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I check the screen. Sylvia. Carly must be running late, as usual. I flip the button to answer and am met by a noise so foreign and bizarre that my mind refuses to place it. I sit up, every muscle going tense.
“Sylvia?”
A series of incoherent words mixed with hysterical sobs follow. I move Valentina’s feet aside and stand, my only awareness the acute pain that shoots into my hip and the numbness that settles over my heart.
“Sylvia, take a deep breath and tell me what’s wrong.”
Her sobs become more distant. There’s a scratching noise before another voice comes on the line.
“Mr. Louw?”
“Who are you? What’s going on?”
“I’m a paramedic, sir. Mrs. Louw is not in a state to speak, right now. We have to ask you to come to the Garden Clinic.”
“What happened? Who’s hurt?”
“It’s your daughter, sir.” There’s a short, horrifying pause, and then the words I can’t face. “I’m terribly sorry.”
10
Gabriel
My chest shrinks. My ribs constrict my heart. Static noise buzzes in my head.
My little girl. My little girl.
“Gabriel?”
Valentina’s voice reaches me through the ringing in my ears. The sound is far-off and distorted.
Only thirty-seven years of experience allows me to put one cognitive thought in front of another. Tell Quincy to stay with Valentina. Get the car. Drive to the clinic. Call Magda on the way.
“Gabriel?”
I turn to my pregnant wife, seeing nothing but her belly and our unborn baby. “It’s Carly,” I say on autopilot. “She’s in hospital.”
“What happened?” she asks in a small voice.
“I don’t know.” But I do. Please, no. No. Dear God. I can’t survive it. There’s still hope.
She pulls a wrap around her body. “I’ll come with you.”
“No.”
The word is harsh and angry. It wasn’t my intention, but I can’t control my intonation. I need space. I need to break down in the car so I can be strong before I get to the clinic. Sylvia won’t want Valentina there, and I don’t have enough presence of mind to deal with what awaits and protect Valentina. Most of all, I don’t want to expose Valentina to a hospital with germs and a stressful situation in her fragile state.
Hurt invades her eyes, but she quickly clears it. “All right. Let me know, please. Let me know if you need me. Anything.”
Drops of water splash over the side of the pool where Charlie is swimming. The white smell of chlorine fills my nostrils. The lazy buzz of a bee turns at my ear. Oscar licks his paw and washes his face. A breeze stirs the lavender in the hothouse at the edge of the pool and carries the scent through to the deck. The clean flower fragrance is infused with the fresh odor of a mowed lawn. The smells mix with the chlorine from the water to create a summer perfume right in the middle of winter. Our little artificial paradise. Every detail is magnified. Every impression is clear and clutter-free. It’s the adrenalin from the shock. I take everything in and imprint it in my mind, instinctively knowing things will never be the same. Life will never be as carefree and happy as it was this morning.
I give Valentina a peck on the lips. “Lock the door behind me.”
In the lounge, I grab my shirt and pants from the back of the sofa. Stripping from the wet swimming trunks, I leave them in a mangled puddle on the floor and pull the pants on without jocks. While I button up my shirt, I call Quincy on the phone. I’m not wasting time walking to his room.
“I’m going out.” I grab my wallet and jacket from the kitchen. “Keep an eye on Valentina and Charlie. They’re by the pool.”
Once I clear the gates, I floor the gas, breaking every speed limit and pissing off more than one minivan taxi. It’s only a matter of minutes before I turn myself into a road rage victim.
I use the voice control to call Magda.
“I’m on my way,” she says. “Sylvia’s boyfriend called me.”
The parking lot at the clinic is thankfully empty. I curse my leg as I run too slowly to the entrance and barge through the doors.
“Carly Louw,” I announce at the front desk.
The receptionist avoids my eyes. “Lounge number six, sir.”
“It’s Louw,” I repeat. “My daughter has been admitted.” She’ll be in the emergency wing, in an operating room, or in intensive care. Not the lounge. Please God. Not the lounge.
“The others are waiting for you, sir. Lounge six.”
Not the lounge. Not the lounge.
“Sir?”
“Yes.” I turn toward the private rooms, every step slower than the last.
Not the lounge.
My palm flattens on the door, right under the six. Once I push the door open, I can never go back. Once I cross the threshold, my life will never be the same. But the world turns under my feet and around me, and there’s no choice but to move forward with time. I apply the necessary pressure, propelling myself into the room.
