Lifeblood by Penny Rudolph

You’ve heard of it?”
    “I’ve heard of it, but not much more that. It’s way south, isn’t it? Down near Guatemala?”
    Emma nodded, an inscrutable look crossing her face.
    “What’s it like?” Rachel asked.
    “One of the poorest states in Mexico, or anywhere for that matter. If you haven’t seen it, you cannot imagine what that means—the insects are healthier than the people. The stench of human waste, the swollen bellies, and arms of children like this.” Emma held up a hand, thumb and forefinger forming a small ring. “It is one thing to see adults starving. It’s quite another to see children.”
    Rachel’s straight brows drew together and her eyes darkened as she contemplated a poverty that hellish. Had the boys she had tried to save come from somewhere like that?
    Pedro returned with tableware for Rachel and two tall glasses of ice water. The glasses were thick and heavy and rimmed with wide cobalt blue rings. “You wish the usual?” he said to Emma, who gave him a nod and a broad smile that showed the early lines of age. Her fair complexion looked recently scrubbed with soap and bereft of any sign of makeup.
    “And the señorita?” He made a small bow toward Rachel.
    “What do you recommend?” Rachel asked Emma.
    “You’re not a vegetarian or a fussy eater?”
    “Not at all. Well, maybe I’d draw the line at stewed eels or fried grasshoppers.”
    “I agree about the eels, but you should try the grasshoppers sometime,” Emma said. “You trust me to order for you?”
    Rachel nodded and Emma spoke rapid Spanish to Pedro, who then disappeared without writing anything down.
    “I just told him to bring two of everything I usually have, mainly lots of lettuce, tomato, and cabrito.”
    Rachel opened her napkin and laid it over her lap. “You were talking about Chiapas. What were you doing there?”
    “Working at a clinic.”
    “Doing what?” Rachel knew Emma worked at the hospital, but that could be many jobs.
    “Treating some very ugly diseases, among other things.”
    “You’re a doctor, then.”
    “Of course,” Emma said, then added thoughtfully, “I should talk about Mexico more often. It would help me keep stupid little things like cars and cell phones in perspective.”
    When Pedro brought their lunch, Rachel approached the cabrito suspiciously, then smiled when she tasted it. “I thought goat would be tough.”
    “After cooking slowly for two or three days, nothing is tough. Mexican cooks are magicians with food that shouldn’t be edible at all. But only on very rare occasions did we have cabrito or any kind of meat in Chiapas.”
    “But you worked there anyway. Treating diseases,” Rachel said.
    “Oh, I did a little surgery, mostly when someone got injured. And I delivered lots of babies. I preferred surgery.”
    “Why?”
    “You feel like you’re actually curing someone, accomplishing something. Somehow surgery seems more active than other medical specialties. Have you ever seen surgery done?”
    Rachel made a face. “Only with a veterinarian.”
    “Really? How so?”
    “I used to live on a farm. Mostly we grew vegetables, but my mother kept horses.”
    Emma studied her companion for a moment. “Would you like to watch sometime?”
    “A real operation? Good heavens. I’ve never imagined such a thing. You mean like in a sort of theater, behind glass, like on the TV shows?”
    “Oh no,” Emma said. “We’re not really a teaching hospital, although sometimes students come to watch. For us, it’s much more intimate. The rooms are small, and you’d have to stay quiet and out of the way. But it’s not unusual for non-medical people to be observers in operating rooms. Reporters, photographers, our own public relations people.”
    “You mean scrub and everything?”
    “Seriously clean and careful, yes.”
    Rachel shook her head. “I don’t think so, no. The surgery I saw was kind of gruesome. And the horse died.”
    Emma laughed. “Well the Jefferson O-R is