Page 97 of Light Up The Night
My hands shake. They always do, after. Never before, never during. Only after an operation. That was my third such effort in the last twenty-four hours. I hardly remember the last time I slept more than two hours in a row. A week since, at least.
I find myself in a tiny outdoor space created by the layout of the hospital—it is just barely big enough to host a few native flowers and a bench, but it is fresh air and sunlight.
As I do a dozen times every day, I mourn the loss of my phone—it fell out of my scrubs when I was helping transfer a victim from a truck to a gurney. I did not notice until much later, but by then it had been run over by who knows how many vehicles.There is no way to get a new one, not here. I hardly have the time, anyway.
I just miss him.
I would love nothing more than to be able to call him right now. Hear his voice. Perhaps he would say something amusing. Tell me a crude joke which I would playfully scold him for.
I hear the door open and close, and soft footfalls behind me.
I sigh, knowing I am being summoned. "Yes, I am coming." I start to rise, already reaching for my scrub cap.
A soft hand on my shoulder keeps me in my seat. “No, please, Dr. Creswell. Stay as you are." The speaker has the distinct rhythm of a Sudanese individual—I know the voice, as well: Nurse Duwana.
I sink back down onto the bench and toy with the cap. "Duwana." She comes around the bench and stands facing me. "Is there something I can do for you?"
She smiles, showing even, white teeth. She is a lovely, wonderful soul, Duwana. The very image of compassion. Tireless. Fierce when need be. She is beautiful, with very dark black skin. Tall and slender, always wearing a colorfultoubandhijabpairing. I rely on her—she is my translator here at the hospital as well as my liaison with the other Sudanese nurses, many of whom still do not entirely trust me and certainly do not like me. They recognize my skill, however, and as long as I go through Duwana, they heed me. This hospital would run into ruin without her.
So would I, for that matter.
She sits beside me, hands folded on her lap. I expect her to say something or do something, but she does not. She merely sits in silence with me; her spirit is one of calm, of healing reassurance, despite the violence of her world in which I am merely a visitor.
I feel my weary, aching, troubled soul soaking up her calm, and I realize the subtlety of what she is doing—giving me the few moments of peace and quiet I need, the comfort of companionship without the burden of conversation.
Exactly what I need, without having to ask.
I reach for hands and fold them in mine. "Thank you, Duwana."
She smiles. A hint of mischief glitters in her eyes. "Come, please. I have a thing to show you. A surprise." She rises and gently urges me to my feet as well.
"A surprise? For me?"
Her only answer is to lead me back into the hospital and down crowded, overflowing corridors, past moaning patients and weeping family members and walking wounded with thousand-yard stares. She brings me to the stairwell and we ascend, ascend, all the way to the rooftop. She presses the crash bar delicately, ushers me out into the blinding African sun and oppressive heat. A helicopter thuds in the distance; faintly, so distant as to make you question your hearing, there is the soft chatter of automatic weapons, the occasional crump of an explosion.
We are, supposedly, rather far from the nearest hotspots of fighting, but whenever I come outside, it seems the sounds of war have drawn incrementally closer.
I am assured it will not come here, but I am not sure I believe that claim. The gnawing pit of dread in my gut feels like a premonition, a warning.
I shake my morbid thoughts off as Duwana leads the way across the roof and around the stairwell structure, around the revolving silver domes. I hear voices, an eruption of laughter.
I halt, puzzled: a handful of off-duty nurses, the ones who dislike me the least, are clustered around something, their bodies hiding whatever it is. They look eager—pleased, excited.
I cannot fathom why, or about what. It is not my birthday, so I cannot imagine what surprise they could have for me.
Duwana stops and faces me. "Dr. Creswell," she says, and then gestures at the surrounding nurses, “we have talked for weeks about how we can show you how thankful we are for you. You are here, fighting for the lives of our people, when this is not your war and not your people."
"I feel called to help," I say.
"I know. Few others would risk and sacrifice all that you have to come to a place like this." She takes my hands in hers. "It is not very much, I know, but hopefully this will give you even a small taste of your homeland."
She steps aside, and so do the others. Behind them is a small folding card table laden with dishes of food. I see a whole roasted chicken, rice, sweet potatoes, flatbread, roasted vegetables…
"I…" I shake my head. "This is…why? This is so much food, and there is so little to go around as it is. Why, Duwana?"
She frowns in confusion. "Perhaps you are unaware? Today is your country's Thanksgiving holiday. I read a book long ago, before all this began, about your holiday of giving thanks, and I remember the foods it is said you enjoy on that day. We do not have turkey, I am afraid, but I hope a chicken will do."
"Thanksgiving?" My eyes burn, water. "You…you made all this…forme?"
