So Much for Democracy (11 page)

“No, Astrid, no,” says Dad when he sees I'm planning to go with him.

“How else are you going to get there?” I ask. “It's not like we can phone an ambulance or something.”

He punches the car roof a few times and then, without saying anything else, spins around and marches into the house. When he returns a couple of minutes later, I ask, “Did you tell Mom we're going?”

He nods.

“What did she say?”

He scrunches his eyebrows and doesn't answer. Instead, he opens the door and gets in behind the wheel. “We're turning around at the first sign of trouble,” he says.

“Good,” I say.

Dad noses the car out of the driveway and races down the street. He's driving way too fast, and when he turns left I almost fall over Gordo.

“Dad, slow down,” I say. My arm's already aching from holding Gordo's head up.

Dad glances back at us, then slows the car. We drive along in silence for a while, and to avoid seeing Gordo's slack face, I look out the window.

There are so many people walking, even though it's early.

Gordo groans and shifts, and his arm falls across mine. It's so hot it feels like sunbaked clay, and I want to move my arm away, but if I do he'll fall over, so instead I blink back tears and sit still. All I can feel is the heat on my arm.

“How far now?” I ask Dad.

“Soon,” he says, but that seems to jinx things, because as soon as he says it, we turn a corner and there's a crowd of people blocking the street.

I stiffen but then notice that these are regular people, not soldiers, and they seem to be laughing and talking. Dad honks the horn, but no one moves, and we're driving so slowly, we're hardly moving at all. Dad throws his arm across the seat and looks over his shoulder, intending to back the car up, but the crowd has closed in behind us.

“Shit,” he says.

“What now?” I ask. I try to keep my voice even, but the heat of Gordo's arm sears into me.

Dad honks again and a few people move out of the way, but not enough to let us get anywhere. Dad turns on the car radio, but, like yesterday, there's nothing but military marches, and he turns it off again.

Someone bangs on the hood of the car, and Dad unrolls the window. I hold my breath as Dad says, “Hey, what's going on?”

The man slaps the hood again and laughs and says, “Rawlings is coming. He's taken over the government, and he's coming to talk to the people.”

“Ah…” says Dad.

“Rawlings? Here?” My voice gives away how scared that thought makes me, but Dad says “Shhh” and leans out the window.

“My son's sick. I need to get to the clinic,” he says.

“The way is blocked to the ring road,” the man says.

I'm amazed at how Dad keeps his cool, because he says, “Thank you” before he rolls the window back up, but then it's like someone has punctured a balloon. He slumps in his seat, and his head falls back against the headrest.

“What are we going to do?!” I wail. I can't help it. Gordo's so hot, he's taking up all the oxygen in the car. The air-conditioning isn't enough to cool him down. And now Rawlings is coming. Here.

Dad takes a deep breath, then says, “Get out, Astrid. We're going to walk.”

“What?” We're in the middle of the street. What about the soldiers, and Rawlings?

“Get out.” Dad's voice is like iron, and I know there's no point in arguing. A deep shiver runs down my back.

Dad pulls the car close to the side of the road and we get out.

“Stay with me, Astrid. Stick close.”

Dad strides quickly through the crowd, carrying Gordo like a baby, and I have to run to keep up. But he's easy to follow, and for the first time in my life I'm glad of our blond hair. At first people jostle us as we go, but Dad keeps shouting that he's trying to get to the clinic, and soon people move out of the way and a narrow path clears for us. Dad picks up his pace, and the three of us race along.

It's a long way to the clinic. We come to a group of people fighting with soldiers. Men shout, and soldiers wave guns. My throat swells in fear, and I choke. I jump right to Dad's side, but he doesn't slow down. We're so deep in the crowd, we have no choice but to continue. I swallow hard and chant in my head,
The clinic for Gordo,
the clinic for Gordo
.

We race past, and the fighters take no notice of us.

When we reach the clinic at last, Dad staggers up the steps to the verandah and sinks into a chair. Sweat pours down his face.

“Do we have an appointment?” I ask as I sit down next to him.

He shakes his head.

Of course
, I think.
Stupid question. How could we have
an appointment when the phones aren't working?

Dad shifts Gordo so he lies with his bum on the chair and his head in my lap. “I'll be right back,” Dad says, and he disappears inside the building.

Gordo's head feels like a bomb in my lap; I hardly dare to move or even breathe. Two women with small children are also waiting on the verandah. The kids stare at me. One of the women says something to me, and I know I should understand what she says, I know I should say something back, but I can't summon the energy to do anything at all, so I close my eyes to hold back the tears, even though I know I'm being rude.

Gordo and I stay like that until a hand on my shoulder wakes me, and a smiling woman hands me a glass of water.

“Oh…” I say, confused.

“Drink up,” says the woman.

I don't know what to do, but she smiles even more and says, “It's purified water. Drink it,” so I take it from her and sip. It's cold and fresh and the most wonderful thing in the world. I drink the whole glass.

“Feel better?” she asks.

“Yes, thank you.”

I struggle to sit straighter in the chair, and it's only then that I notice the woman is holding a cloth to Gordo's forehead.

“Do you work here?” I ask.

“I'm a nurse. Your brother's very sick, but he's going to be okay.” She puts her hand on my arm and says again, “He's going to be okay,” and even though I've never seen this woman before in my life, I believe her, and I breathe more easily.

“Where's my dad?” I ask.

“He's filling out some papers.”

“Will the doctor see my brother soon?”

She frowns. “The doctor's on his way, but…”

“The crowds,” I say, and she nods.

“What's going on out there?”

“People are celebrating.”

“Celebrating?” I shake my head in confusion. How could you celebrate soldiers breaking someone out of jail and taking over the government?

“Rawlings will be our savior,” the woman says.

“We saw some people fighting,” I say.

“They are wrong,” she says.

I should have some response to that, but I don't. Even though I know I should worry about what's going on in Ghana, I can't. Worrying about Gordo and about Mom is enough. Thinking about Mom makes me think about Piper, and then I'm even more worried, because who's taking care of her now that Mom's gone completely nuts? Saying that, even in my head, makes me shiver. Mom's gone nuts. It's true. Why else would I be here? If she were in her right mind, she would be here with Dad and I'd be safe at home, taking care of Piper. Instead, I'm sitting in a clinic halfway across town with my sick brother's head in my lap, and Mom's losing her mind at home. Life's not fair, but there's nothing I can do about it right now, so I shift Gordo's head to the softer part of my stomach and close my eyes again.

When Dad comes back, I go to the bathroom and wet the cloth for Gordo's head again. Then we sit for hours—maybe it isn't hours, but it feels like it—before a doctor comes outside and waves us into the building.

It's cool inside, but Gordo complains loudly when he's under the air conditioner, so the doctor leads him to a window, where he looks into Gordo's eyes and mouth and takes his temperature. When he's done, he perches on a stool and says, “Your son most likely has malaria.” He smiles when he speaks, like it's a good thing, but Dad's face gets all blotchy and he stammers, “Malaria?”

We're silent while we take this in. Then Dad says, “Is there anything…”

“The key is to get the fever down, and to keep him hydrated,” says the doctor. “I advise you to take him home. Sometimes we take malaria patients in and give them a saline drip, but to be honest, in your case I think he'll be better off at home.”

He doesn't have to explain what he means. Everyone knows people get sicker when they go to the hospital. When Thema's mother went into hospital for surgery last year, her family had to bring in all her meals and boil her drinking water.

“Can you give me anything for him?”

“He's taking Chloroquine?”

Dad nods, but my stomach flips over on itself. Chloroquine is the nasty-tasting malaria medicine we have to take every week, but Gordo only
sometimes
takes his Chloroquine. Often, he leaves it in his mouth until Mom's not looking, then sticks it in his pocket to flush away later. I've seen him do it.

“Then he'll be fine. Keep his fever down and give him plenty to drink.”

“Dad,” I say. My voice is barely a whisper, so I say it again, louder. “Dad? Gordo doesn't always take his Chloroquine.”

Both Dad and the doctor stare at me like I've grown another head, and the light changes in their eyes as they both understand what I've said.

“How often?” Dad asks, but I don't know.

“Mostly he takes it. I think.” My stomach's not just flipping, it's dancing inside me now, because Dad's face goes from blotchy to bright red, and the doctor moves back over to Gordo. I take hold of Dad's hand, and we squeeze each other's fingers while the doctor looks into Gordo's eyes again.

“My advice is still the same,” says the doctor when he's done.

“Because…”

“Because your son's still a healthy, well-fed boy.”

After a second, Dad nods his head, gathers Gordo into his arms and says, “Come on, Astrid,” and we walk out of the building.

There are fewer people on the street now, and it's easier to walk.

“I'll make sure he takes it from now on,” I say. But Dad doesn't answer—he just keeps walking until he's settled Gordo into the car. Then he leans on the hood and wipes the sweat from his eyes before he opens the front door and says, “Get in, Astrid. Let's get Gordo home.”

Mom rushes out of the house when we drive up. She has this look on her face like we're going to have solved everything, but that look disappears as soon as Dad opens the door and steps out of the car.

“Oh, Richard,” she says.

Dad reaches into the back seat and helps Gordo out, and then, without saying a word, he picks him up and carries him into the house.

“Gordo's going to be okay, Mom,” I say. But I don't think she hears me, because she's running after Dad.

SIXTEEN

No one wakes me for school, and since the power has come on and the room is cool, I sleep late. When I get up, I walk down the hall to Gordo's room. The curtains are drawn and the room is gloomy and quiet, like a room in an old people's home. The smell of sickness as I enter makes me catch my breath.

Gordo's eyes are closed, and I have to look hard at his chest to be sure he's breathing. When his chest moves, I take a deep breath of my own.

Mom is sitting on the edge of Gordo's bed. She doesn't move as I enter, but when I say, “Hi, Mom,” she smiles at me.

“Is he better?” I ask.

“His fever broke last night,” she says.

“So that means he's better?”

“It means…Dad thinks he's going to be okay.” Mom runs her finger along Gordo's hairline, which he would never let her do if he was feeling well. Her words sound good, but they don't travel far.

Piper calls out from her room.

“Go get her, will you?” Mom says. “Get her fed and dressed too.” She adds “Please” as I leave the room, though she doesn't turn around. She probably hasn't noticed that I'm not dressed for school. She probably doesn't care. I don't bother complaining that she's asking me to take care of Piper yet again. There's no point.

When Piper and I go downstairs, Dad's alone at the table. He's dressed for work but looks like he hasn't slept. His hair is a mess and the wrinkles around his eyes look deeper.

“Hi, Dad,” I say.

“Hi, girls.” He takes Piper from me. She snuggles into his lap and plays with her toes.

“Are you going to work?”

“Not this morning, Astrid.” His voice sounds completely unlike him—thin and uncertain—and it makes my breath constrict to hear it.

“Is it Gordo?”

“Gordo's going to be fine,” says Dad, but in that same thin voice.

“Dad,” I say, “he doesn't look fine. Mom doesn't think he's fine.”

“I know, but he is.” Dad smiles. “He'll be fine, Astrid. Your mother…” He doesn't finish his sentence. After a minute, he says, “You don't mind taking care of Piper today, do you, honey?”

“What about school?” I really want to see Thema.

“School's closed.”

“Can I have Thema over?”

“I don't think so. We should keep off the streets for a day or two. I think Thema's family will feel the same way.”

“But Dad…” It was only yesterday that Dad and I ran through the streets taking Gordo to the clinic. Can he have forgotten that?

“I know, I know. Yesterday we had to, but today we don't, so you and Gordo and Piper will stay home today.”

“Great,” I say. It's like I'm grounded. Again. As if helping to get Gordo to the clinic yesterday wasn't enough.

I need a break.

I need to see Thema.

Even Thomas hasn't been around to talk to.