Over the Waters (2 page)

Brizjanti, Haiti, December 23

D
r. Joshua Jordan shaded his eyes and looked into the clear azure sky. The Haitian sun burned through his white cotton shirt and a stinging bead of sweat skated down his back and slid under the waistband of his khaki trousers. He peeled the knotted blue bandanna off his head and swabbed his face and neck with it.

"Are you okay?"

He turned to see Samantha Courtney studying him with a worried frown.

"Hey." He flashed a reassuring smile. "I'm fine. But that sun is a beast today. It's almost Christmas. It should be snowing."

"In your Chicago maybe. That's one thing I do
not
miss about home."

"Yeah, I don't suppose I'd miss North Dakota winters either." He narrowed his eyes playfully at her. "But why is it you're not even breaking a sweat?"

She shrugged. "You get used to it."

"Well, it's been four months and I'm still waiting."

"You went home," Samantha said matter-of-factly. "You're back to square one now."

He smiled. "Oh, is that how it works?" Though he'd only gone back to the States for two weeks, she hadn't been happy about him leaving. He suspected she'd been afraid he'd let his father talk him out of returning to Haiti. She needn't have worried. If what he saw as his divine calling to Haiti hadn't been enough to compel him to return, his growing love for Samantha would have. Maybe he should tell her that. But they'd only known each other a few months. He'd seen too many vows broken in his short life. He wanted to be sure about her before he went making promises he couldn't keep.

He gave his forehead one last swipe and retied the bandanna around his brow. "Ready?"

"Whenever you are."

"Why don't we start with the little boys' dormitory? Hang on, let me grab the meds." He ducked into the lean-to that served as a temporary clinic and rummaged in the crates of supplies that had been shipped from the States. He was lucky they'd been able to get the vaccines and medical supplies into the country before Monday's attempted coup on the presidential palace had brought things to a standstill at the airport in Port-au-Prince.

No. Not lucky, he amended, blessed. God had been with him every step of the way, from making standby on the last flight out of Miami, to getting into Brizjanti before the violence erupted in Port-au-Prince, to being able to be with Samantha again.

She was special. So unlike the girls he'd been attracted to before his eyes had been opened. He stood at the door now and watched her through its barred window. Her hair was what some might have described as dishwater blond, but the island sun had streaked it with highlights no salon could duplicate. He liked her fresh, natural good looks. The women he'd dated previously seemed to spend half their time obsessing over their makeup and manicures, and working on suntans that would ultimately send them running to his father's clinic before they were forty.

He stepped into the courtyard, and propped the cooler full of vaccines and syringes on one shoulder. "Ready?"

"Whenever you are, Dr. Jordan. Are you sure you don't want to get one of the older girls to help?"

"No. We'll be okay..." The rest of his sentence remained unspoken, but he knew that by now she could read his mind as though his thoughts were tattooed across his forehead. They'd argued about it more than once--his fears that the children with AIDS would infect the others. She was more pragmatic, believing the risk was worth training the older girls in various nursing skills.

Duval Children's Home, like all the orphanages in Haiti, was seriously overcrowded. Finding enough beds was a constant challenge. It wasn't practical to quarantine the HIV kids, but there had to be some other solution.

He followed Samantha, crossing the compound with long strides to match hers. She walked with a self-confidence that belied her twenty-two years. Five months ago, when he arrived in Brizjanti the first time, he'd guessed her to be his own age. He would miss her when he had to go back to the States again next month.

The bare earth underfoot was baked hard like clay, and their footsteps stirred up little gray puffs of dust around their ankles. For some reason, Josh thought of his mother. She'd be mailing him grass seed by the ton if she could see the barren landscape of this country.

They reached the little boys' dormitory and Samantha rapped sharply on the door before pushing it open.

A thin little boy with skin brown as cocoa looked up from the sketch he was drawing. He gave a shout of glee, pushed back his chair and ran toward them. "Miss Samantha!"

"Hey, Jean-Louis. How's it going?" She put up a palm and gave him an American high five.

"Hey, Dr. Josh." The boy's greeting for Josh was more reserved.

Jean-Louis had been dumped at the home five years ago. He was probably seven years old now, but he wasn't much taller than most five-year-olds in the States. Like a growing number of the children--a number that haunted Joshua's dreams--Jean-Louis was HIV-positive.

Within seconds, a dozen other boys swarmed them. "What you doing here today?" six-year-old Marcus asked, eyeing them suspiciously.

Josh laughed and rubbed Marcus's sun-blanched black hair. "We're going to give you some good medicine today. So you won't get sick."

Marcus took a step back and his eyes grew round. "Not a shot, no?"

"Don't worry, buddy. It will only sting for a minute. Like a mosquito."

"That is what you say last time." Marcus rubbed the flesh on his upper arm as though he'd just been stung.

"No. Last time I told you a bee sting. A mosquito is not so bad, eh?"

Marcus looked dubious.

Josh was still surprised by how jealous he felt of the children's unabashed love for Samantha and Madame Duval, the director of the orphanage. Dr. Josh had inflicted too much pain for the children to trust him completely, though the boys had warmed to him since he'd started playing soccer with them every morning during recess. He smiled at the thought.

Samantha eyed him. "What's so funny?"

He shrugged. "Sorry. I didn't realize I was smiling out loud."

She laughed. "Well, it must have been a good thought."

"I was thinking about what stiff competition you are."

"Ha! That's only because I carry
C-A-N-D-Y
in my pockets."

"Careful. I don't think spelling is going to cut it anymore. Madame Duval gave out a whole bunch of spelling awards last week and a couple of her best pupils are within earshot. Not to mention that the next dentist we manage to get down here is going to be none too happy with you."

"Well, let him duke it out with me. A piece of peppermint once in a while isn't going to ruin anybody's teeth."

Marcus perked up. "Peppermint? Miss Samantha have peppermint?"

Samantha rolled her eyes. "Not today, Marc. Maybe Sunday...if you're a good boy."

He beamed, showing perfectly even, milk-white teeth. "I be a good boy!"

She tousled his hair. "I know you will. Now why don't you run and tell Miss Alice we need all the babies in here."

"You shoot only the babies?" Marcus looked hopeful.

Josh raised an eyebrow and Samantha laughed.

"Goodness, Marc! Don't say it like that. You'll give Dr. Josh a heart attack." Her voice turned serious. "All the boys will get a shot--big boys, too. A vaccination--so you won't get sick. We'll do the babies first."

Marcus looked worried, but he trotted off like a devoted puppy, while Samantha helped Josh set up a makeshift examining table.

Marcus returned a minute later with the preschool teacher in tow. Alice Volcy carried a baby in each arm and a toddler shadowed her, clutching the hem of her skirt for support.

"Kijan ou ye, Jean-Michael?"
Josh bent to catch the little boy's eye and tell him his name.
"M rele Dr. Jordan."

Jean-Michael gave a shy smile, but dipped his head and refused to look at Josh.

Joshua lifted the toddler onto the makeshift examining table and pushed up the tattered, filthy sleeve of Jean-Michael's T-shirt. Samantha cleansed the little boy's upper arm with an alcohol wipe. Jean-Michael kept his bright smile trained on her.

Josh spoke in low tones. "
M pap fe ou mal, non.
I'm not going to hurt you."

He leveled the syringe, pinched the muscle taut on the boy's skinny arm and gently inserted the needle. As the vaccine entered, Jean-Michael's coffee-bean eyes widened and a look of panic sparked in their dark depths. Josh quickly removed the needle and rubbed the spot briskly. "There.
Fini.
All done."

"You are a very brave boy," Samantha cooed in Creole. She smoothed a hand over his short tufts of hair, lifted him from the table and, in one smooth motion, set him on the ground. He toddled off to the playroom and she took one of the babies from Alice's arms and set him on the table.

Josh flashed Samantha a smile. "You've got this down to a science, don't you?"

"Hey, I didn't work on a factory assembly line all through college for nothing."

He smiled at the image her words evoked, of curly-haired Haitian babies lined up on a conveyor belt, arms outstretched for vaccinations.

They worked together throughout the morning, and by the time the lunch bell beckoned them to the dining room, they had immunized fifty-three of the boys and had moved the supplies to the girls' dormitory.

In the dining room, the shabby artificial tree festooned in colorful construction-paper chains reminded Josh again that despite temperatures in the high eighties, tomorrow was Christmas Eve.

It would be strange to spend Christmas in Haiti. He hated to leave his mother alone for the holidays, but of course she had Gary now. And the boys, Josh's half brothers. He admired his stepfather, but in spite of his lack of a relationship with his father, Josh had never allowed Gary to become more than a friend.

He hadn't spent a Christmas with Max Jordan in years, but still, the holidays always seemed to make memories of his father harder to push away. Lately, the bitterness and resentment he'd nurtured so carefully were being replaced by something else. Something he couldn't quite identify, but suspected was compassion. And maybe forgiveness. He understood now how miserable his father was. The man probably didn't even realize it, just as Josh hadn't realized his own emptiness before his eyes had been opened.

He thought Mom understood his newfound faith--or at least was happy that he was happy. But Dad had made it clear that he was none too thrilled with his only heir's decision to give up the residency in Iowa to come down here. Well, sure he wasn't happy about it. After all, the great Dr. Botox had footed the considerable bill for medical school. Not that Max Jordan had been pleased about any of Josh's choices in life. Even when he'd managed to graduate high school a semester early and finish med school as one of the youngest graduates in the history of the college, the great Dr. Maximilian Jordan had remained unimpressed. Josh was beginning to accept that there was nothing he could ever do that would please his dad. The man was a stone.

Josh released a sigh. Now that he'd dedicated his life to a heavenly Father, it didn't matter quite so much.

Brizjanti, Haiti, December 28

C
hristmas was barely past and the entire orphanage staff was dealing with a rash of flu and respiratory ailments that had laid low dozens of children and nearly half the already skeleton staff.

Samantha Courtney jogged across the compound of the children's home, holding her fingers to her temples. She felt a headache of monumental proportions coming on, but she didn't have time to think about that right now.

She was worried about Josh. He was sicker than a dog, but refused to lie down for even a minute. With the staff shortage and all the sick kids, he'd been putting in longer hours than ever. Her despair at the thought of him going back to the States next month had turned to gratitude that he would finally get the rest and medical care he needed himself.

As she opened the door to the girls' dormitory, a brown lizard that had been sunning itself on the threshold scurried beneath the building. She walked through the playroom to the bunkroom. The air inside was stale, but ten degrees cooler, thanks to the thick, whitewashed cinder block walls. Sunshine poured through the windows and across the precious lumps that filled half a dozen triple-tiered bunk beds.

Josh was sitting on the edge of one mattress, his head bent beneath the bunk overhead. A stethoscope plugged his ears, and Samantha could see by the set of his shoulders that he didn't like what he was hearing in little Kala Loutrel's chest.

Samantha cleared her throat softly to announce her presence.

Josh pulled the stethoscope from his ears and wrapped the instrument around his neck. He squeezed the little girl's toes affectionately and turned to Samantha, his brow creased with worry. "Let's go out there," he mouthed, nodding in the direction of the playroom.

She followed him into the sunny room. The girls who had managed to stay healthy were in school or playing in the courtyard and the playroom was deserted. He stood in the middle of the room, head down, breathing as though he'd just sprinted all the way from Port-au-Prince. His face was flushed and she could hear the congestion in his lungs. He stripped the bandanna off his head and sopped the perspiration from his face.

"Are you okay, Josh? You really need to get some rest."

He waved her off. "I think Kala needs to be in the hospital. Her lungs are filling up...and I can't get her fever down."

"Have you talked to Madame Duval?"

He shook his head, grimacing.

Samantha knew the orphanage director would be reluctant to let Dr. Jordan send Kala into the city unless they'd exhausted every other avenue. With a shortage of medically trained staff and questionable sanitation, the city hospitals were too often a death sentence rather than a cure. Marie Duval had lost too many children to them already. "Do you want me to talk to her?"

"No. I'll do it." He picked at the knot in the bandanna, working the corners free. "I know what she'll say, but I'm afraid if we don't get Kala there this afternoon we'll end up having to make the trip in the dark." He glanced back through the open door to the bunkroom and lowered his voice. "She really needs to be on oxygen. And probably a chest tube..."

Samantha felt her heart stutter. "Is she really that bad?"

He didn't answer, but headed for the door, tying the bandanna back around his forehead as he went.

"Wait, Josh."

He kept walking and she trailed him into the courtyard. Halfway across the compound, he started coughing.

Samantha winced as she listened to his deep barking. "You should be in bed! You won't be any good to anyone if you wind up in the hospital yourself."

He held up a hand, waving her off again. But the coughing continued, unrelenting. Finally he stopped in his tracks and bent, hands on his thighs, struggling to catch his breath. He hacked for another full minute before he finally straightened. He looked at her with what she thought was supposed to be a sheepish grin, but instead was a scowl. "Maybe I will take a little nap after lunch."

She propped her hands on her hips and glared at him. "You haven't had lunch?"

He shook his head.

She gave a little growl. "It's almost two-thirty, Josh!" She went around behind him and grabbed his shoulders, giving him a push in the direction of the dining hall. "You're coming with me right this minute."

He allowed her to guide him across the yard and into the empty dining room. She pointed to the staff table and he slid onto the long bench, resting his elbows on the tabletop.

In the kitchen she rummaged in the industrial-size refrigerator until she found a small pot of leftover rice and bean sauce. She pulled off the lid and took a whiff. It seemed fresh enough. She set the pan on a burner of the giant institutional stove and crossed the room in search of a can of chicken broth to thin the mixture into a soup. While it heated, she toasted two slices of stale bread and spread them with
manba
, good Haitian peanut butter.

Ten minutes later she sat across from Joshua at a long picnic-style table in the dining room watching with satisfaction as he slurped the steaming soup from a deep pottery bowl. "Taste good?"

"My taster isn't working so hot, but it sure feels good going down." He reached across the table and patted her hand.

"Thanks. I needed this."

She smiled. "Yes, you did. And as soon as you clean your plate I'm escorting you to your room and I'm not leaving until you're tucked in...and sleeping."

"Okay, whatever you say, Mom," he said around a mouthful of peanut butter. He sounded like a little boy. But the look in his eyes as they lingered on her was anything but boyish.

She looked away and scraped some stray bread crumbs into the palm of her hand. Josh finished his soup, and she gathered his bowl and spoon and headed for the kitchen.

She washed his dishes in soapy water and dried them. Looking out the pass-through into the dining hall, she watched Josh drag himself up from the bench. Her heart lurched as she realized that his clothes hung loosely on him. Why hadn't she noticed the deep shadows ringing his eyes before?

He started toward the kitchen and she looked away before he could catch her staring.

"Here, let me do that," he said, taking the dish from her hand. He finished drying it--or attempted to--with the soggy towel she'd just hung to air.

"That's the last one. Leave it be and come with me." She draped both their dish towels over the rack by the sink.

"Yes, ma'am."

She glared at him, curbing a smile. "Don't give me that 'yes, ma'am' business. You just follow me and do what I say."

He grinned and gave a sharp salute.

She rolled her eyes at him and led the way through the courtyard to his tiny room behind the boys' dormitory. Josh undid the latch for her, then followed her in, leaving the door ajar several inches. A slight breeze stirred the drab muslin curtain that hung at the single high window.

Josh's room was tidier than she'd expected. His shirts were hung crisply on wire hangers, two or three to a peg on the wall opposite his cot. The bed wasn't what Samantha would have called "made," but the sheet and light blanket had been pulled up over the pillow and it looked as though an effort had been made to smooth out the worst of the rumples.

She went over to the bed and threw back the covers. "Get in."

Josh tilted his head and stared at her. "You don't take no for an answer, do you, lady?"

"Nope. Get in."

He gave a hoarse laugh that triggered another convulsion of deep coughing. When it subsided, he bent to take off his tennis shoes and placed them side by side at the end of the bed. He started coughing again and collapsed on the edge of the mattress, struggling to catch his breath.

Samantha stood over him, waiting for the spasms to pass. She put one hand on his shoulder. Even through the thin cotton of his shirt, his skin was fiery hot beneath her touch. "Josh, you're burning up! Have you taken anything to bring your fever down?"

"I took some ibuprofen a couple hours ago."

"On an empty stomach, no doubt."

He gave her a hangdog look, and crawled into bed. He didn't protest when she pulled the sheet over him, but sank into the pillow and closed his eyes.

Samantha felt his forehead with the back of her hand. If she had to guess, she'd say his temperature was spiking around 102, in spite of the ibuprofen he'd supposedly taken.

"I'll be right back." She grabbed a pitcher from the small table that served as his desk, and went outside to the pump to fill it. Back in his room, she poured cool water into the cup that sat on his nightstand. "Here, drink this."

He pushed himself up in the bed, his arms trembling violently as he tried to support his weight. She set the pitcher down and put her right arm around him, holding his head up enough to take a few sips. But he choked on the water and fell into another fit of coughing.

When he finally settled down, she gently slid the bandanna from around his forehead and soaked it in the pitcher, wringing it out and folding it into a cool compress. She held it against his forehead and felt it grow warm almost instantly. She dipped it back in the pitcher again and again, applying it to his temple and his neck.

He allowed her silent ministrations and, for a minute, she thought he'd drifted to sleep.

But then his eyelids flew open and he tried to raise his head off the pillow. "Will you check on Kala for me when you leave?" he croaked.

"Joshua, you need help. You're the one who should be in the hospital."

He shook his head. "No. Don't, Samantha."

"You know I'm right."

He ignored her concern and put a hand on her arm. "You will check on Kala?"

"I will. But not until I hear you snoring. I don't trust you not to get right out of this bed as soon as I turn my back."

He flashed her a wan smile. "Don't worry. This pillow feels too good. But don't forget Kala, okay?"

"I'll check on her, I promise. Now go to sleep. You worry me."

She sat beside him in silence, listening to his labored breathing, watching him fidget with an edge of the sheet that hung over the flimsy mattress.

Finally his hands stilled and his breaths took on an even cadence, though the rattle in his lungs scared her to death. She went out to the pump and rinsed the pitcher and filled it with fresh water. She took it inside and set it by his bedside. She smoothed the sheets over him one more time and went to check on Kala.

The older girl who had been here earlier watching the babies--Samantha thought her name was Esther--was nowhere to be found. Kala was the only one in the room. It was quiet except for her breathing, rife with that ominous rattle that too often foreshadowed pneumonia. Like Josh's. The ancient vaporizer Josh had set up earlier sat dead in the corner, a victim of the fickle electricity that plagued the village.

One skinny little arm was flopped out over the low bedrail. Samantha tucked it back inside the rail and smoothed the sheets. They were damp and brackish with the scent of perspiration. She put a hand on the little girl's cheek. The child didn't even stir. But her face felt as hot to the touch as Joshua's had, and her ebony skin had begun to take on the pinched, wrinkled appearance that indicated dehydration.

Samantha felt the thin wrist for a pulse. It was steady, but slow. Josh was right. Kala needed to be in the hospital, on IVs and respiratory treatments.

She straightened the slight body in the bed and tucked the sheet lightly around her, then hurried to locate Madame Duval.

A sudden afternoon thunder shower pelted Samantha as she ran across the lawn to the main building. She found the orphanage director in her office, which overlooked the grounds.

When Marie Duval looked up to see Samantha standing in the doorway, she put down her pen, rested well-padded elbows on the desk and steepled her fingers. She ran a plump hand through her short, tight curls and let out a sigh. "Oh, Samantha. Are you as exhausted as I?"

Samantha never grew tired of the native woman's melodic, lilting Creole. But she offered only a thin smile, knowing she was in for an argument. "Kala Loutrel needs to be in the hospital, Madame Duval. Dr. Josh thinks so, too. And I think Dr. Josh needs to be admitted himself. The man won't rest for a minute and I'm afraid he's on the verge of pneumonia. I put him to bed a few minutes ago...before he practically passed out."

Madame Duval raised two perfectly arched brows, but already she was shaking her head. "We won't be sending anybody to the hospital. We can care for them here as we always have."

"Please, Madame. Kala is dehydrated and she's not keeping anything down. We've had the vaporizers on as much as we can, but it doesn't do much good if the electricity is off." Her voice gained steam as she pleaded her case. "Kala's so small...She can't go long without fluids. You know we don't have the equipment to care for her properly. Please, Madame Duval..."

Samantha could see the struggle on the older woman's face. Finally, her broad shoulders sagged. "All right, then. You will take Kala. But you stay with her and supervise her care." She shook a thick finger in Samantha's face. "I will not lose another child to that place."

"And Joshua?" Her voice broke.

Samantha squirmed under Marie Duval's scrutiny. She always felt as though the woman could read her thoughts. She tried to erase her mind of Joshua Jordan, but instead felt her cheeks burn.

"You truly think Dr. Josh needs to be in hospital?"

"I do, Madame Duval. You only need to look at him to see he's getting worse."

Madame Duval rose ponderously from her desk and turned to pull a key ring from a peg high on the wall behind her desk. "You will take the Land Rover."

Samantha wanted to hug her. "Thank you, Madame Duval."

The older woman looked at her sternly. "You must leave immediately. You must not be on the roads after dark."