Читать книгу The Lazarus Effect - HJ Golakai - Страница 8

Dr Ian Fourie lingered outside the Wellness Institute and breathed deeply of the fresh morning air, enjoying a rare opportunity for introspection before his day began. He stood by his car, looking around the front entrance at the signs of progress. The place was almost finished. Almost . . . but not quite. The ongoing construction remained an eyesore, and prompted questions about the level of upheaval throughout the establishment, even though it was now thankfully confined to the back of the grounds. He couldn’t think of the WI as up and running until all the finishing touches were complete. It was unlucky to celebrate something prematurely or, worse, to overstate one’s abilities to complete a task and then fall sadly and pathetically short of it. Always that lasting stain of my pessimistic mother, he chided himself.

As if to taunt him, the wind picked up. Dust rose into the air and the protective plastic sheeting billowed above his head. Ian stepped back and coughed, flicking dust off his coat. He glanced up at the concrete ledge above the double doors and saw that the main entrance signage was finally being erected. The temporary wooden support of the individual lettering groaned and bowed in the wind, letting more crumbling material drift to the ground.

“What the –” He peered closer and blinked, lost for words. Not only were they courting a lawsuit if a plank got loose and brained a prospective client on their way in, but they were also vying to be prime laughing stock. Only some of the letters had been placed from both ends of the roof’s lip, and there were unsightly gaps in the spelling.

Ian spun around, looking to spot any of the builders who were always wandering around the premises. Spotting a cluster sitting under a nearby jacaranda in the parking lot, he strode over without bothering to close his car door.

“Who’s in charge here? You? Okay, come with me, please . . . yes, you, come with me.” He drew the puzzled team leader over to the entrance and pointed an accusing finger upward. “Do you see that? Are you and those men responsible for erecting this sign?”

“Ja, sure.” The man looked him over quizzically. “But we haven’t finished yet. We just on tea break right now.”

“Naturally. And in the meantime, when people come through here for service, is that what they’re going to see?” He jabbed his finger again. “Can you see what that reads right now?”

The workman frowned more deeply as he scanned the gappy lettering, lips struggling over the words. “We . . . ins . . . Weinst . . . Oh. Oh, hahaaa, that’s funny! It looks like ‘We in shit’ from here. Jissis, bru, you’ve got a good eye!” He gave Ian a jolly punch on the shoulder as he laughed into his tea. “Toemaar, man, ons sal dit nou klaarmaak. Dit sal lees ‘Wellness Institute’ net soos dit moet.”

“And how soon is soon?”

“No worries. Ek sê ons sal dit nou-nou klaarmaak. Why, are you the director?” He gave Ian the once-over with a suspicious eye when no response came, lingering on the cashmere coat and BMW car keys. “Don’t you speak Afrikaans?”

Ian’s fist bunched painfully over the keys as heat flooded his face. He wanted to shout that he practically ran the cardiology unit and was one of the finest specialists on the payroll, not to mention the amount of funding he generated. “Yes, I do, of course,” he answered tersely to the second question through gritted teeth. “But right now, that’s not your or my concern.”

The workman took a pointed sip from his steaming cup before looking up. “You’re right, sir. We’ll have that fixed for you in a jiffy.” He walked off without a backward glance. Back within the fold of his brethren, Ian watched him relate their encounter with much flair and gesticulation. The group of men lapped it up, looking across in grand amusement and shaking their heads.

Ian grabbed his belongings from the car, simmering with anger and embarrassment. He hadn’t meant to grandstand like an ass, but appearances mattered, something for which he’d evidently just been judged. The WI couldn’t afford to be a reminder of its predecessor, and under no circumstances was it to conjure up images of rank-smelling rooms with sparse supplies in darkest Africa, which would surely happen if construction wasn’t speeded up. A hypercritical eye was necessary to ensure nothing marred the facility’s debut. Ian’s pride overrode his irritation even as he thought about it. After all the networking and elbow-greasing, the payoff would be worth every haggard day and sleepless night.

Ian shut the door of the BMW X5, savouring the meaty sound. That was the sound of a good car, as far as he was concerned, that thick, coming-together “clunk” of expensive doors. The sound associated with cars from his childhood had been too loud and metallic, a death rattle of abused doors that lacked rubber siding in the frames to hold essentials together. Both his daughters, conscientious as they were, thought the vehicle a waste of money and murder on the environment, but he noted with a smile their distinct lack of complaints at the comfort and legroom on long trips. His son, bless his heart, couldn’t wait to be allowed to take the wheel. Geared up, Ian strode down the path and in through the automatic double doors of the main entrance.

“Good morning, Dr Fourie.”

He turned towards the deep bass voice, the best part of his day. Behind the security desk a tall, dark-skinned man in uniform was on his feet, smiling warmly. Patriotic as Ian was, he secretly believed the best service in town almost invariably came from foreigners – his wife excluded. Etienne Matongo, a Congolese getting by in a job he wouldn’t be doing in better times in his own country, always had a cheerful greeting every morning he was on duty. Matongo had remained dedicated to the establishment from its infancy to the final stages of bloom, and was now the deputy in charge of security and surveillance. He and Ian exchanged pleasantries about the weather and their families before Ian boarded the lift to the second floor. Hoping to avoid his personal assistant and the deluge of morning messages, faxes and appointments, he sneaked into his office, vainly hoping that none of the other PAs had seen him. The first moments of peace in the mornings were worth killing for.

It lasted about two minutes before the phone went. Let it ring, he thought as he leaned back in his chair, pressing thumbs into tired eyes. But knowing better, he reached over and answered. It was Tamsin from Paediatrics, who breathlessly informed him they had only two doctors available and the place was a meat market. She knew it wasn’t his responsibility, but she’d tried Doctor several times on her beeper, cell and home land line and still no answer. Could he perhaps . . . ?

Ian hung up with a sigh. Without needing to glance at the wall calendar or the smaller flip-over version on the desk, he knew the date. Obviously that was why Carina wasn’t at work yet, and why she was not intending to turn up at all. He knew which anniversary the date signified weeks before it arrived, announcing itself every year with the same dank, heavy presence that crept into his heart and home. Every member of his family became more subdued, and no one looked each other in the eye for days, not to mention the frequent inexplicable absences from home. Having slept at a nearby bed-and-breakfast the previous night, he was hardly setting the best example.

All the same, he’d expected this well-coordinated, sombre dance around the unspoken to have petered out, if not through the passage of time then at least from how exhausting it was for all involved. He was unable to suppress an image of himself at his mother’s kitchen table, wearing different clothes over the years, but with the same confused hangdog expression. The years had yawned between them, and neither had been able to submit to the grief of losing a husband and father. Food and denial became substitutes for communication. Anything could petrify into tradition if people gave it enough respect.

Ian picked up a framed photograph and felt a tightness in his chest. The smiling face of his son looked back at him, a face almost exactly like his own thirty years ago. In a green shirt splashed with a jaunty print that made him look even younger than his fourteen years, Sean grinned as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Wherever he was now, he likely had no cause for cares. Even with the barest fuzz of hair and lighting that hardly compensated for a sallow complexion, it was hard to tell he was a sick child with only months left to live.

Ian removed the frame and drew another snapshot from behind the first, peeling them apart. With the frame concealing it, no one would ever have guessed it was there, which was what he wanted. The photo showed a young girl in a T-shirt and blue jeans, framed in a doorway with hands in pockets and shoulders raised as she laughed into the camera. Same smile, sameish nose.

They could be brother and sister, he thought absurdly. Which they were, and would have acted like, had he allowed it in the short time they’d known each other. “2 September, 2002” was written on the back of the boy’s photo – seven years ago to the day – while “17/03/07” was scrawled on the girl’s.

Two children lost to him in less than a decade, frozen forever at ages fourteen and seventeen. Two grieving mothers hating his fucking guts for the rest of his life: one whose smouldering contempt he swallowed every day, the other whose leaden silence and ability to freeze him out of every line of communication were more effective than any physical blow.

Ian picked up the phone wearily. The next number he dialled was his wife’s.

* * *

The knife carved a slice off the carrot, and the tip of a finger almost followed as well. Carina swore and stuffed the digit in her mouth. The metallic taste of blood began on her tongue and then amplified, filling her mouth and nose. It made her think of the operating theatres of her internship, of someone lying prone with their life in her capable hands and relying on her skill to see them through. It reminded her of many smells she couldn’t face today: baby powder, full nappies or vomit. She couldn’t face the combined aroma or sight of babies living and being, no matter how much she was needed at the hospital. I can’t face much of anything today, she thought as she squeezed her eyelids together and took gulps of air. Today I see myself through.

It was pointless. The tears would come no matter which way she played it.

Carina dwelt for a glum minute on her personal classification of mothers. Some women, most women, were born to do it. Others were self-made, morphing into the role as their bodies plumped and they realised they’d intended to do it anyway and now was as good a time as any. Others were just resigned to the prospect. She had no idea where, or if, she fitted into either of the latter two groups, but she definitely didn’t fit into the first. She’d never fancied the idea of mothering, most likely because she hadn’t given it much thought, preferring to think of things only when they were immediately relevant. She had very much liked the idea of being part of a couple. The better half of another.

Once married, she’d had no clue why the first pregnancy had surprised her. She hadn’t gone out of her way to prevent it, and the thought of a termination had repulsed her almost as soon as it had come to mind. Not on any moral or religious grounds, but purely on the principle that she always completed anything she began. Her own mother would not have been shocked had she known that her daughter’s first reaction to the news had not been delight. From childhood, Carina felt she’d always been accused, wrongfully in her view, of being too sleepy in her decision-making in some places and too headstrong and impulsive in others. This from the woman who, after all these years, still doubted that her daughter’s decisions – to study medicine, leave Germany to practise in Africa and marry a man who wasn’t white – were all carefully considered. Which of course they had been.

Four pregnancies, though . . . Carina had to hand it to the old woman on that score: she herself had not seen that coming. After the trauma of Sean’s birth, when they’d finally laid his perfect, downy head on her chest, she’d told herself she was done. One was enough. But like most modern women who thought themselves above the subservience of love, she hadn’t made any allowance for how powerful would be her need to please her husband. Ian was absolutely besotted with Sean. In that sentiment she’d agreed with her husband wholeheartedly, as they joined in showering their eldest with the adulation he deserved.

She’d given him the first name of Heinrich, after her own beloved father, but as was usual had become resigned to having her authority undermined as he came to be called Sean, his second “less stuffy” name. Regardless of what he was called, no child was as deserving of being spoiled and overwhelmed with love and gifts as their firstborn. Sean was as good and sweet-tempered in the flesh as he’d been in utero, which was not at all what she’d expected. Carina had looked on in quiet terror at the monstrous blue-veined stomachs, pimpled faces and oedemic legs of would-be mothers and the frightful carryings-on and tantrums of other people’s offspring in public. How had she, a seasoned paediatrician, not noticed these things before? What blinkers had shielded her eyes from the truth that these little balls of human, her primary clients, were hell-raisers? Without a second thought, she simply delivered the routine lines on child care that needed to be doled out to parents who needed more sleep or time to themselves. Until it was her turn, but she’d gotten lucky.

At least with Sean she’d gotten lucky. As her belly had swollen distastefully another three times, her attachment to her firstborn had grown disproportionately more intense. None of her children, Sean included, looked much like her. One of her girls even had the audacity to look like a reincarnation of one of Ian’s overbearing, bearded great-aunts. But Sean had had enough of her in him to satisfy, she reflected with a smile, something in the general way his features arranged themselves while he battled his emotions and fears. He’d got his strength and resolve from her, and combined with uncommon cheerfulness and maturity his personality served him well throughout the course of his illness.

Carina blinked against a hot welling of tears. Ironically, that very thing had driven her crazy. Throughout her medical career she’d seen many myths regarding both science and human nature debunked. The one about the glowing angelic child that soldiered on bravely through chronic illness, managing to uplift others despite the pain and hopelessness of their own situation, was in reality as rare as unicorns. Sick children were like sick adults: cranky, headstrong and downright impossible. Like all children, they picked up on the adult vibes around them and acted out, and the terminally ill ones had the most reason to do so.

Her Sean had been different, and she’d waited desperately for the moment when he would become pathetic with need and fear, allowing her to be the pillar of maternal strength she needed to be. Until the bitter end, he was more a comfort to his family than they’d been to him, more so because every single one of them had failed to step up and provide the genetic salvation they should have been equipped to provide. Hitting her lowest and most bitter stride, Carina mused that it was almost like Sean had been born to die nobly and show others how to do it. For heaven’s sake, even that bastard of Ian’s –

She shrieked in pain as the knife sliced through her finger once more, deeper than before. Blood spurted across the kitchen counter and arced over the vegetables. Hissing and swearing under her breath, she wrapped the nearest piece of cloth, which happened to be one of her favourite scarves, around the cut. On the tabletop her Samsung cellphone began to buzz and vibrate like an irritating electronic animal, lifting and clattering back against the marble in miniature convulsions. With one hand she picked it up, pressed a button and balanced it against an ear with a shoulder.

* * *

In the front garden, Serena Fourie looked through the kitchen window and watched her mother on a call. A cascade of blonde hair shrouded the cellphone, and both hands were busy with something unseen. Serena didn’t need to be within earshot to know who was calling and what the call was about. It was almost the middle of the day, and her mother, the workaholic, was at home. She watched her posture change almost immediately; her fine-boned, slender frame, which none of them had inherited, stiffened and her face reddened as her head snapped up, nearly causing her to drop the phone. She uttered what looked like sharp words into it and turned her back to the window.

“Boo.” Serena jumped as two fingers poked her in the sides.

“Cut it out,” she said to her sister, without turning around. Her voice came sharper than intended, but she couldn’t help it. Every word and every movement would be as barbed and dangerous today as it had been for over a month. By the look of things, the two likeliest contenders for an unnecessary brawl were already squaring off. They’d held off longer than last year, not bashing antlers until the actual day. She wondered if that was good or bad.

“That means you’re jealous, if you jump when people poke you,” Rosie giggled, unperturbed, as she put her arms around her from the back. “Or having sex.”

Rosie leaned into her neck, and Serena caught the smell of something sweet with peanuts in it on her breath as she said the illicit words. Quietly they both watched their mother, breathing almost in unison. In the kitchen, Carina angrily cut the call and tossed the phone away from her, then began pointlessly shifting items around on the counter.

“What’s she doing?”

“Making stew for supper.” It was eleven-thirty in the morning.

“Was that Dad?” Rosie whispered.

Serena nodded.

Another pause. Then: “What’s the date today?”

Sighing, Serena disentangled herself and spun around. The exasperated look she shot said, You know what day it is today. The day Sean had begun what would prove to be the final bout of treatment for leukaemia. They all knew, had been raised to know and remember every landmark of their brother’s short life.

Rosie looked blank for a few seconds, and then the look that dawned on her said, Oh. Serena shook her head. Trust Rosie.

“I won’t be here for it, though. Supper, I mean.” Serena hefted a gym bag of clean laundry. “Got cell group tonight. Going back to campus.”

“Lemme come with you.”

The sound of a car pulling up interrupted them. It parked outside the gate, and a young man rose tentatively out of the driver’s seat and craned his neck over the gate. His hopeful eyes met those of his sisters. Serena sadly shook her head in response, and Lucas slumped back behind the wheel and drove off. She walked through the gate to her own car, fighting the urge to look back at Rosie standing lonely on the lawn, biting her nails and looking lost.