Thicker Than Soup (27 page)

“Maa, will it be snowing when we're in London?”

“It might. But probably not. We have a lot more snow here than they do in London.” Looking at Hiba's feverish eyes Sally wondered if they'd be able to leave for London in a few days time. “Come on little one; back into your bed.” Climbing in beside her, she hugged Hiba's thin body and waited for her breathing to settle. But Hiba's body was hot; too hot, and when the shallow, rasping breathing didn't settle, Sally slipped from the bed. “I'll be back in a minute – I'm going to get some aspirin,” she told her.

Shaking Arif's shoulder, she woke him. “Arif. Hiba's very hot. Come and see her.”

*

Arif's voice, arriving ahead of his presence, startled the sleepy emergency room to life. “Pneumonia. I'm sure. Temperature's 39. There's sternal recession, her respiratory rate's 40 and there's no breath sound on the left side. I want oxygen and IV fluids. Get blood tests and a chest X-ray organised.” His manner both reassured and alarmed Sally. A distant Call to Prayer sounded and she covered her head automatically as ward staff moved robotically to Arif's commands. Incongruously, a cleaning woman squatting in a corner paused her incessant crablike sweeping to gawp at the unfolding drama. Hiba's nose and mouth disappeared behind an oxygen mask and the white brightness of the room pulsed as Sally felt her legs weaken. Steadying herself against a stainless steel shelf a metal kidney dish skittered then crashed to the floor, and, as if suddenly aware of her presence, Arif handed a cannula to the duty registrar. He led Sally to another, empty room. “Get a taxi and go home. Hiba will be all right; the oxygen and antibiotics will take effect very quickly. Lots of children get pneumonia. She'll be home again in a day or two. You can come back in the morning, but go home now.” Her teeth chattered and he rubbed her arms vigorously. “Go home. Keep warm. Sammy will be worried; go and tell him his sister will be home soon. I'll phone in a few hours. Come.” He led her to the corridor. “Go that way, and tell the nurse at the desk to get a taxi; tell her I said so.” She nodded reluctantly, trusting her doctor husband to perform whatever miracle was needed. “Hiba will be fine,” he repeated, “don't worry.” Her feet obeyed his instructions, taking her along the corridor but her eyes saw nothing except Hiba's face enveloped in the oxygen mask.

*

When Arif arrived home Sally was in the kitchen, stirring a saucepan of erupting dhal. Her eyes sought beyond his unshaven chin and grey pallor and he answered her silent question. “She'll be fine.” He filled a glass from the water cooler. “It's pneumonia and there's empyema too. But she's having antibiotics and within twenty four hours we'll see a big difference.” He rubbed a hand over his eyes and turned towards the family room. “Come. Sit with me.”

“What's empyema?” She followed him.

“It's a sometimes side effect of pneumonia. It's infected fluid, or pus, in the pleural cavity. That's the space between the lung and chest wall.” Her hand flew to her mouth. “Don't worry, the antibiotics will deal with it. It could take a couple of weeks for her to fully recover, and we might need to use a chest tube to drain the pus, but she'll get better.”

“A couple of weeks! But we're going to London on ….” The impossibility of the planned journey sank in. “It doesn't matter. We can go in the Spring holiday.” An acrid smell drifted from the kitchen. “Oh no!” Running into the kitchen she found a layer of blackened lentils stuck to the bottom of the saucepan. “Oh chootar! That's all I need!” Carefully ladling the top layer to a clean saucepan she dropped the burnt saucepan into the sink and filled it with water.

“It's only dhal, dhaling.” Arif's old joke, started on their honeymoon almost nine years previously, brought a half smile and she returned to his side. “It is only dhal,” he repeated, pulling her close.

“I know. You're right. I was making it for Hiba; it's easy for her to eat. I can make some more.”

Arif nodded. “It's a good idea. Even if she was well she wouldn't eat hospital food.” He rubbed his red rimmed eyes and told Sally he would shower, eat some of her dhal, and return to the hospital. “I want to check she gets the right medication and on time.”

When Hiba didn't improve the next day Sally stayed at the hospital. Snow continued to fall gently beyond the window, echoing the slow drift of Hiba's tiny chest under the stiff white sheet. Late in the evening Hiba's eyes opened and Sally moved quickly into her view. “Hello little one,” she whispered. A wave of coughing wracked Hiba's body and Sally hugged her daughter tightly until the paroxysm subsided.

“It hurts, Maa.” Hiba's voice, distorted behind the oxygen mask, was barely audible.

Sally wiped a tear that ran out of the oxygen mask. “Hush, don't try to talk. We'll ask Baba for something to stop it hurting.”

Summoned by the coughing, Arif came into the room. “She shouldn't be coughing like that.” He put his stethoscope to Hiba's chest and listened. “I've changed her medication; she's on a combination dosage now.” He checked her pulse and muttered to himself. “Why isn't she responding?” Lifting Hiba's other hand, he looked at the cannula. “What the…. “ Snatching her chart from the end of the bed he demanded, “Which nurse did her last checks?”

“I think she's called Ansari; the tall, thin woman. Why?”

Arif was out of the door before Sally had finished speaking, returning a moment later gripping the forearm of the startled staff nurse. “Look!” He held Hiba's hand for the nurse to see. “This is infected! Why has it not been checked?” Sally leaned over to see where Arif pointed and noticed a redness and slight swelling around the white tape that held the cannula in place. “This is a hospital. Nurses are trained to look for things like this! My daughter is here because she has pneumonia. Do you want her to have septicaemia too? I want a cannula – a sterile cannula – in her
other
hand, and I want this cleaned. Properly and now!” His voice was compelling; the nurse moved quickly.

Once the procedure had been completed Arif adjusted the sheet and tucked Bandy under Hiba's arm. “It's no wonder so many of our doctors leave Pakistan. It's impossible to work here. This is the best hospital in Abbottabad and still we cannot rely on good practice. How doctors cope in the Government hospitals I do not know.” Frowning, he looked down then bent and picked something up. “Look at this! I should be surprised but I'm not. It's broken glass! A phial has been dropped and no-one has cleaned up! Patients walk around beds without their shoes on – what are nurses thinking of!”

“Here, give it to me.” Sally tugged several tissues from a box and wrapped the glass carefully. “Arif. You said Hiba should be responding. What do you mean?”

Arif sighed. “Hiba's pneumonia is caused by a ‘flu bacteria. The kind of antibiotics I've given her should deal with it, but there are other bacteria involved; she has empyema. It may be that Hiba's resisting the antibiotics because she's had so many over the years.” He looked at Hiba's hand again then lifted it to his cheek. “There's another antibiotic; a new one. We don't have it here. But they have some at the new Shifa hospital in Islamabad. I'm going to drive there and get some.”

“Arif! Why don't you send a courier? You can't drive all that way and back tonight!” His face was grey and slack.

But Arif was adamant. The newly opened hospital, he insisted, was equipped with modern machines and apparatus, and whilst there, he would test Hiba's blood more specifically. “I'll test yours too,” he said, explaining that Sally might have acquired Hiba's bacteria and be in need of precautionary medication. He drew the blood himself, first hers, then gently tapping at Hiba's limp, thin arm until he found a vein, he filled a second phial. Kissing the round plaster on Hiba's arm after he was done, and knowing it was never a breakfast treat, he promised to bring her some ice-cream for breakfast the next morning.

*

“Mmmm, Ice-cream sounds good.” Sally tried to tempt Hiba to eat after Arif had left. Ice-cream alone might not be an ideal meal but it would, at least, provide some nourishment. “Shall I go and get us both some now?” When Hiba nodded, she went to the street where, within minutes, a youth cycled slowly past the hospital. “Hey!” She called, “do you like ice-cream?” Apprehension turned to amusement as she offered to buy him whatever ice-cream he wanted if he would go to the parlour and buy three tubs, including one for himself. It was a risk – he might go off with the money – but it wasn't much. Ten minutes later he brought back the ice-creams and some change, which she insisted he keep.

*

“Here we are Shehzadi.” Lifting Hiba so that she was sitting, she arranged her pillows and moved the oxygen mask. “Ice-cream.” Hiba opened her mouth to accept the proffered spoonful and let it melt in her mouth. “Well done little princess. Only princesses have only ice-cream for tea, don't they?” A tiny smile tugged Hiba's mouth and she accepted another few spoonfuls before turning her head away. “What? A princess saying no to ice-cream? Whatever will the king say?” But the effort of eating even ice-cream was too much and Sally willed Arif's speedy return from Islamabad.

*

Hiba slept fitfully into the evening, her rasping breath muffled inside the mask. Exhausted, Sally tried to doze in a chair though each bout of coughing brought a fresh prayer to her lips. Soft soled shoes came and went, methodically recording Hiba's temperature, pulse, and medications. As day faded, the blue light of snow half lit the room, and rubbing her eyes Sally got up and switched on a light. Once more, Hiba's tiny chest heaved and choked into another round of hacking and in the new light Sally saw her daughter's skin. It was grey, her lips blue. “Nurse!” she shouted, then screamed, “Nurse!” Hiba struggled to sit upright, arms reaching for her mother, terrified eyes pleading for her to stop what was happening. A nurse ran in then out of the room again, shouting for the doctor. Hiba sucked fiercely at the mask's ration of air and clamped her lips as if reluctant to release it. The nurse returned with a doctor. The room filled with people. A cardiogram came to life. Bleep, bleep. Another line was inserted into another vein. A doctor listened through a stethoscope, first to the right, then the left, then the right of her chest. The bleeping slowed and someone pummelled her chest, picking up the rhythm of the cardiogram, but the bleeps still slowed. Then stopped. They hoisted Hiba so that her head hung backwards like a ragdoll, and Sally watched a tube pushed in and in, further and further, until it could go no more. A bag pumped air into Hiba's chest and she watched it rise and fall again and saw the doctor listen right and left then extract the tube and push it in again. The bleeping didn't start again. Nor did the breathing. The only thing the doctor could usefully do was to catch Sally as her legs folded and she dropped to the floor. But he was too late for that, too.

*

Over the coming weeks she asked Allah over and again why he'd taken back the child he'd so reluctantly given. What had they done wrong? What more could she have done? She'd prayed, she'd lived in faith; what had Allah seen, in his wisdom, to take her beloved daughter? They, her and Arif, should have been taken first. Taking Hiba was too cruel for reason.

Sammy was brought home from his school, and Karim and Pazir came home too. It seemed almost normal, having the family around, except for the solemnity. It would never be normal again. Laughter, like Hiba, had died. In a house thick with grief they spoke only to say what had to be said. Arif went about his day, his so recently youthful appearance lined and grey as an old man. There was no chatter. No teasing. No banter. She watched Sammy stare blankly at the TV. He'd always been an easy child to be with; easygoing and easily read. He'd said nothing. Perhaps he imagined himself too grown up at twelve years; a man who shouldn't cry. He'd changed during the past year. Limbs had stretched. His voice was a man's. A soft balloon bulged the front of his throat. He'd sat motionless for almost an hour, and Sally had filled with irrational panic then relief as she saw his youthful head move a fraction. Then she grew angry. How could he watch TV? His sister had been dead for only one week. She started to demand he turn it off, then stopped and instead, went to the kitchen to make a meal. Dhal. She'd make dhal. She could do it without thinking. Food. Hateful, life supporting food. Taking plates from the shelf she counted out six, then remembering, put one back.

Hours, days, weeks, and then a month shuffled into the past. Sammy returned to school. That morning Arif had left with Karim and Pazir; taking Karim to his Peshawar college and Pazir to the airport. Arif's mother had taken her grief to Dubai and in its emptiness the house had a new silence that Sally embraced. Arif would be away for two nights, staying with an old friend in Nowshera, giving her freedom to submerge herself in the heartache that had replaced her daughter. She hadn't the strength to deal with Arif's sorrow as well as her own.

She went to Hiba's room. On the bed was Bandy, the toy she'd refused to sleep without. An elastic hair-tie lay on the shelf next to the owl alarm clock that still ticked as if time mattered. Twisted into a hair-tie were wisps of Hiba's dark hair and Sally picked it up and stroked it against her cheek. The room might have been ready for Hiba to come home to, except Shamila's presence overlaid the tidy dolls, books, clothes and the clean, fresh bed. Still holding the hair-tie Sally lay on the smooth sheet and let her face sink into the uncreased pillow that had once been indented with Hiba's face.

*

It was dark when the phone woke her, and quite cold. Pulling Hiba's blanket round her shoulders she turned to the wall and put her hands over her ears until the ringing stopped. It was probably Arif, or possibly Rachel. Rachel, who still called almost every day. A worm of guilt wriggled into consciousness. She'd have to go back to work soon; Rachel couldn't carry it all for ever. But not yet, not yet. She looked over her shoulder at the owl clock; it was almost nine thirty. Having eaten nothing since the meagre breakfast before Arif had departed that morning- she hadn't wanted it, but everyone ate – she had a hunger. With them all gone she didn't have to prepare food, or eat if she didn't want to. But this hunger was new. After a few more minutes she rose from the bed and went to the kitchen. With a handful of biscuits she returned to Hiba's bed and slept until the Imam called the dawn prayers.