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Come see me. You failed your cell biology test.
My hand trembles as I leave the phone on the counter, reading the text over and over. The repercussions are enormous. The test scores are taken into consideration at the end of the year. If I fail one subject, my partial bursary will be revoked. I’d have to drop out. Devastation crashes over me. I want to remain positive, but the realistic side of me brings my mind to a standstill to evaluate the facts and face the truth.
I’m not going to make it.
There’s a terrible finality in the notion. It’s as if an anchor has been cut from my life, and now that I’m no longer grounded to a dream, I’m floating meaninglessly in a life which only purpose is to keep Charlie alive. Swatting at the moisture building in my eyes, I try to let my pride keep me strong. I won’t cry over this, but my heart is not on par with my mind. Fresh tears blur my vision as I switch the saw back on and start feeding the meat through the blades. I work on autopilot, letting the rhythm of my hands and the noise of the machine dull me to a state of unfeeling, automated movements. It liberates my mind to think. Not making my dream come true will hurt my heart, but failing my brother will destroy me, so I make peace with giving up the dream.
The very moment I make the decision, a hot sensation explodes in my right hand and travels up my arm. I look at the slicer and the meat I clutch in my hands, but I don’t make immediate sense of the scene. My brain registers the blood squirting from my thumb long before it does the pain.
13
Valentina
The first digit of my thumb is gone. I cut it just above the metacarpal bone. My mind switches down, and my body goes into automatic functioning mode. I open the cold-water tap and hold my hand under the stream. Water-diluted blood swirls down the drain. The first thing in reach is a clean drying cloth. I turn off the tap and wrap the cloth tightly around my hand to stop the bleeding. I switch off the slicer by the wall and, careful of the blades, go through the reservoir until I find my severed thumb. I feel sick and dizzy, like I’m about to vomit and pass out, but adrenalin keeps me going. After putting the top of my thumb in the mini icebox, I retrieve an icepack from the freezer for my right hand. I grab my purse with my identity card and walk through the house, looking for someone, but only Carly is in her room.
“My dad’s out,” she says without looking up from her book.
I can’t afford an ambulance, and I don’t have medical insurance. Private insurance costs a fortune in this country. I’ll take my chances with the public hospital, but I need a ride.
I go out the front and find Rhett by the door. “I need a lift to the hospital. Can you please drive me?”
He takes one look at the bloodstained cloth around my hand, and takes the car keys from his pocket. He opens the door for me and helps me into the Mercedes.
“Joburg Gen is the nearest,” I say.
He nods and steers the car down the road with a speed that will most likely get us killed before we arrive at the hospital. On the way, he dials Gabriel on voice commands via the hands-free kit and is directed to his voicemail.
“It’s Rhett. I’m driving Valentina to the Joburg Gen. She…” He looks at me.
“Cut my finger,” I fill in for him.
“I’ll keep you posted.” He disconnects and dials another number to instruct a guard to take up his post by the Louw residence front door.
When he hangs up, he shoots me a sidelong glance. “You okay?”
“Yes.” As if on cue, the pain intensifies. I lean back and purse my lips. My hand is throbbing like a giant heart.
The emergency entrance drive is blocked with vehicles, so we go to the underground parking. The state of the place comes as a shock. Garbage litters the surface up to my ankles. We take the lift to the emergency floor, and when we exit, I’m halted by the rows of people sitting on the floor in the hallway, all looking ten times worse than me. Some of them have gaping wounds, and others have invisible ailments that seem no less fatal judging by the lifeless shine of their eyes. The corridor stinks of vomit and urine. I haven’t seen the inside of a hospital since the age of ten when I fell and needed stitches on my head. This makes me never want to come back. We walk past a man with a fracture, the bone sticking through his skin. Another one has a gush in his arm so deep, I can see the tendons. The woman next to him has a broken beer bottle still lodged in her cheek. Violence screams at us as far as we go.
