Approaching Zero (13 page)

“How different?”

“I do not know. It is just…” Her body shuddered again.

“Just hold on,” Mustapha told her urgently and almost tripped over himself as he shifted along the boat and began to work the bamboo oars, digging them deep into the river in the direction of their stilt home.

Not more than an hour later, Aisyah’s screams could be heard around the whole village. Sprawled out on the bed, bleeding and scared, she was attended by a baffled-looking man who was wearing far too many layers for the heat and was wet through with sweat. This nonsensical display—the fact that he was probably making himself ill by wrapping up in this weather—made Mustapha seriously question his abilities as a doctor and the fact that he seemed more scared by the noise his wife was making than capable of helping her made him lose whatever confidence he may have had, but this doctor was all that they had.

The heat had failed to subside and every face in the room glistened with sweat, including two-year-old Suri, who was watching the scene with an adult expression that caught the eye of her father for the calm and wisdom it seemed to radiate and the simple fact that it was such a departure from the euphoria that the child ordinarily displayed.

“Try to breathe,” Mustapha told his wife softly as he mopped her brow to keep her cool.

“It is just…” Aisyah tried to say, struggling for breath. “It just hurts so much.”

“I know, but you have to keep breathing.”

“I am trying. It is just… It is just… Ahhhh!” But then the scream was overtaken by something far more frightening as Aisyah lost control of her body and began to convulse. Her body was hit with a thousand volts from nowhere and then she lost consciousness with yellow goo oozing from her mouth.

“What is happening, Doctor?”

The bespectacled physician circled the end of the bed, scratching his head before conceding that they really needed to get her to the hospital.

“But that is eighty miles away,” Mustapha screamed back. “Do something, Doctor! Please!”

“It looks like eclampsia, Mustapha. If I am right, I am really sorry, but there is absolutely nothing I can do unless we can get her to a hospital.” The doctor had now moved to the head of the bed and was urgently checking for a pulse and repositioning Aisyah to prevent her from chocking on her vomit or tongue. “Even then her chances are slim.”

“Just do something!” Mustapha was now crying the words with his wife in his arms, as lifeless as the fish that had the misfortune to swim into his net. “Do something!” He couldn’t stop the tears now as he held his wife to his chest. “Can’t you take the baby from her? She would want you to try and save the baby!”

“I cannot, Mustapha. It would kill her.”

“She is already dead. What kind of doctor are you?”

“One that cures coughs and colds, Mustapha. I am sorry, truly I am.”

“This is useless. The whole world has gone mad. Why are you doing this?” he screamed into the air and then his eyes fell onto his tiny daughter in the corner of the room. “Suri? Suri! It is okay, Suri. Doctor, what is happening to her?”

Suri’s body had bolted upright, locked in rigidity and all colour had drained from her face. She was sitting with her legs crossed like a guru or goddess and both hands clutched her heart. She had never sat in this position before and yet it looked practised and intentional as if she had spent many years apprenticed to a hermit deep in the Himalayas, learning this posture and the secrets that it protected; as if she had ceased to be a two-old-girl who barely managed to manoeuvre on her hands and knees, had transcended the restraints of her age and was in a timeless place of mystery. And then her eyes rolled back in her head so that only the whites were showing as a low hum droned out of her.

“What is happening to her, Doctor? Please, do something.”

“This is most irregular.”

“I cannot lose both of them, Doctor. Do something!”

“I don’t know what–”

But before he could utter any more words in his incompetent sentence there was a sudden surge in the bed as Aisyah’s body exploded back into life, reanimated from the brink of total darkness. Her lungs desperately dragged the oxygen in around her as if she had been under water for the last few minutes and they had all but shrivelled up. And then the colour began to return to her. She panted ragged breaths until the air was circulating once again and said, “What happened?” But Mustapha was too consumed with the task of holding and hugging her to respond. He was only moved to leave her side when she released another almighty scream. There was still the small matter of the baby to deliver.

“Ahhhh!”

“You are doing brilliantly, Aisyah. Now push!” said the doctor, back in the comfort zone of a regular birth. “That is it! Push as hard as you can.”

“Ahhhh!” Aisyah’s face had now surpassed its honey tone and was reddening fast as she bore down, grinding her teeth, the lines gathering fast on her forehead and cheeks, the room filling once again with her cries of pain.

“That is it, my love,” Mustapha encouraged, the bones in his hand breaking in her grip. “You can do it,” and as his second child—his first son—was delivered into the arms of the doctor, his eyes were drawn to his oldest child in the corner in the room. Suri was no longer sitting upright, a statue of ancient mystique; she was on her knees, bouncing her dolly in front of her and babbling the nonsense words that made her parents laugh so much. Her colour had also returned and her eyes were now full of the joy that made her so exceptional.

“Come here, Suri,” he said as the doctor gathered the baby into a cloth and handed him to his mother. “Come and sit with us.”

Suri jumped up onto the bamboo bed beside her mother who, despite her pain, welcomed her with a warm hug.

“Thank you, Doctor,” Mustapha offered and held his hand out for the physician to shake. All thoughts of the ineptitude of the man had disappeared now that he was sitting on the bed with his whole family.

“We will want to take them both to the hospital, Mustapha, but I would say that you have been incredibly lucky.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Mustapha repeated and watched as he left the room.

“Lucky?” Aisyah beamed as her devoted husband wiped away the sodden hair clinging to her forehead and kissed the space beneath. “I think we were a bit more than lucky,” she continued and looked down at Suri who was pointing her finger at her little brother’s nose, still babbling to herself in made up words.

Mustapha looked to her too, understanding exactly what his wife was talking about, then said, “We should call him Keajaiban—Miracle.”

Aisyah slowly leaned towards the baby in her arms and softly kissed the top of his head. “Baby Keajaiban,” she beamed and then kissed Suri’s head and couldn’t stop the tears from falling.

“Baby Keajaiban,” Mustapha repeated and they stayed together on the bed until the day began to close in around them and the transport arrived to take mother and baby to the hospital.

***

It was less than a week later, when Aisyah and baby Keajaiban were safely back home and doing well that the family was awoken in the middle of the night by a pounding on the door. Their home consisted of a single room so the impact of the late-night visitor was immediately felt.

Mustapha dragged himself from his bed and wrapped himself in cloth. It was still too hot to do anything quickly, even at this time of night, but he was driven by a rising fury at being disturbed while he slept.

“This had better be good!” he yelled loud enough for the intruder to hear the venom in his voice and then he pulled the door open. The cool midnight air was actually a relief from the stuffy innards of his home, but the sight awaiting him was not. An old woman, drowning in sweat, would clearly have collapsed with exhaustion had she not been carrying a child in her arms.

“Please,” she sobbed, offering the small child in Mustapha’s direction. “Help us.”

Mustapha instinctively took the child from the elderly woman, who looked older than his own grandma had when she died, and her life spanned some ninety years. Her face was a roadmap of angst, with lines and ridges as clearly defined as her eyes and mouth. The strength of this woman, however, could not be judged on her appearance as she had clearly carried the child for miles and would have kept walking for as long as it took, in her bare feet and flimsy robe, but as Mustapha carried the child inside he had no idea what would bring her to his door. He placed the child on the bed, who was not much older than Suri, and could now see the source of the old woman’s concern. She was feverish and delirious, her head flopping from side to side as she mumbled words that in past times would be said to belong to the devil.

Mustapha felt the heat on her forehead and cheeks and shrugged helplessly as Aisyah shuffled to the bottom of the bed and said, “But I do not know how we can help. We are not doctors.” She too touched the young girl’s head and felt the pain that all mothers feel at the sight of a sick child.

“I have walked almost twenty miles to find healing. With your permission, we seek an audience with Suri.”

“Suri?” they both echoed and turned their heads to face their two-year-old daughter. They expected to see her taking full advantage of the disruption, playing with her dolls as if it were daylight already, such was the energy of their oldest. What they saw made their jaws drop to their chests.

“That is what she was doing when you were in labor,” said Mustapha. “You know? When you nearly died?”

“Yes, I have some recollection of it, Mu,” Aisyah said sarcastically and watched as her daughter’s rigid body turned to stone, flushed white and her eyes revolved back into her skull. She moved suddenly to stop this from happening—whatever
this
was—but Mustapha grabbed her by the arm.

“Just watch,” he said softly and the lack of panic he showed seemed to sooth her a little. Nothing happened for a painful minute and then the low, rumbling hum tumbled out of Suri’s pursed lips. Again nothing seemed to happen as they watched the tiny child in the corner, but suddenly the other child in the room, who had been thrashing on the bed, was struck still, as if she had been switched off. Aisyah and Mustapha looked to each other with confused faces then down at the child between them. For the first time since her arrival, she was showing signs of calm and stillness, breathing easily and as Mustapha reached out to touch her forehead, he saw that her temperature was coming down. She was still hot and clearly extremely unwell, but they would all be able to sleep knowing that she would survive the night.

The old lady in the doorway broke down at the sight of the change in the child. “It is a miracle,” she cried, throwing her arms up and down in praise and mouthing words of worship then dropping to her knees and falling forward, seemingly unable to speak another word.

“Get them some water,” Aisyah told her husband, who set off immediately on the task. “You must stay with us tonight,” she continued, “both of you. We do not have much space, but we can make you comfortable on the floor and the child can sleep with Suri.”

The mention of Suri’s name brought about a reprise of the old woman’s vigorous worship and Aisyah dropped down to the floor beside her. “Please, ma’am,” she said, “won’t you come and sit on the bed.”

The old woman shakily got to her feet with a little more encouragement and Mustapha returned with water for her to drink, which seemed to restore her sensibilities.

“Better?” Aisyah asked gently and the elderly woman nodded.

Mustapha held water to the lips of the child and she tentatively sipped, all the time improving and moving away from the danger they had seen when she first arrived.

“What is her name?”

“Arianna.”

“Well, Arianna,” Mustapha began softy, taking the tiny child in his arms. “It is past your bedtime.” He walked the length of the room and laid her next to his own daughter, who had managed to fall asleep in the wake of her second miracle and was soon joined in slumber by Arianna. Mustapha checked on little Miracle on the way back to the bed and then said, “But how did you know to come here?”

The old woman smiled and sipped more of the water. The relief of Arianna’s recovery was now telling on her. Far from reviving her, she now looked as if she would fall asleep at any second. “There have been whispers of a miracle child since the birth of your son. The doctor attending you is not skilled to heal, but he is an extremely talented gossip. This was not what I expected, though. She is so young and so gifted. I have never seen this kind of power before. Your daughter is extremely special.”

“This we know,” beamed Aisyah, but she was referring to the everyday ‘special’ that all parents see in their children—the ever-expanding bank of quirks, words and behavior that makes everyone around go Awwww! Although Suri had saved her life, neither parent had really considered the implications of this. She was still a girgly two-year-old, turning the world to mush in her fledging teeth; the fact that she clearly had the power to heal the human body was just too much to comprehend.

“I mean she is
special
,” the old woman reiterated, sensing that she hadn’t quite made her point.

“We know,” Mustapha said in a voice that he hoped would convey gravity. “But you must keep this to yourself. She is two years old and needs to grow and learn who she is before the whole world holds out its hand to her, broken fingers and all. Promise me that you will tell no one of this.”

“It is the least I can do to repay you,” the woman answered, her eyelids now heavy. “I will return in a few days with payment for you, but now I must sleep.”

“You will do no such thing,” Aisyah told her. “We do not need payment. And you will sleep on the bed with me tonight. Mu can sleep on the floor.”

Mustapha nodded generously and smiled, and in less than an hour the room was full of the snores of the old lady. However, neither Aisyah nor Mustapha slept that night, both sensing deep down that their lives would never be the same again.

Chapter 13

Back at the house, Kathy turned the key in the lock with Suri almost jumping up and down behind her, desperate to see her new home. She hadn’t had time to clear the McDonald’s wrappers and drinks cans from the little front garden, but it was now too dark to see them and she didn’t imagine that Suri would notice anyway. Her house was probably a palace compared to where Suri came from, Kathy thought, unfairly lumping Suri’s life into the default ‘other’ destination that her mind took her to when faced with remote parts of the world that she knew nothing about. It was the kind of place that she would only have seen on the news or on telethons raising money for the round-bellied orphans. Kathy stopped mid-turn of the key and mentally scolded herself for the easy cliché. She had never considered that she could be racist before. And here she was making her mind up about exactly what kind of upbringing Suri must have had. Was it racist to not have the information to make a fair evaluation?
That’s exactly what racist is, you dimwit,
the little voice in her head reprimanded and Kathy resolved to find out all about Malaysia as quickly as she could. She hadn’t travelled much in her life but this wasn’t something that bothered her particularly. Her life was very much in England and it was possible that she had made a vicarious link between far-flung regions of the world and war because she was so close to Brady. Brady didn’t go away to sit on the beach or learn the history of a country. She went away to kill and get killed and this was perhaps on Kathy’s mind as she booked to visit the same resort in Spain year after year.