Page 99 of Light Up The Night
Oh, right. New gloves. Only the box is empty; there are no more.
Duwana, ever nearby, shoves a handful of clean gloves at me. I put on a pair and stuff the rest in my scrub pockets.
A fresh wave of patients arrives. These are newly wounded, still in shock, thrashing, spurting, gushing, seeping, weeping.
The trance-state takes over and my hands do their work.
“—Well? Dr. Creswell?"Duwana? Yes, Duwana. That is her name. "…Must rest. You cannot continue."
I look at her and see not her but the previous patient. A woman who looked much like her. She had a hole in her gut so large a cantaloupe could have fit in the space. All I could do was ease her suffering, and even that not much, for even the years-old morphine is nearly gone and must be rationed.
It is quieter, now; I do not know why.
Someone screams nearby, and I move toward the sound. A young man—a boy, really, not old enough to shave every day. I scan him—oh. No. He will not survive. I hold his hand as he cries, fades…stills forever.
Duwana pulls me away, then. "Come. You must come, Cadence."
"No…no. I can't."
More hands. They pull, they push. What is happening? I see familiar faces—nurses. Doctors. Orderlies. My companions here,these last six months. Some faces are wet with tears. What is happening? Have I died?
Duwana is beside me, arm around my waist, guiding me down a hallway to an exit. This is a service corridor near the receiving dock. Why are we here? What is going on?
We reach the exit. Bodies cluster around me. Hands reach for me. Squeeze my arms, my shoulders.
Prayers are whispered in Arabic:
Go with God—go with God—go with God.
I see the faces of my protectors: Deng, Malong, and Gorte—three local men who have treated me like a sister, an aunt. They have brought me food, fresh clothing, and tea. The few times I have left the hospital, they accompany me, protect me, translate for me, see that I do not forget a headscarf in public or otherwise run afoul of local customs through ignorance.
They escorted me here from the airport, and when the time comes, they will escort me back.
I see my small suitcase full of my few personal possessions near the exit.
"Duwana?" I ask. "What is happening?"
Duwana frames my face in her strong, gentle hands. Her fingers are so black against my pale skin, a juxtaposition I find lovely. "You must go now, my sister."
I shake my head. "No. No. I cannot. I—I can't. How can I leave, Duwana?"
"Youmust, Cadence." She is weeping. "Youmust. It is time. There is a lull in the fighting. You must go. You have done more than anyone could ask. Allah brought you here, and now Allah calls you home."
"No!" I protest. "Duwana, I—"
Fatima—another nurse to whom I have drawn quite close—squeezes my hand. She is short, stout, quick-tempered, andprefers a plain black hijab. She has a deft, quick touch with IV insertions. "You must go."
Go with god, sister.
"You can do nothing more, here," Duwana says. "Soon this hospital will be overrun. The enemy will come and you cannot be here when that happens. You must go now, Cadence. Please."
My protectors form a wall behind me. I try to push past them, to return to the triage floor.
Duwana's grip is fierce. She shakes me. "CADENCE!" She raises her voice to an angry snap for the first time since I met her. "It is time for you to go. You cannot save us all."
"I can try!" I shout. "I won't leave you!”
"I willnotsee youdie!" She shouts back. "You must go. Youmust. Please. For me, if not for you and if not for your Riley, who waits for you so patiently."
