Sarah pressed her hands against her ears to block out the mother’s anguished crying.
Please, would somebody come take that woman away? Peter needs his peace and quiet.
No medicine for her sick brother.
After all she’d been through, pushing on and on and on to get Peter to a doctor.
Well, they’d found a doctor.
And the doctor couldn’t do anything. Except tell her to pray.
Pray? Who was she going to pray to? A God who’d allowed thousands and thousands of people to die in the first place? That made no sense at all.
The doctor checked the girl and shook his head. The nurse expertly wrapped the girl in a white sheet. She was probably real good at doing that by now. The mother, whose keening had muted to quiet sobbing, picked up the bundle and left the tent.
Sarah stood still for a moment and then ran out of the tent into the rich light of a golden afternoon. “Excuse me,” she called out to the woman, who turned to her, the white bundle cradled in her arms. “I’m so sorry.”
The woman stared blankly at Sarah for a moment with reddened eyes. She turned away without a word and walked stiffly on.
When Sarah returned to the hot shadows of the tent and Peter’s side, Surf Cat was just slipping through the tent’s ripped seam. The seam tugged wider. In wriggled Aisyah.
Sarah hugged the woman, overjoyed to see her. “Where’s Ruslan?” She needed to talk to him. Needed his advice on what to do now. “Ruslan?” she repeated.
Aisyah shrugged with spread hands to tell Sarah she didn’t know.
He’d probably left for that village to find his father. Well, of course he would. He had every right to. He’d already gone out of his way to help her. Still, she wished he were here right now. Between the two of them they’d figure out something.
“Surf Cat’s back,” she said to Peter as she knelt back down beside him. “He brought Aisyah with him. Maybe the darn cat really is a genie.”
Peter’s eyes fluttered open, and he grinned at her and then at Aisyah. A feeble grin, but a grin. God, that made her feel good. She vowed to herself that if—when he got better, she would never ever tease him again. About anything. He could be as annoying as he wanted to. She wouldn’t say a word. Well, maybe that was asking too much. But she’d be polite. She wouldn’t yell shut up, she’d say please be quiet.
Aisyah had a small paper packet with her, which she ripped open and poured into the remaining water in the wash basin. The yellow powder made a paste, which she smeared on Peter’s chest. The paste had a sharp, medicinal odor.
“Jamu,” Aisyah said.
Traditional medicine. Better than nothing. Might even be better than aspirin.
But what Peter really needed was proper medicine and hospital care.
Dad, Dad, what am I supposed to do now?
Surf Cat licked his paws, offering no clues. But wait—he looked like he was praying. Sort of praying, anyhow. Was that a sign she was to pray? She didn’t want to. What good was prayer? Just wishful thinking. When people were helpless and had no more options, that’s when they prayed. A last resort for the desperate. That wasn’t her. She’d get Peter help somehow.
Peter stroked Surf Cat’s fur. Boy, his fingernails needed trimming. Cleaning. She looked down at hers. She hadn’t thought about them once in days. Bitten down to nubs. An awful old habit, back again.
Aisyah rubbed the paste on Peter’s face. “Hey,” he said, trying to push her hand away.
“It’s medicine,” Sarah said. Her brother relaxed. When Aisyah was done, Peter caught Sarah’s smile. “What?” he asked suspiciously.
“Remember how you always made fun of Mom’s facials? You look just like that now. Wish I had a camera.”
“Sheesh.” He lifted a hand to rub off the drying paste. Sarah caught his hand, folded his fingers into her own. “It’s medicine, honest.”
“You won’t tell anybody? You won’t tell Ben and Charlie?” They were his two best friends.
“No, just Amanda.”
“Not her! She’s the world’s biggest blabbermouth!”
“Just kidding. I won’t tell a soul. Promise. Except Dad.”
Peter scowled. “Okay. You can tell him. Nobody else, though.” He closed his eyes and drowsed off again. The paste seemed to be helping, as his breathing seemed to come easier, his constant coughing and chuffing tapering off.
Still, worry was a rat loose in Sarah’s stomach, gnawing away with its big, sharp teeth.
A distant wailing drifted on the dusk. Aisyah tugged at Sarah’s arm, asking her to come. Not for long, she gestured. Peter seemed to be sleeping okay. Sarah squeezed out of the tent and hurried after Aisyah to the other hill.
A man stood at the front of a dusty clearing, facing the sunset as he chanted in that long wail. People gathered from the ramshackle huts, the men lining up in rows in front and the smaller group of women lining up in the back. The mute girl joined Aisyah in the last row. The girl caught Sarah’s eye and gave her a smile, and then grew solemn as she raised her hands in prayer.
A sharp yearning seized Sarah. How wonderful it would be to have such faith.
She knelt down beside the girl. Prayer was to her a foreign language, and so her words were hesitant and awkward.
God, please help Peter get better. And help my dad and keep him safe. A hesitant pause. And bless Mom in heaven. Weird to be praying for her dead mother and still not feel a thing. Next to her the girl stirred, and it was then that a fierce emotion rose in her. And this girl, she has nobody, keep her safe too.
Was God listening? She had no idea. He did not seem any closer or more real to her, but saying her prayer had calmed the gnawing rat in her stomach.