Cain picked up the cups and his lancet and nodded.
Hours later, he thought that the song might have helped as much as anything.
Alone in the room with
Doña
Melia, he stood listening to the fading sounds of the jungle twilight outside. Insects buzzed and chirped beyond the walls, cattle lowed. Closer than that, voices and laughter from the next room faded in and out; he heard the clank of pottery, clinking glass.
Cain squeezed his eyes tight, trying to ignore the sound and the thoughts that came with it.
Not yet
, he told himself,
you don’t need the drink yet
…
He opened his eyes, forcing himself to concentrate on the woman in front of him. She was finally still. The feverish nightmares must have abated. Perhaps the opium was helping after all. Or perhaps not. Maybe she was only exhausted. He racked his brain for something else to do, something else to try. A doctor at Massachusetts General had once suggested arsenious acid if quinine failed to work. Tomorrow, if she wasn’t any better, he would try that. And if that didn’t work… If that didn’t work, he had no other ideas.
Doña
Melia sighed, and Cain felt like sighing with her as he once again picked up the leech box. Water sloshed from the perforations, wetting his fingers, and he turned to the table with a frown, grabbing the cotton towel and wiping the stinking liquid from his skin. Christ, he hated those things.
“Jiméne?”
The soft voice startled him so much he nearly dropped the box. Cain swiveled to the doorway. No one was there.
“Jiméne?
Mi hijo
?”
My son
. It was
Doña
Melia who had spoken. Cain glanced at his patient, sure he was wrong, that it couldn’t be her. But her eyes were open, she squinted at him, trying to see him clearly in the lamplight.
“Jiméne?”
“No,” Cain said, gaping at her incredulously. “No,
Doña
Melia.
Estoy Cain D’Alessandro, el doctor
.”
She looked at him, then beyond him, and that was when he realized she was delirious. He’d been wrong about the nightmares fading. If possible, it was worse. She had mistaken him for Jiméne. The delirium had increased. Hope fled, leaving behind a dull, throbbing desperation. He touched her cheek and jerked his hand away quickly, disbelievingly. Her skin was cool, damp with sweat. He blinked, staring at her. He had to be imagining it—it was only because he wanted to feel coolness so badly…
She clutched his hand, pulling it back to her face. “Send my son to me,” she said, the Spanish words soft, barely understandable. “Or was I dreaming he was here?”
“No, you weren’t dreaming,” he said. Though surely
he
was. Surely he’d fallen asleep. He would wake up soon and find this was all a dream…
Carefully he laid his hand again on her head, her cheek, the curve of her neck. No, he wasn’t dreaming. He wasn’t imagining it. Her fever had broken. At long last, it had broken, and Cain fought the overwhelming urge to fall to his knees and thank God. He couldn’t believe it, wouldn’t believe it. Christ, he didn’t want to hope this much for something.
But he couldn’t push it away this time. This victory was so unexpected he couldn’t quite believe it was real. Half of him wanted to shout and dance and sing with relief while the other half wanted to keep it secret until he could be sure—until someone told him it was all right, that
Doña
Melia was well and it was all due to him.
The family had to be told, he reminded himself. Even if it was a false alarm, they had to be told. He forced his voice through the lump of relief in his throat. “Jiméne—the others—they’re waiting for you to get well, to call for them… Let me get them for you.”
He nearly fell over the stool as he backed away from the bed, stumbling to the doorway of the room. Bracing a hand on the door jamb, he leaned forward, unable to keep the smile from his face.
They sat around the table, passing bowls of food. He’d forgotten it was dinnertime, though Serafina had called him, and they were all eating and laughing and talking. Even Ana.
She looked up and saw him. He thought he saw happiness in her eyes. Happiness, and welcome—
Jiméne spun in his chair, throwing down his tortilla and rising when he saw who Ana was staring at. His eyes were black with fear. “
Dios,” he
whispered. “Is she—”
Cain shook his head. “No, it’s not that,” he assured Jiméne. “No, it’s—her fever’s broken. It’s broken and she’s asking for everyone.”
Jiméne’s mouth fell open. “This is—you are sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“This is not just a—a rest?”
Cain’s smile died; he tried to suppress the weariness in his voice. “I don’t know, Jiméne. Fevers are… Well, no one really understands them. It might come back.” He paused. “But I think it won’t.”
Jiméne closed his eyes. “
Gracias a Dios
,” he said briefly before he turned to his brothers and sisters and translated Cain’s news.
Their reactions were instantaneous. Dolores jumped to her feet, clapping her hands in joy, Amado snouted, and Juan took Serafina into his arms for a smiling, grateful hug.
Only Ana remained sitting. Cain felt her gaze on him, and he looked up, catching her eye. A tentative smile touched her lips—the smile he’d been waiting for, as small as it was, and joy rushed through him. He wanted to touch her, to hug her the way Juan embraced Serafina. She was as responsible for this as he was—more so, since she’d given him the strength to go on. And right now he needed to feel her arms around him, to hear her soft “I told you so,” her reassurance that everything would be all right, the fever wouldn’t return.
He’d barely taken two steps toward her when Jiméne’s family crowded around him, pulling him from the doorway while they asked questions, called him a miracle worker. Dolores kissed him and Serafina hugged him, and Juan’s handshake was warm and grateful.
“Yes, yes, you’re welcome,” he found himself saying over and over. “You should go in to see her, she’s asking for you…”
Jiméne clapped his arm around Cain’s shoulders. “
Amigo
, you are truly a savior. Perhaps we will build a shrine to you, eh?”
“A simple thank-you would be fine,” Cain said dryly.
“Then thank
you—gracias
—from the bottom of my heart.” Jiméne bowed. “I am in your debt,
amigo
.”
“Wonderful. Now, if you would let me—”
“A celebration!” Jiméne shouted. “That is what we must have—a celebration! A quiet one of course, so Mama may sleep—” He glanced up sharply as Amado pushed through the doorway. “Do not rush her, Amado! One at a time, please!” He looked back at Cain. “Now, what would you like?”
Ana
. The thought rushed through him. Cain looked over at her again, wanting to touch her so badly he felt physical pain. She was watching them, toying with her spoon, and when she caught his eye she pushed back her chair, rose from the table. Cain felt desperate to get away, to get to her, to touch her.
“Excuse me, Jiméne,” he said, starting to brush past Jiméne’s hand. “Ana!”
She stopped, glancing over her shoulder.
“You are the wisest, best doctor I have ever known!” Dolores barreled from her mother’s room, throwing her arms around his neck, pressing him into the wall as she hugged him. Cain reached up, trying to disentangle himself, but she only squeezed him tighter. “Mama is well, and a thousand thank-yous cannot express my joy.”
“A party,” Jiméne said again. “Do you not think so, Dolores? Where is Juan’s guitar?”
Cain looked over Dolores’s dark head. Ana stood there, staring at him, hesitating until Dolores dropped her arms and stepped aside. But before he could move, Serafina was in her place, hugging him, kissing him. Ana turned away, and Cain had to restrain himself from throwing Serafina aside and chasing after Ana as she moved to the door.
But he couldn’t move. Serafina was whispering tearful thank-yous in his ear, and he was sure Ana wouldn’t wait, sure he would have to stand there and watch helplessly as she walked out the door.
Desperately he nodded at Serafina, murmuring words he didn’t remember, as gently as he could pushing her away, breaking past her.
Just as he cleared the circle of family, he looked up, and relief burst through him so intensely his knees were weak. Ana was there, standing only a few feet away from him, waiting with a smile on her face and joy in her eyes.
Behind him, he heard the first strummings of Juan’s guitar. He held out his hand. “
Voy baylár con usted, mi corazón
,” he said.
She laughed then, all open-mouthed and crooked-lipped, the smile he loved. “What does that mean?”
“It means: I am going to dance with you,”
my heart
. But he didn’t say the last words, couldn’t say them, because he didn’t want her to run. It would kill him to see her run.
“Don’t I have a choice?” she asked.
His gut seized, Cain looked at her helplessly. He couldn’t bear it if she refused him. Not now.
Please God, not now
. “Of course,” he said rawly. “Of course.”
Her smiled widened, she took his hand. “Then I would love to dance with you, Doctor.”
His warm fingers curled around hers tightly, as if he was afraid she would change her mind and run away. Ana squeezed his fingers reassuringly, following him willingly as he pulled her with him to the middle of the
quincha
. Juan was seated at the table, his nimble fingers moving over the strings of the guitar, filling the room with its warm, woody tones.
From the corner of her eye, Ana saw Jiméne bow to Dolores and grab her hand. In moments, brother and sister were sweeping across the floor, twirling and tapping in a vibrant, laughing dance that Ana had never seen before while the others clapped and stomped in time to the music.
Cain stopped, turning to look at her, and the smile in his eyes was so blindingly bright it burst through Ana, sending a shiver of pure happiness running down her spine. It occurred to her that she liked seeing him this way, liked his swelling confidence, as fragile and uncertain as it was. She had never seen him like this, and he wore his newfound pride well, much better than he’d worn hopeless defeat.
But it was a little frightening too, seeing such confidence in his eyes. In a way, this was more dangerous than ever, much more threatening.
The thought had no place here, not now. She wanted to celebrate with him, wanted to make this night as perfect for him as she could. God, after all his struggle, it was so good to see him smile.
“Ready?” he asked.
She nodded, grabbing her skirt and holding it out from her legs. “Ready.”
He swallowed—a little nervously, she thought. “It’s been a long time since I danced,” he said.
“Not so long.”
He lifted a questioning brow.
“At Gorgona,” she explained. “You danced there—or tried to.”
Something dark and unreadable crossed his gaze, his smile wavered. “Oh. I—I don’t remember.”
Of course. Of course he wouldn’t remember. Ana cursed herself inwardly, wishing she’d thought not to bring it up. For some reason, it hurt her—physically hurt her—to see that flash of fear on his face.
So she stepped forward, into his arms, and took his other hand, placing it firmly at her waist. “It doesn’t matter,” she said matter-of-factly. “It was a long time ago. Now, shall we dance?”
His smile steadied. Together they took the first, tentative steps. Ana hadn’t danced in months, not since Rosalie’s Christmas dance, but she felt as if it had been much longer. They took it slowly, out of rhythm with Juan’s playing. One two three. One two three. She heard the count in her ears, followed Cain’s unsure steps.
One two three
.
“I told you, it’s been a long time,” he said, laughter in his voice.
Ana smiled up at him. “You’re a fine dancer.”
“liar.” He chuckled. His brown eyes were warm, his fingers tightened around hers. “But thank you.”
His words ran over her like honey, and Ana looked down at her feet. A simple thank-you, but it made her feel warm and good and needed. It was funny how Cain could put more meaning and emotion into his words than anyone she had ever known. It was what had always frightened her about him, that honesty.
But she didn’t feel frightened now.
The tempo increased, the music swelled around them, and she felt him gain confidence, heard the vibration of his laughter in his chest as he swirled her into the dance, forgetting the careful counting, even forgetting the steps as he moved her around the floor. She let go of her skirt, and it swirled around his legs, making him stumble. They were moving so fast she felt dizzy. His hair whipped her face, and her straggling braid slapped against his shoulder.
Ana wanted to laugh out loud. How long it had been since she’d felt such simple pleasure, taken such simple pleasure? Too long. Much too long. The last time she had danced like this was with her mother, when she was just a child, and there had been nothing dark and horrible and sick in the world. She had laughed then, Ana remembered. Laughed and danced and thought the world would always be like that.
It wasn’t, she knew that now, but Ana suddenly wondered if she had made a mistake by throwing away other things with her hope. Things like uncomplicated, heart-soaring joy. Things like laughter that lifted the shadows and friendship to push away the fear.
She had missed those things, and it had taken Cain to bring them back to her. It had taken Cain to fill the hollow spot inside her, to make the loneliness go away.
As the music swirled around them, Ana had an overwhelming urge to move closer, to press against him the way she had yesterday, to feel again the wiry curls beneath the worn linen of his shirt, to feel his too-long hair brush against her cheek, her throat. His scent filled her nostrils: bitter quinine, acidic tamarind, and his own warm muskiness.
She closed her eyes briefly, swallowing, suddenly hot and flushed and a little bit faint.
The music stopped, and Ana felt a strange, lingering disappointment when Cain stopped as well. He dropped his hand, released hers. There was a sudden chill where his touch had been, a tiny shiver.