The Valeditztorian (12 page)

Instantly
forgetting my presence, Luciano continues searching for his lost number.

“
Luciano,” I say in a more demanding tone, “I need to ask you something.”

“Oh
. You’re still here. How come?”

“
I just said that I need to ask you a question.”

“A question
? What is it?” he asks, rapidly throwing pieces of scrap paper into a garbage can.

“Can I come back
to the ID lab? Grace is about to start dissecting the mice over in oncology, and I really don’t want to be around for that.”

“I’m sorry
. Could you say that again?”

“I’m coming back to the ID lab, okay?”

“You’re coming back. Okay.”

While I’d anticipated a negative reaction
from Luciano, or possibly some inappropriate flirtation, this distracted response is confusing. Even more mysteriously, a few minutes after I’ve announced my return, Luciano rushes away from his office without explanation, disappearing for the rest of the day. Nor does he show up the following morning. Since I’ve nothing else to do, Peter and Soelia keep me busy during working hours with some mindless pipetting that even a klutz like me can handle. By the third morning of Luciano’s absence, we all start to get worried, but Peter finally receives an e-mail from him, predicting his imminent return.

That evening Grace and I are hanging out in our living room, munching on
abara. Because Paula has also been missing for the last few days, we’re completely out of feijoada.

“Did you find anything new with the mice?” I ask.

“No, and I’d really like to stop looking,” says Grace. “I dissected three more of them today, and they’re all clean.”

I grimace.

“How many more of them does Alvin expect you to kill?”

“All of them.”

“Poor Mini-me,” I say. “You should refuse to continue.”

“Emma, get over yourself,” says Grace
. “They’re just mice.”

I purse my lips
, but Grace ignores me.

“The only reason I’m tired
of looking,” she says, “is that I’m obviously not going to find anything.”

Before I can protest the unjust treatment of laboratory mic
e, someone knocks on the door.

“Who do you think it is?” I ask.

“Maybe Paula,” says Grace, leaping up from the couch.

Indeed, Paula is at the door, but in a
semiconscious state. Her right arm hangs limply over Luciano’s shoulder, and he appears to be supporting all of her weight. Leaning against the door frame, Luciano’s face is flushed and shining with perspiration.

“
Help me get her inside,” he grunts.

Grace holds the door
ajar while I grab Paula’s left arm. Together, Luciano and I drag Paula’s body across the living room floor, eventually draping her over the couch.

“I couldn’t bring her home,
” says Luciano.

Flopping onto the floor, Luciano drops
his head into his hands. The back of his neck is dripping with sweat.

For a moment I study Paula, whose cheeks ar
e dangerously pale. As I’m watching, she grimaces, squeezing her eyelids together and grabbing her lower abdomen. When she moans, as though in pain, I can’t help shuddering in response.

“What
happened?” I ask.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” says Luciano
.

“Luciano, you can’t
just barge in here, under these circumstances, and not tell us what’s wrong,” says Grace.

“That’s right, Grac
e,” I say. “I completely agree.”

I’m elated
that my timid roommate is finally putting her foot down about something.

“How can we help if we don’
t know what happened?” she says.

“Paula migh
t not want me to discuss it,” says Luciano.

“Well then, I think we’d be
tter take her to the hospital,” I say. “She doesn’t look too good.”

I s
tart heading toward the phone, wondering whether Brazil has a 911 system.

“No,” shouts Luciano, jumping up
.

He rushes ahead of m
e, slamming his hand over the receiver.

“No hospital.”

“Then you’d better tell us what’s going on, before I call for help,” I say.

With Luciano blocking the phone, I’m not sure that I could call for hel
p, but my threat seems to work anyway.

“Okay, okay,
” he says.

Luciano starts pacing back and forth, like an agitated, caged animal.

“During Carnaval, Paula realized her period was late. We did a pregnancy test, and it came back positive.”

Grace nods for him to continue.

“She wanted to get married, but I told her I wasn’t ready. I know she’s not ready, either. We argued about it for a few days. Then I found someone who could end it. At first she didn’t want to do the…procedure, but eventually she agreed to it. I’m sure it was the right thing to do, for both of us.”

Grace gently guides Luci
ano to a chair in the kitchen. Thank goodness she’s such a nice person. Internally seething, I’m barely able to restrain myself from kicking that idiot where it counts.

“The p
lace was horrible…dirty,” Luciano says. “But since I brought sterilizer from the lab, I knew the instruments were okay. Even though they gave her something for pain, she still screamed the whole time. Whether it hurt, or she was just upset, I’m not sure. When it was over, she kept acting hysterically, so I drove home to get Ativan. My sister keeps some at our house.”

“What about your parents
, or Paula’s?” Grace asks. “Why didn’t you ask them for help?”

“
We couldn’t do that,” says Luciano, shaking his head. “Our parents are all very conservative, and I don’t think they’d forgive us for this. Hell, her father might even report us.”

“Report you?” I say
.

“Yeah
. Abortion is illegal in Brazil.”

“I wasn’t awa
re of that,” I say frostily. “So if it’s illegal here, why didn’t you fly her to the States, where they could’ve done it properly?”

“No way,” he
says. “That would’ve been much too expensive. Plus there’s the time factor. We needed to end it, as quickly as possible.”

“Now that you’ve ended it, what are you doing here?” asks Grace.

“That’s an excellent question, Grace,” I say

I plant
myself squarely in front Luciano. For several seconds I tap my foot, waiting for his reply.

“I need you
two to keep an eye on Paula,” says Luciano.

“What?
” I say.

“She can’t go home
, and I can’t stay here,” says Luciano. “I have to get out, to clear my head, before I go crazy.”

“You’re leaving her…
here?” I shout at him, my voice rising with every word. “You’re dropping her, because you need to clear your head?”

“You two are nearly done with medical school
. You can handle it,” he says.

“But we’ve barely had any clinical training yet,” says Grace.

“Look, Paula’s completely fine,” says Luciano. “She just needs someone to watch her for a little while. Emma, you can stay home from the lab tomorrow. And Grace, I’ll tell Alvin that you’re sick and need a day off. I know it seems like I’m asking a lot, but I absolutely need to get back to work tomorrow, or I could lose my job. If you run into trouble, just walk over to the lab and find me.”

Suddenl
y my mind flashes to that night in the hospital when I nearly died from the flu and hyponatremia. Specifically, I recall the moment when I woke up in the hospital, weak, afraid, and completely alone.

“
Okay,” I say warily. “We’ll do it.”

“Good,” says Luciano
. On his way out the door, he adds, “Please keep this quiet, for Paula’s sake.”

“We will,”
says my roommate.

Grace and I have no intention of g
etting Paula into any trouble, but Luciano is a different story. I’d love to start by wringing his neck, followed by implementing some slow, excruciating method of torture on a number of body parts that are unique to individuals with the Y chromosome. As it turns out, I’ve no time to stew in angry indignation. About 10 minutes after Luciano’s departure, Paula leans over and vomits across the tiles in our living room.

“Good thing we don’t have
a carpet,” I say.

Grace
nods in solemn agreement.

“Ma
ybe someone planned it that way,” she says.

“Smart someone
.”

I’m rapidly developing a wh
ole new level of respect for the apartment’s interior designer.

We then take turns holding Paula’s hair out of the way while she progressively empties her stomach
. After the fifth episode of vomiting, which is looking ominously green, I worry that she might not stop. Feeling a bit lightheaded and queasy myself, I lower myself down onto the floor tiles next to the couch, trying to avoid any wet spots.

“Are you okay?” asks Grace
. “You look almost as pale as Paula.”

“I’ll be alright…I think
.”  

On the edge of a full-blown panic attack, I take a deep breath, trying to figure out what to do next.

“I wish there was something we could give Paula, to help stop the vomiting,” says Grace.

“Grace, that’s it!
” I say. “Thank goodness you reminded me!”

“Reminded you of what?”

Without answering, I push myself off the floor, lunge into the bedroom and start rifling through the various bottles and foil-wrapped pill packets stored inside the cardboard box in my suitcase. Anything that doesn’t look useful—essentially everything thus far—gets thrown onto the bedroom floor. At the very bottom of the box, I find what I’m looking for.

“I’ve got it
! Grace….”

“What is it?” she asks, running into the bedroom.

“Compazine.”

“Let me see,” she says
.

Grace grabs the foi
l package from my hand.

“Uh, oh
,” she says.

“What’s wrong?”

“You have to administer this stuff rectally,” she says.

“Oh
. But maybe that’s a good thing. I mean, Paula probably wouldn’t hold it down orally.”

“Okay,” Grace
says bravely. “I’ll do it.”

After finding
some gloves, we pull off Paula’s sweat pants.

“Oh, shit,” says Grace
. “She’s bleeding.”

“
Wow. That’s a first,” I say.

“
What is?”

“
I’ve never heard you swear before.”

“
I only start cursing when I’m really upset. And right now, I’m not a happy camper.”

“Oh, c
ome on, Grace,” I say. “It could be worse.”

“How could t
his situation be any worse? Our closest friend in Brazil just had an illegal abortion, and now she’s sick and bleeding all over our couch.”

“
Let’s not forget about the rectal Compazine.”

“Thanks for re
minding me,” says Grace.

“At least the couch is black,” I say.

“What?”

“Can you imagine how bad this situation wou
ld be if we had a white couch?”

“
Very funny, Emma.”

“I’m trying to think positively
. Do we have any dark-colored towels?”

“
Actually, we do,” says Grace, running off toward the bathroom.

After covering the
pool of blood under Paula’s backside with a black towel, Grace inserts the medicine, hopefully into the correct orifice.

“Is there anything in
your box that can slow down the bleeding?” she asks.

“Unfortunately not
. I’m guessing that’ll stop by itself.”

About 20
minutes later the vomiting ceases, and I’m able to start spooning Rehydralyte into Paula’s mouth. When she begins moaning and clutching her pelvis, I’m afraid to give her ibuprofen, since I’ve learned about its blood-thinning properties. Because I haven’t brought any narcotics, our only other choice for pain control is acetaminophen, which she fortunately holds down. Soon after taking the medicine, Paula relaxes enough to fall sleep, and Grace covers her with a clean bed sheet. Then the two of us pass out in the bedroom, completely spent.

N
ext thing I know, midmorning sunlight is pouring in through the window, and Grace is yelling at the top of her lungs.