AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“And many come on foot?”
“They’ll take buses as far as they can, but if buses aren’t running, they walk, crossing the flooding rivers on foot, too, with their babies on their backs. And mind you, this is Africa. Those rivers are filled with crocodiles.” She’s smiling, but I see she’s extremely worried.
“What would it take to get the mission under way? How many staff members are you short?”
“The doctors here— O’Sullivan, Kapoor, Danovich, and Voskul— and then there are five ER nurses still stranded in Lilongwe, Malawi. The nurses flew there instead of Lusaka as it’s a shorter bus trip from there, but no buses are running to Katete, not with the flooded roads.” She pauses to consider logistics and then nods firmly. “Once those nine arrive, we could probably begin, as medicine, supplies, and surgical equipment arrived weeks ago.”
I wish I could do something. I feel compelled to do something, and then I realize I can. I have a pilot, and he has a plane. Instead of taking Howard and me to the Falls, I can have Chance flying Michael and the other surgeons to Katete and then, if possible, zipping to Lilongwe to grab the nurses. If the weather breaks today… if the weather holds for the day…
“Maybe I can help,” I say, and tell her that I have access to a pilot and a plane.
Meg listens intently. “I can’t tell you how much I love your generosity. But would your pilot fly into Katete? The commercial pilots we’ve talked to say the airstrip is in too poor a condition and they won’t risk their aircraft.”
I think about Chance and his swagger. He should be up for a challenge. “I guess the only way we’ll know is if I ask.”
It’s a go.
I have to cajole Chance a bit and offer him a bonus, but he promises to fly everyone there the moment the weather breaks, and it breaks that afternoon.
Now the doctors and Meg are filing into Chance’s car.
“Have a great trip,” I tell Meg as she climbs into the car.
“We’ll see you day after tomorrow?”
“As soon as Chance can get us there.” I smile. “You’ve got my number. Call me if you need anything. Otherwise we’ll see you at the end of the week.”
She climbs in, leaving just Michael on the curb with me. He’s wearing a black T-shirt and olive green cargo-style pants and looking very rugged and very male. It’s a good look on him. Maybe even better than the expensive Italian suits.
“Look who saved the day,” he says, gazing down on me. “Major brownie points, Tomlinson.”
“Thanks, Doc. That means a lot coming from you.”
He grins, white teeth flashing. “Do I detect a note of sarcasm?”
“Just a bit.”
His expression sobers. “All kidding aside, we appreciate this, Tiana. You’ve done a good thing.”
I flush, uncomfortable. I didn’t do this to curry favor. I really did just want to help. “Get in the car, Hollywood, it’s time to go.”
Chance lays on the horn.
“I’ll see you in Katete,” Michael says, shouldering his duffel bag. “I’ll look forward to your arrival. We do have some unfinished business.”
And then he’s in the car and the door is shut and Chance is pulling away. I stand at the curb and watch them go. I’m excited they’re on their way, yet I feel this strange emptiness now that Michael’s gone.
This has to stop, I think. I don’t like Michael. I don’t.
Or do I?
Howard and I spend the next morning with Jean from the PSI office, visiting the children’s ward of the local hospital. Michael’s friend Dr. Paul Zarazoga takes us on the rounds. The beds are filled with very young children, their mothers sitting on the floor since there aren’t enough chairs. Despite the ceiling fans spinning, it’s stiflingly hot. The large plain ward looks more like an army barracks than a hospital. In one bed at the far end of the room, a mother lies across a small blanket-covered body, weeping.
“Her five-year-old,” Paul tells us. “It’s her third child she’s lost.”
“HIV?” I ask, horrified.
“Diarrhea.”
I stop abruptly, and Jean, who sees my horror, nods. “Twenty percent of children in Zambia die before they’re five. Most die from malaria and contaminated water.”
And both are preventable.
I gesture around the ward. Dozens of little bodies are dying in front of me. “Is that why they’re all here? They don’t have the medicine and clean water they need?”
“Pretty shocking, isn’t it?” Paul agrees.
I swallow hard. My stomach is doing mad flip-flops. What I feel is inarticulate. It’s beyond sad. It’s revulsion. People are dying. Children are dying. And they could all be saved.
“The oral rehydration products… are they expensive?” I ask unsteadily.
“No. But we need the private sector— companies and people like you and me— to reach out. People think they can’t do anything, that it’s too much, but they aren’t here. They don’t see the difference one water purification kit or one mosquito net makes.”
“One net can make that much of a difference?”
Paul explains, “Mothers sleep with their children, couples sleep together, sometimes grandparents sleep with grandchildren, so you can see how one net can save many lives.”
“One net,” I repeat.
Jean presses one hand into the other. “But it takes outreach and education to teach people how the nets help, and what they need to do. The same is true for water and reproductive health. Nothing’s impossible. Not if we work together.”
We just need to work together.
Just imagine what we could do with our love.
The night is stormy, and the sky explodes white with electric forks of lightning. Thunder booms and rolls as I sit on my bed, writing in my journal.
The thunder grows louder and closer, rattling the windows. One violent boom follows another. And then everything is black. Power outage. I’d heard it was common during the rainy season, but it hadn’t happened yet. Fortunately, this is a four-star hotel, and the hotel should have a generator.
Within thirty seconds there’s a blip and the lamp next to my bed fills the room with light again.
Power on.
I set aside my notebook and pen and leave my bed to go to the window and look out at the city, which normally is bright with streetlamps and traffic lights and buildings. There are no lights in Lusaka now. The city outside my window is almost pitch black, and the rain slashes down in relentless sheets. Thunder booms, and booms again. The thunder sounds so close.
Back at my bed, I pick up the hotel phone and call the front desk. “Yes, Miss Tomlinson?” the front desk answers.
“How long does the power outage last?”
“We have our own generator,” he says proudly.
“I know, and that’s very good, but for the rest of the city, for those who don’t? How long will the power be out?”
“Could be an hour, could be all night,” he continues cheerfully. “Our power comes from South Africa, and sometimes they shut it off.”
“So the whole country is dark?”
“Yes.”
“And the South African power company shuts it off, or the storm cuts it off?”
“Yes,” he agrees happily. “Anything else I can help you with, Miss Tomlinson?”
He doesn’t understand, and I don’t have the energy to make him understand. “No, thank you. Good night.”
“Good night.”
Sunday morning, Howard and I are having breakfast when my international phone rings. It’s Chance, calling from Katete to say he’s on his way for us now. We’re to meet him in two hours at the Lusaka airport, where he’ll land and refuel. Then we’ll take off immediately.
We do, too, and within forty minutes after taking off from Lusaka, we’re flying low over the lush river valley, just three hundred feet above the ground. We can see the path of the dark blue Luangwa River and its tributaries and lakes. Then suddenly Chance is diving lower. He
points to a herd of elephants crossing the river. There are at least three babies in the herd and two bull elephants.
They’re huge and beautiful and mythic, and I can’t believe I’m here, in a little Cessna, doing this. Just two weeks ago I was in Los Angeles, wondering if my career was over, but now I can feel my energy recharging. I feel new again.
