Mali and Julian were waiting for me in the hallway as I came through the door.
“Mademoiselle Vivi, your friend Bridgette…” Mali began, her voice cracking.
“The orphanage called Catherine a few hours ago,” Julian said. “They’ve taken Bridgette to Mahosot Hospital.”
I searched their troubled expressions, trying to comprehend why Bridgette would be at the French hospital. “But why? Her fever isn’t serious.” A hard lump formed in my chest.
“Her illness took a turn. She’s very sick,” Julian said. “I’ll take you there.”
My mind finally registered the gravity of his words, the sympathy in his voice. We ran all the way from the house over two streets to the hospital, the world passing by in a blur.
The main building, a two-story concrete structure with white walls and a red-tiled roof, was designated for French and European patients, while separate buildings treated locals. The moment we entered, smells of disinfectant, rubbing alcohol, and medicines washed over us. Two ceiling fans circulated the odors around the room in the hot, humid air. My stomach lurched.
The woman at the reception desk directed us to the first room on the right upstairs. We found Catherine and Maîtresse standing beside Bridgette. An Annamese nurse, a tiny woman with dark hair piled on top of her head, held Bridgette’s wrist, measuring her pulse.
Catherine turned to me, tears streaming down her cheeks. I stopped short. My dear friend was a diminished figure swamped by a sea of white sheets and pillows. Her mottled skin had turned a pale yellow, the color of a plucked chicken. Sweat pasted her hair to her forehead, and her chest rose and fell with gasps as she strained to take in enough oxygen. Her eyes remained closed.
The nurse glanced up, startled by our arrival. “I’ll get the doctor,” she said. “We can’t allow this many people. Two of you must leave.” I read despair in her expression, letting me know that we were gathered to say goodbye to Bridgette. “You should have brought her sooner,” the nurse murmured as she hurried off.
“I thought it was a virus,” Maîtresse said, her voice barely audible. “Not malaria.” She looked up, as if surprised she had spoken these words out loud. “I must bring Father Jérôme.” She placed a hand on my shoulder. “Pray for her soul, Geneviève. Pray for her eternal soul.” She disappeared with Julian trailing behind her.
What good would it do to pray to a God who allowed Bridgette to suffer to this point, who might let her die, when she had hardly begun her life? Father Jérôme promised this unseen God had a greater plan for our lives, but this was the same God who had brought Bridgette and me to the orphanage, abandoned by our parents, only to be persecuted and harassed by Director Bernard. I wanted no part of this God.
Catherine put an arm around my shoulders. “I don’t know if Bridgette is conscious, but talk to her. I believe she can hear and understand us. She needs to know she is loved and not alone.”
“Why didn’t…they bring…her before?” I asked, as great sobs garbled my words. “How could they be so…so cruel?”
“Director Bernard thought Bridgette was being overly dramatic, playing on his sympathy to get away from the orphanage,” Catherine said. “It’s despicable.”
Of course the director would be indifferent to her illness, thinking only of his power to control and punish. This time he’d gone too far. Now, he would be a murderer.
I forced myself to control my crying and sat at the side of her bed. I took Bridgette’s hot, damp hand and began to speak in a calm, quiet voice. “It’s Vivi, chérie. I’m here. You know how much I love you, how much I need you in my life. You must get better right away.” I talked and talked, describing what our lives would be like in a few weeks after she left the orphanage—all the fun things we would do, the places we would visit, how we would go to school in Paris the following year. “We’ll find our perfect husbands and live near each other, raise our children together.” I described the latest temple Bounmy had taken me to, the meal we had shared along the riverfront, until my voice broke, and tears flooded from my eyes, raining down on our hands. If only it were possible to send my strength to heal her. But I had no special powers, only my love.
“Don’t leave me, Bridgette,” I begged. “Fight for your life.” At one point, she turned her head my way and opened her eyes halfway, and for a few fleeting seconds, she seemed to recognize me. Then she slipped away to another place.
Time had no meaning, no framework. It may have been minutes or hours before a man in a white coat stood beside me, his name tag reading Dr. Vogel. He was short and middle-aged with a substantial stomach, pudgy cheeks, and a kind smile. He observed the world from behind thick lenses, which made his pale gray eyes enormous.
He patted my shoulder and spoke softly. “I see Bridgette is very special to you.” He gently felt Bridgette’s forehead, then listened to her heart with his stethoscope. His gaze went to Catherine and back to me. “You must prepare yourselves. There is nothing more we can do at this point but try to keep her comfortable. She will leave us soon for a better place.”
I wanted to scream at him that there was no better place! How could he utter such an absurd lie, a fairy tale meant only to placate the living? She would be gone forever, lying alone in a wooden box beneath the ground. My closest, dearest friend, the only family I had ever known, would vanish. The reality of the loss began to sink in, and I struggled to catch my breath.
“It’s always terribly sad with one so young,” Dr. Vogel said, issuing a deep sigh before disappearing from the room.
The nurse gave Bridgette a shot of morphine, which she said would ease her distress.
Maîtresse returned with Father Jérôme. His expression bore the gravity of administering the last rites. Sunday after Sunday, Bridgette and I had attended Mass at his church and witnessed his unwavering faith in a higher being, the complicated promise of heaven and the threats of purgatory and hell. He believed in his powers to absolve Bridgette of her sins and guide her to this mythical place called heaven. In that moment, I wished more than anything I shared his faith.
Catherine and I retreated across the room to the window. I could not bear to watch Father Jérôme issue prayers, repeatedly making the sign of the cross over Bridgette’s body. I held on to Catherine’s hand, staring through the wooden shutters to the town below, now dark and quiet. The night would pass, time ebbing and flowing into another dawn and another day without regard for the loss of my cherished friend.
The priest finished his ministrations, offered his condolences, and left. Maîtresse stood next to Bridgette, dabbing her face with a handkerchief. “Please forgive me for failing you,” she whispered. I stepped beside her and placed a hand on her arm. She turned to me, her eyes filled with such pain and regret, I had to look away. “I’m so sorry, Geneviève.” She gave me a quick hug before rushing from the hall.
Catherine and I sat on either side of the bed once more, holding Bridgette’s hands, speaking occasionally in soothing voices, trying to ease her passage. At twenty-two minutes after three in the morning, she let out one last defeated breath.