Half the World Away

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

We sit, shell-shocked, in a waiting area outside the emergency room. Paralysed among the bustle of staff, the flurries of activity. Grimy, the muck and oil from the workshop ingrained in our skin. It is sweltering. Even my eyelids feel sweaty.

A doctor who speaks perfect English tells us that Lori is in triage and we will be able to see her once her assessment is completed. When her blood results are back they will know what treatment she needs.

I ask how long that will be.

‘An hour, two hours,’ the doctor says, ‘high priority,’ he adds, as he walks away.

Tom is weeping, silently, his eyes red-rimmed, tears making track marks through the dirt on his face.

I go to him, stand and pull his face to my belly until the jerking of his shoulders slows and stops. I move away and he wipes his face, rubbing his nose on his forearm. He turns his ruined eyes to me.

I sit beside him, kiss him.

‘She’s alive,’ I say. ‘Yes? She’s still alive.’

The same doctor returns. He has charts with him. ‘We have blood test results,’ he says, ‘and X-rays. Your daughter has heart arrhythmia,’ he places a finger on his own chest, ‘and low blood pressure. This is a result of the lack of nourishment – an electrolyte imbalance. We will need to introduce essential salts, potassium, magnesium, phosphate and so on, as well as rehydrate the patient. Your daughter also has a condition called pneumonitis, in the lung, probably from irritation due to choking on the… mask?’ He signals to his mouth, sketches a line to and fro.

‘Gag,’ I say.

‘Gag,’ he agrees. ‘She inhaled secretions and these cause inflammation. We will also be treating her for infection with antibiotics. In addition to wounds on her wrists and ankles, she has pressure sores from being immobile for so long. There is some vaginal bruising, which suggests she has been sexually assaulted.’

‘Raped?’ I need to be clear. I am quivering, all of me, every muscle, and I can’t control it.

‘Yes. Swabs have been taken for forensic and medical examination and we will test for sexually transmitted infections and HIV. She is being washed now and then will be transferred to intensive care.’

‘Can we see her?’ I say.

‘Soon, maybe one hour for the intensive-care assessment. Please always clean your hands.’ He points to a sanitizer-gel dispenser on the wall. ‘Every time.’

‘Yes. Please – can we see her before she’s moved? Just for a moment, please?’ My voice shakes. I find it hard to breathe and dots prick my vision.

‘I will see if she is still here,’ he says.

Five minutes later he is back. ‘Come with me.’

We follow. My heart aches. It feels swollen and sore as though it’s been crushed.

She is there. On a trolley, covered with a modesty sheet, her hair damp, arms at her sides above the sheet. Her eyes are still closed. The bruises and sores on her face are stark against the pallor of her complexion. There are dressings on her wrists and ankles, on her left elbow. Her feet are swollen, the skin tight and shiny, crazed with fissures. A cannula is fixed to her right hand, connected to a drip.

Something collapses inside me. Oh, Lori. I go to touch her and the doctor calls me back, tells me I must wait.

Two women come in and the doctor tells us they have to move her now and someone will fetch us when she is settled in intensive care.

I cannot hold her, soothe her, rock her. All the things my body hungers for.

It is late afternoon. Outside, the sun burns and the city simmers.

Peter Dunne arrives – Tom called him. He helps with the bureaucracy, the fees we have to pay, the forms we have to fill in for Lori’s admission. ‘Many of the hospital staff speak English,’ he says. ‘The hospital prides itself on matching international standards – this is a Gold Card facility especially for foreigners. She’ll get the best possible care here.’

I ask him if he’ll call Nick. I’m dizzy with shock and can’t marshal my thoughts. I think if I try to speak to anyone on the phone, even my husband, I’ll just seize up. There is a gale in my head, tossing my thoughts about, roaring through and snatching them away before they can be completed.

Peter Dunne magicks up tea and buns and suggests gently that we may want to freshen up.

In the Ladies, I scrub the filth from my face and neck, my forearms. I can’t do anything about my clothes but Peter Dunne has arranged to have all our things moved to a hotel nearby so we can walk to the hospital. Later, we can take turns to go and change.

‘What was he doing?’ Tom asks Peter Dunne. ‘Bradley – with the Chinese woman, then Lori – what the hell…’

‘The police are still trying to establish all the facts,’ Peter Dunne says.

‘Why would he… why?’ I say. Vertigo makes my vision swoop, my head spin. Did they know – Shona and Dawn and the others? Were they involved? ‘Was it just him?’ I daren’t say what I’m thinking.

Peter Dunne says, ‘Everything so far points to Carlson acting alone. No sign of anyone else being involved.’

We are allowed into the intensive-care unit and told we can see Lori for ten minutes every hour for the rest of the day. She is in a single room. She is covered with wires. A feeding tube goes into her nose, and several different IV lines come from bags suspended by the bed head that lead to the cannula in her hand. A line is inserted near her left elbow and other leads come from large sticky pads, one high up on the right of her chest, and the other on her left-hand side, measuring her heartbeat, I assume. There is a peg on her finger too, trailing a wire. A bag is clipped to the bed frame and the tube from that goes under the sheet. A catheter. Other machines are ranged close by – I’ve no idea what they are, what they do. A monitor above the bed head records the activity.

The intensive-care nurse says Lori will stay sleeping. She was drugged during her incarceration and can only slowly be weaned off the sedatives – there is a risk of additional complications from withdrawal. The nurse talks on but I barely hear: I’m overwhelmed by the sight of Lori smothered with all the equipment.

The next time we go in, I hear a rattle in her breathing. An alarm beeps fast and high and my heart jumps into my throat. Tom is already on his feet but a nurse comes in, presses something on a machine and replaces one of the bags of fluid. She stands over Lori for a moment, listening, then gestures to Lori’s face. ‘We clear,’ she says. ‘Suction.’ And she mimes putting something up her own nose. ‘Soon, yes.’

‘Thank you,’ I say.

It seems there is always an alarm shrilling and we can hear different alarms from the other rooms. My heart starts and races with each one. I am drowning in adrenalin. There is no quiet here, no sense of calm.

We are ushered out again when the ten minutes is up and the nurse returns ready to clear Lori’s airways.

Nick wants to know everything when I call, and I talk him through finding Lori, then list her injuries, medical problems and the treatment she’s receiving. Several times I have to stop and wait, composing myself until I can carry on.

‘Jesus,’ he says quietly, as I finish. ‘Oh, God, Jo.’

‘I know. But she’s in the best place and they seem to be really good, the doctors and nurses. It’s just… it’s just she’s so very poorly.’

I hear him sniff hard. ‘Right,’ he says. He clears his throat. ‘OK. Missing Overseas are issuing a press release at lunchtime.’

I think of all the other families who continue to search, to wait. We have found her. The thought makes me giddy. We have found her. And there is a chance she will make it. We are so very, very lucky.

On Sunday morning the doctor tells us Lori is in some pain and because of the trauma to her liver the usual drugs could do more damage. He recommends acupuncture, a common practice here for pain management. Lori is still unable to consent. We agree straight away.

When we ask if we can stay in the room with her now, he says yes, but cautions us that if at any point we are asked to leave we must do so immediately.

Tom and I decide to take turns, five-hour shifts.

I walk to the new hotel, numb, unseeing, like a zombie. Twice I collide with people. I cannot remember the Chinese for ‘sorry’ and just walk on.