House of Trembling Leaves, The (45 page)

He nodded with a solemn look in his eyes.

‘‘Doctor, tell me the truth, please. How long do I have?''

He took a breath. This time it was his turn to look at the ceiling. ‘‘It would be unprofessional of me to speculate.''

‘‘I'm asking you, for my daughter's sake. How long?''

‘‘If you are lucky, ten, twenty, perhaps even thirty years.''

‘‘And if I'm unlucky?''

‘‘You mean if the vomiting of blood persists?''

‘‘Yes.''

‘‘Twelve to fifteen months.''

Only when she was out on the pavement, crossing to catch a cycle rickshaw home, did she allow her body to release its anxiety. Her legs went weak. She only just made it into the seat of the waiting pedicab.

Sum Sum trudged ahead, head down, pushing against the wind. The wind felt like something solid and raw as it bounced off her face. ‘Not long to go,' she muttered every now and again to keep her spirits up.

She pressed on, resisting the knifing wind. Eyes fixed on the next resting-place – a belt of trees or a cluster of craggy rocks in the far distance.
Keep going. Keep going.
With each step Sum Sum repeated the message, willing her legs forward.

She held an unshakable will to survive.

They walked for hours in silence; mostly because they would not be heard above the wind-rush. They tied thin cloths over their eyes to fend off the glaring sun and snow blindness. Occasionally they smiled through the cold and fed off their partner's determination.

They carried on through a snow-flurry until Tormam sank to her knees. ‘‘I'm too tired!''

Earlier, Sum Sum thought she'd heard voices behind her. She wondered now if the Chinese were after them. She pictured the officer with the laugh like Pirate Blackbeard, unbuckling his holster and shooting them dead.

‘‘Get back up!'' cried Sum Sum. ‘‘Remember the yak that was left behind? I'll do the same to you. I'll relieve you of your bags and leave you here!'' She helped her friend to her feet. To work out how many hours of daylight they had left, Sum Sum raised her hand parallel to the ground, with the sun just above the hand. Every finger down to the horizon meant 15 minutes. She counted eight fingers. ‘‘We have another two hours of daylight,'' she said.

Muscles aching, they marched on, staring blankly at the carpet of snow ahead, keeping their centres of gravity low. They passed the skeleton of a bird. It made them think there must be trees up ahead.

‘‘Not long to go! We rest when we find shelter.''

An hour later, out of desperation, with no shelter in sight, they chose a slope with a natural wind block and started scooping out a hole in the snow with their gloved hands and a trowel made of tree bark. They dug and dug until their arms and shoulders ached. They tunnelled at an upward angle. After forty minutes they crawled inside their burrow, just wide enough for them both to fit through, entering feet first. Once settled, they stopped up the gap with packed snow and punched a small ventilation hole through the top. ‘‘All that digging … I'm perspiring so much,'' said Tormam.

‘‘Me too. Quick, lah, we must stay dry,'' said Sum Sum. ‘‘Reach into the bags for change of undershirt. We have to get out of these or we will freeze to death.''

Elbows and knees banging, they wrestled into fresh clothes. They jammed yak hair under their garments for added insulation and held on to one another for warmth, legs entwined, hands pressed into armpits. ‘‘Tormam, if I died up here, would you eat me?''

‘‘I would think about it … not for long … but I would pause for thought.''

‘‘I bet your hind loin is damn tasty, lah.''

‘‘And I bet your shoulder joint would be delicious roasted over a fire.''

They giggled over this for some time. Short of breath and shivering from head to toe, terrified that the walls might collapse and trap them underneath the weight of ice, they dared not close their eyes. They listened to the wind and the shifting snow make eerie screeching noises overhead, until eventually, exhaustion claimed them.

 

The following morning, with the Himalayan sun breaking through the clouds, Sum Sum and Tormam dug free of their shelter. Their throats were parched with thirst and their lips crackled with dryness. Sum Sum, squatting, flattened the ground with her hands and lit a small fire to melt some snow. The snow water tasted good. They ate the last of their dried meat and butter. Yawning and grumbling they shouldered their packs and continued south. Sum Sum set her eyes on the horizon; Tormam screwed up her gale-filled face and muttered long curses under her breath. Ahead of them was only endless whiteness and empty land; miles below and miles in front.

Hours and hours later, flayed by the wind and sun, they descended to a safer elevation below the treeline. As they walked down the uneven slope, the snow began to spoil. The slope grew so steep it hurt their knees and jammed their feet into the toes of their boots. Coming from the exposed upper reaches of the mountains, it took them some time to adjust to the brooding oppressiveness of the forest.

They foraged for food, pulling aside lichen and rotten tree branches. They searched hidden animal holes. But all they found were earthworms and grubs.

Extracting leaf mould and dirt from their supper they settled down to eat. Tormam held up a grub. ‘‘You swallow first.''

Sum Sum, eyes wide with mischief, chewed with her mouth open, ready to spit it out. ‘‘Tastes like stale English Stilton.'' She grinned at her. ‘‘Try, nah.'' They ate, moving their jaws mechanically, squatting with arms wrapped round shins.

They gathered dry sticks, twigs, moss and pine pitch from the ground and built a ring of rocks. Using the abbess's firebag, they lit the tinder with a match and added kindling and bark resin, carefully blowing on the fire to build it up. Gradually, they added firewood to the flames, building a teepee of sticks around it.

Sum Sum warmed her pink, stiff fingers by the flames, wondering aloud if she'd ever be able to feel her fingertips again. She looked into Tormam's eyes. Both refused to admit how lost and hopeless they felt.

In the OR Mabel switched on the monitoring equipment at the head of the operating table and laid out the various surgical knives, scoops, scalpels and specula on a sterilization tray. She tested the hand-operated blood pressure sphygmomanometer. She fiddled with a knob on the ventilator and checked the infusion pump. Next she prepared the necessary blood bags, volume expanders and intravenous drips. Finally, she grouped metal clamps and clips in a line and positioned Sklar forceps with angled heads next to a severe-looking set of flat-handled curved scissors.

Having prepared the patient's skin, Mabel set down the dish of iodine swabs and looked at the surgeon. His expression was unreadable through his surgical mask but she guessed he was contemplating the best angle of entry. He reached out his hand, flat and expectant, to receive the scalpel from her. She pressed it into his palm as he stood over the patient and watched him make a long careful incision in the upper right part of the stomach, just below the ribs. The scalpel tip sank into the skin, slitting it with a clean, silky sound.

The blood oozed out, black and tarry. Immediately Mabel wiped it with an absorbent swab so he could proceed. An hour later, after cutting the bile duct and blood vessels leading to the gall bladder, the surgeon clamped the skin and with needle holders stitched it tight with suture thread.

‘‘How are you holding up?'' he asked her, running a curved needle through the skin.

‘‘I am fine,'' she replied a moment later, applying a primary gauze dressing.

His eyes did not stray from her hands. ‘‘You mother is coming in for treatment today, or did I hear wrong?''

She secured the secondary dressing. She felt her head twitch. ‘‘No, you heard right. She will be having several X-rays in thirty minutes or so.''

‘‘Join her as soon as you finish up here. Take the afternoon off. You've earned it.''

Mabel pressed the last bit of tape firmly down and gave him a long sideways glance. ‘‘Thank you. I will.''

After sponging her hands and forearms in the scrub sink, Mabel changed out of her surgical gown and took the stairs to the ground floor. She bought herself a bag of Gandour hard-boiled candies from the hospital canteen and watched the catering staff wipe the table surfaces with damp cloths and set out a roll of paper napkins with the cutlery sets.

In the kitchens
mee hoon
noodles, tinctured yellow with turmeric, sizzled in a hot flat wok.

She was hungry but the only thing she could think of was her mother. A few minutes later she was in Radiology.

Through the hospital windows the broad sweep of the distant Genting Hills shadowed the horizon.

Lu See and Mabel sat side by side in the waiting room.

‘‘I saw that surgeon you work with,'' said Lu See. ‘‘Is he single?''

Mabel did not reply.

‘‘He's very handsome.''

‘‘Please don't start with the matchmaking.''

‘‘I'd better get the red engagement cards printed,'' Lu See teased.

‘‘Stop it!''

‘‘Look at your nostrils. Whenever you get angry they grow the size of the Batu Caves.''

‘‘I mean it, it's not funny.''

In the ensuing silence, Mabel studied her mother's face; she watched a muscle twitch on her neck, urgent and swollen as the throbbing throat of a tree frog.

‘‘Are you laughing?'' challenged Mabel, feeling the corners of her own mouth lift. Both women broke out in giggles and Lu See squeezed her daughter's hand affectionately.

‘‘Has Dr Ralph given you the barium sulphate to drink?'' Mabel asked.

Lu See nodded, mouth wilting at the sides. ‘‘Tasted like liquid chalk.''

It was Mabel's turn to squeeze her mother's hand.

Lu See's name was called by the X-ray technician. She entered a small windowless room and lay down on a bed. She was told to hold still first on her left side and then on her right. The room was filled with a loud humming noise. She had several X-rays taken.

Some time later Dr Ralph invited Lu See and Mabel to his consulting-room. His smooth voice dropped an octave. ‘‘It is as I suspected,'' he said. ‘‘Only more advanced.''

His words were like small explosions in her chest.

He took a long breath through his nose, took a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his chin.

‘‘So how do we go about treating me?'' Lu See asked.

Dr Ralph tried to sound confident and reassuring. ‘‘First thing is to prescribe a course of antibiotics to stop any infection. Next we will look into anti-inflammatory drugs. Failing that, we will explore the surgery route to remove fistulae and other obstructions.''

Mabel grasped Lu See's sleeve in a supportive gesture.

Lu See set her jaw. She leaned forward, both elbows on her knees. ‘‘And this thing I have, this … this …''

‘‘Crohn's disease.''

‘‘Has no cure.''

‘‘We can treat it.'' He pulled a file towards him. ‘‘We can minimise its spread, try to contain it. But the symptoms will keep returning. It will continue to flare up in different parts of the digestive tract. Often more aggressively with time.'' He gave a tiny apologetic shrug of the shoulders. ‘‘I wish there was more medical science could do.''

Lu See's whole body became very still. She was silent for several moments.

‘‘Would a change in her diet help?'' asked Mabel.

‘‘Fish oils and eggs can benefit.''

‘‘What about alternative medicine?'' said Lu See. ‘‘What about acupuncture or herbal remedies?''

The doctor made a face and bowed his head. ‘‘Please do not worry your brain with such things. The best treatment for you will be antibiotics – ''

Lu See did not let him finish. ‘‘There must be another way.''

Dr Ralph's forehead became a field of wrinkles.

‘‘In the Himalayas there are healers.'' Lu See straightened in her seat. ‘‘The Tibetans have been developing holistic cures for over 2,000 years.''

‘‘Please forgive me, dear madam, but holistic medicines can often do more harm than good. Western medicine is the only way to approach this.''

‘‘I want to go to Tibet,'' she insisted, letting her frustrations get the better of her.

‘‘And what is it you hope to find?''

‘‘An answer!''

Dr Ralph looked at her with a sad expression. His eyes were soft and compassionate. They said:
My heart goes out to you but please don't do this. Don't go clutching at straws.

Lu See rose slowly from her chair; she thanked him and left the room, dry-mouthed, closing the door quietly behind her.

 

From Dr Ralph's consulting-room Lu See took a taxi straight to the Chinese Embassy. She pushed through a set of revolving doors and emerged into the reception hall, noting to her surprise, that the place was deserted. The cavernous white foyer resembled a mausoleum. Set along the walls were solid rectangular benches, each the shape of a child's coffin. A giant portrait of Mao Tse-tung stared down like a benevolent god with a wart on his chin

Lu See saw a single counter window positioned at the far side of the foyer. She crossed the wide expanse of floor.

The Chinese girl behind the counter had a greasy fringe. She was filing her nails and did not look up even when Lu See cleared her throat.

‘‘What? Can I heppjoo?''

‘‘I want to apply for a visitor permit to Tibet,'' said Lu See.

Smiling, the girl inspected the fingernails on her left hand. ‘‘No can.''

‘‘But you haven't even seen my documents.''

The girl spoke over her shoulder. She said something in a Chinese dialect that Lu See did not recognize. A man's laughter emanated from somewhere behind the partition.