina, and several nursing students were there, too, fussing over the newborns. Rosina, with nothing to occupy her now that Thomas Stone was gone, had also moved over to Hema's. No one noticed when he left Hema's bungalow.
He drove first to the Ghion and the Ras hotels, then to the police headquarters where he sought out a sergeant he knew. The man had no news for him. He drove through the Piazza from one end to the other, and then, after a beer at St. George's, decided it was time to go home. His plans to leave had solidified. He had an airline ticket to Rome, then on to Chicago, leaving in four weeks. By that time, perhaps things at Missing would have settled. He couldn't see himself staying on, not now, not with Stone gone and Sister dead. But he had yet to find the courage to tell Matron or Almaz—or Hema.
It was dark when he pulled into his carport. He saw Almaz squatting by the back wall, wrapped against the cold so only her eyes showed. She was waiting for him just as she had the night Sister Mary Joseph Praise had died.
“Oh God. What now?”
She came to the passenger door, yanked it open, and climbed in. “Is it Stone?” he said. “What happened?”
“Where have you been? No, it's not Stone. One of the babies stopped breathing. Let's go to Dr. Hema's bungalow.”
THE BLUE NIGHT-LIGHT made Hema's bedroom seem surreal, like a set for a movie. Hema was in a nightdress, her hair loose and flowing over her shoulders. He found it difficult to look away.
The two newborns were on the bed, their chests rising and falling evenly, eyes closed, and their faces peaceful.
Turning back to Hema, he saw she was trembling, her lips quivering. He put his hands out, palms up, asking what had happened. By way of an answer, she flew into his arms.
He held her.
In the years he had known her, he'd seen her happy, angry, sad, and even depressed but, underneath, always feisty. He had never seen her fearful; it was as if she'd become some other person.
He tried to lead her outside of the room, his arm still around her shoulder, but she resisted. “No,” she whispered. “We can't leave.”
“What's going on?”
“I happened to be looking at them just after I put them to bed. I saw Marion breathing