Part 2
It's three and half months since he's started working with David, Eli's old college friend. The clinic is located in a smallish town of about 5000 people, but it's the only medical facility in a two hundred miles radius. David and Fitz are the only full time doctors there; a couple of local women who trained as nurses and came back are providing essential nursing care. Next to the clinic is a Red Cross orphanage which caters for about twenty children, boys and girls of all ages from all over this part of Africa.
He's working flat out. Twelve, fifteen hours at the clinic, back to his sparsely furnished flat next door to collapse and get some sleep, and back to work again. It's a far cry from the ultra-modern kind of medicine he is used to practicing in the US – but it's medicine in its purest form. He has to draw on his long forgotten surgical, pediatrics and obstetrics skills, as well as on his expertise in anesthetics and pain relief.
He gets on well with David, whom he didn't really know before. David knows about his personal circumstances from Eli, of course, but hasn't tried to find out more. He's less impetuous, calmer than Eli, wiser in many ways, and as they are slowly becoming friends, Fitz knows that if he ever wants to confide in him, David will be there, good, solid, attentive. So will Abby, his wife of nine years, who is running the orphanage.
As the days merge into one another, his pain and grief at the loss of his son become more manageable. He witnesses enormous suffering every day– the suffering born from senseless wars and bottomless destitution, and although he never shares with his patients anything of what he himself has endured, simply to know that he is not alone somewhat helps him.
He's called Eli a few times, to let him know how things are, and to set up, via the Hospital's charity, a system whereby medical supplies they no longer need is sent to the clinic. Although Eli isn't saying much, Fitz can tell that he isn't happy and so he struggles to muster up the courage to ask about Olivia. For now, he absolutely cannot deal with the thought of losing her, or dwell on the memory of her long, slow, rejection of him in the aftermath of Josh's death and of their rows. And so when thoughts of her come into his mind, as they do every day, he pushes them aside.
Every day, he does a round at the orphanage. Most of the children suffer from long term malnutrition, a few of them are HIV positive and will most certainly develop AIDS. All of them have been through traumatic times. Somehow, though, the atmosphere in the orphanage is full of joy, thanks to Abby's compassion and wicked sense of humour. For those children, it's a refuge, a place where they are fed and treated if they are ill, but above all where they are held, soothed and comforted when they wake up from a nightmare, where no one ever hits them or screams at them, where they can play in peace and, for the oldest of them, get a basic education.
A couple of months after he started working there, they take on a new little boy. From patchy records they know that he is called Zach, that he is about 6 or 7 and that both his parents were killed in Rwanda a couple of years previously, probably in front of him, and that it's a miracle that he is still alive. Somehow, he's ended up there – the vagaries of the Red Cross refugee camps – and hasn't said a word or smiled since. On admission, he lets Abby and the other volunteers feed and wash him, but without really relating to them. He is very guarded but quiet, until one of the nurses start on his first medical check. He goes crazy at the sight of the stethoscope, thrashes around wildly, and refuses to be touched. His screams are so loud that Fitz can hear them from the other side of the building.
When he gets there to investigate what on earth is going on, Zach is huddled in his bed in the fetal position, sobbing inconsolably. "Sorry Fitz", the nurses says, "there's no way we can check him out. He won't let us."
"Don't worry, it can wait a few days. He's only been here twenty four hours, and according to the Red Cross records, he's physically healthy, so…"
As he keeps talking to the nurse, about Zach and a couple of the other children, he realises that Zach has stopped crying, and that he is actually listening to him, until his breathing quietens and he goes off to sleep.
In the following weeks, in the classroom, Zach does what he is asked to do, listlessly, although he is obviously very clever. At meal times, he eats what he has to eat; at night, he goes to bed when he is asked to. He is very obedient, but constantly watchful, as if he has been let down and betrayed so many times that he can't allow himself to relax. And he still hasn't uttered a word or smiled. Since his first visit, though, Fitz has noticed that whenever he is at the orphanage, Zach follows him around from a distance and never takes his eyes off him. In fact, he seems to have figured out which time of the day Fitz usually comes in, and he hovers around the entrance door, as if waiting for him. Fitz has talked to Abby about it, and they've decided to pretend that nothing is happening. Of all the members of staff, he is the only one in whom Zach shows an interest, and it would be stupid to scare him off by making a big fuss.
About a month or so after Zach's arrival, Fitz is sitting in the tiny office next to the children's playroom and doing some paperwork, when he senses that Zach is looking at him from the doorstep. He looks up and smiles at the boy briefly, not making a fuss, and starts talking to him in a soft, low voice, as if it's the most natural thing in the world. He describes what he is doing, ventures a few thoughts as to what Zach has probably been up to today, without staring at him, without making big gestures, all the while sorting out his paperwork. And so it becomes a ritual: every day, at the end of his round, Fitz sits down in the office, busies himself with paperwork, and talks to Zach. At first, Zach stays on the threshold. Then he takes just one step. Then, after a few days, he comes and stands close to the desk.
One afternoon, after a particularly busy round, Fitz sinks into the chair. Zach is there, as usual. But this time, he is holding something behind his back. Fitz doesn't ask him what it is: Zach will produce it – whatever it is – when he is ready, there's no hurry. Fitz slows down with his paperwork to give him more time. As he is about to get up, having run out of things to do, Zach thrusts his hand forward and puts a sheet of paper on the desk. It's a drawing: two human figures, it seems, a tall one and a small one. It looks as if the sticks which represent their arms are touching, as if they are holding hands. Before Fitz can say anything, Zach puts his finger on the small figure, then on the tall figure.
And in a voice made very rusty by months of near complete silence, he states: "Zach. Fitz."
-x-
David has been waiting at the airport for over an hour, feeling conspicuous with his big "Dr David Rosen" sign. At last the flight is confirmed as landed. His pick-up is the last passenger to trickle through. He greets her with a wave and a friendly smile. She looks a bit uncertain- after all, they've never met before-and he wants to put her at ease.
"Good, you're here, finally! OK, let's go and get the medical supplies you came with, and then, off to the clinic? It's about an hour's drive."
From the large baggage area they collect boxes of syringes, medicine, limb prostheses… thank God he had the good sense to come with the van.
"So… how was your flight? You look tired, if you don't mind me saying…"
She smiles at him wanly. "Well, getting that stuff organised was a bit of a business…anyway, I'm here now." After a pause, she asks: "Do you want to tell me more about the clinic? I mean… I don't know much about it actually."
"OK. Well… There're two doctors, me and Fitz. So we both have to pitch in with everything: surgery, general medicine, births…you name it. Plus two nurses, with you, that makes three. And a few volunteers to help with the orphanage, which Abby, my wife, runs. With any luck, we'll get a third doctor in a few weeks. Tell you the truth, in some ways you're a God send. Especially as Fitz has been away for a week and won't be back for another three or four days…"
"Why is that?", she asks conversationally.
"Well, we have a sort of medical outpost, a couple of hundred miles away from the clinic. One of us goes there every couple of months, for a week or so, to save those people the trek to our clinic."
"So he doesn't know about the arrangement, then? That the supplies would come with a nurse attached?"
"Nope. It all happened so quickly, and I haven't managed to get hold of him."
She falls silent. So does he. After a while, as he is pulling up in front of his house, he says, gently: "Look, I know it's a lot to take in… that you've never been here, never done that kind of nursing…on top of everything else. But… it'll be OK, don't worry."
A couple of hours later, after he's introduced her to all members of staff, he gives her a tour of the place. She's impressed by what they've managed to do with so few resources. At the orphanage, the children look at her with a curious but friendly gaze. Two of the babies grip her fingers tightly when she holds their hands, a couple of the older kids show her the classroom with enormous pride. She notices a small boy in the corner. He's hunched over his desk and is drawing furiously. "Who is he?", she asks David.
"Oh. This is Zach. Also known as Fitz's shadow."
At her raised eyebrows, he explains: "He came here almost four months ago and didn't speak for several weeks. Fitz was the only one of us he would relate to. He would follow him around, never let him out of his sight… In fact, his first words were his name and Fitz's… since then, he's got more and more attached to him."
She observes Zach for a while. "It must be hard, for him these days, then…" she says softly.
"Very hard. He's been almost regressing since Fitz has been away. You know: speaking less, withdrawing… the one thing that seems to help is the drawing. Fitz has managed to phone once or twice but…"
"Is he attached to Zach?"
David doesn't say anything for a few seconds, absorbed as he is in Zach's behaviour. Then: "Yes. He is. Very much so. When he got here, he was… well, in a pretty bad shape. And for a long time he just went through the motions. But since Zach has been here, he's been more relaxed, more at peace I guess."
Neither says much for a while. Then David steers her to the door: "Come on, let's go. Abby is expecting us for diner and you're starting early tomorrow."