Love from A to Z(38)

“You know how ambulances are here,” I said. “Sometimes it’s easier to get a taxi.”

Zahid nodded, easing me into the back of his taxi. “Thanks, sir,” he said to Felipe.

I was glad Felipe was going home. He wouldn’t be able to bring up what had happened with anyone at the compound.

? ? ?

At the hospital, once I spoke the truth, my MS truth, everything went fast, the nurses filling in the forms, ordering scans.

Zahid stayed by, asking if he should call someone for me. “What about your family? The security guy said you have a father and sister.”

I hesitated before asking for my phone.

“I charged it in my car. It was at two percent,” he said. “I’ll dial for you.”

He read the lock screen as he came over with it. “There are a lot of messages for you. Connor. Zayneb. Emma P. Connor. Emma Z. Jacob. Zayneb, again.”

At any other time I would have thought he was being intrusive. But now, not one bit.

He was Zahid—the guy who’d been there.

I pressed the button to bring the phone to life.

Zayneb.

Ms. Raymond.

“Can you text Zayneb? Ask her for her aunt’s number?” I sighed, leaning my head back into the examination bed. Weird that Ms. Raymond was the only one who made sense.

She’d been one of Mom’s closest friends and had helped her through the illness from when it got worse until the end.

“Can. You. Give. Me. Your. Aunt’s. Number?” Zahid spoke slowly as he punched the text in. He held the phone out to display his handiwork. “Like that?”

“I can’t see it,” I said, groaning inside as I remembered Zayneb’s message from a couple of days ago. That I’d let go unread for so long. “Wait, could you read me Zayneb’s message first?”

“Certainly. Messages, plural. First she wrote ‘Thanks for today.’ With a puppy emoji. Second she wrote ‘Please disregard that last message thanks.’?”

“Zahid, I’m so sorry to make you do this. After this, please go back to work. I feel terrible for keeping you away from your taxi.” I closed my eyes. I need to tell Dad what’s going on. You can’t exploit the kindness of people you don’t know. “Can you text her back a thumbs-up emoji and write ‘Great, glad you liked the saluki shelter’? And then text her asking for her aunt’s number?”

“Yes. Done . . . and now done with the request for aunt’s number,” Zahid said. Then his voice dropped to a whisper. “The nurses think I’m your uncle. That’s why they let me stay. So I will stay until your family comes. This is what I would want for my own nephew, you understand?”

I nodded. I wished I could see Zahid’s face clearly. I thought from his voice that he was South Indian, one of the many in Doha. Maybe after this clears, after the doctors help me, I can see him again, thank him properly.

If the doctors help me? No. I shook my head, and Zahid came to my side.

“You need something, Adam?”

“No, just wanted to say thank you, Zahid.” I held my right hand out.

“Uncle Zahid,” he reminded me, taking my hand in both of his. He shook it, then let go as a ding sounded from my phone in his pocket. “Ah yes, your friend Zayneb wrote back. Just a number. No emoji this time.”

“Can you dial it for me? Put it on speaker, please?”

It rang and rang and then went to voice mail.

Oh yeah, Ms. Raymond was probably at school teaching. “Hanging up is fine. Thanks.”

A doctor came in then, clipboard in hand.

“I will try your aunt again, Adam-nephew,” Zahid said, walking away. “I am outside, Doctor.”

“Thanks, Uncle Zahid,” I said, dropping back on the hospital bed, fear descending again.

? ? ?

After a round of tests—vitals, blood, X-ray—I was ordered an IV of steroids to treat the inflammations taking over my body.

As a nurse set it up, the doctor wrote on his clipboard and then addressed me. “What you’re experiencing is an attack on your immune system. In order to arrest it, we’re going to prescribe you a course of IV treatments for the next few days. We’ll start the first treatment here now. But your subsequent treatments can be done at home with a visiting nurse or at a clinic we can recommend. It takes about an hour, but schedule time to prep, too. About an hour and a half.”

The door creaked open a small increment.

“Doctor? Can I come in?” Ms. Raymond asked. “I’m his aunt.”

The doctor nodded and gestured with his hand. “Your husband can come in too.”

“Uncle Zahid,” I said quickly, knowing Ms. Raymond would be perplexed.

She went out and brought Zahid with her.

The doctor repeated the things he’d told me, using the words “nervous system,” “myelin,” “attacks,” “immune suppression.”

“Multiple sclerosis.”

“Nerve degeneration.”

I kept my eyes closed throughout his entire explanation.

When he got to the part about my IV treatments, I opened them.

Ms. Raymond came over and picked my hand up. The one free of the IV needle that had just been inserted. She rubbed this hand between her own hands and spoke to the doctor. “So he can get it done at home? The IV treatments?”