tone stopped Lisbeth in her tracks. As a first-year resident, she was years away from being able to control her schedule. “Right.” With an exhausted sigh, she spun and snatched the diabetic’s chart, ignoring Nelda’s smug smile. “Got it.” Lisbeth bit back the urge to shout, “Happy now?”
Once she had the rank ulcer irrigated, she tried to break away again, but Dr. Redding, her attending, finally appeared on the floor. If she didn’t take advantage of his presence, she’d have to track him down later to sign charts. She mentioned the baby, and he said he’d take a look before he left on a family ski trip. It would be years before she got the holidays off.
Just when Lisbeth thought the coast was clear, Nelda caught her again and insisted she check some labs on the computer . . . pronto . . . which Lisbeth managed to do while simultaneously standing on her irate tongue and aching feet.
Three hours later, she stumbled to the deserted doctor’s lounge in desperate need of coffee and a bathroom break. CNN played on the muted TV mounted to the wall.
Lisbeth emptied the last of the coffee dregs into a Styrofoam cup. Serious shots of caffeine made her jumpy, but what choice did she have? She’d promised Craig he wouldn’t have to spend Christmas Day watching her sleep.
The thick brew smelled like burnt camel dung and tasted scorched, but Lisbeth was too hungry to care. Her last sustenance, a stale donut, had been gobbled down sixteen hours ago at the daily noon lecture. Were it not for her roommate Queenie’s secret stash of Pringles, residency would be a forced weight loss plan.
Lisbeth swiped Queenie’s chips from her locker and dropped into the nearest chair. She removed her smashed sandwich and Papa’s letter from her pocket. Surely it wasn’t a Christmas card. Mama was the one who had made a big deal about Christmas. After her mother’s strange disappearance, she and Papa had made a fairly happy life for themselves, but they never again made a big deal about the holidays.
Drawing the envelope to her nose, Lisbeth closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. The orange and lemony traces of her father’s Erinmore pipe tobacco lingered along the seal. Suddenly she was five years old and wondering if she’d caused the fight between her parents that dark and chilly night.
She pressed the guilt from her mind and studied the postmark on the envelope. Carthage. There was only one reason Papa would base from there. A chill ran up her spine. How long had Papa been in the desert? Sometimes he carried coffee-stained missives around in his shirt pocket for weeks waiting on Nigel’s supply plane to skirt the plateaus and land on the barren expanse of sand that always surrounded his archaeological excavation camp. How ironic that the lifestyle of a man devoted to accurately dating rare artifacts made it impossible to assign a valid shelf life to his news.
Lisbeth tore a clean slit along the envelope’s edge. She pulled out a single sheet of yellow paper. Bits of sand and dust left from the ghibli , a dry southern wind that rearranges the Sahara dunes every spring and fall, fell into her lap. Precious images whizzed through her mind: Papa sitting on an overturned bucket under the shade of a tattered tarp. His faded dungarees filthy from days of sifting through mountains of earth. A tablet perched upon his long, sinewy legs. The lined pages aflutter as he struggled to write a message to her.
She smoothed the wrinkled page, running a trembling hand across his scribbled words.
Have found your mother at the Cave of the Swimmers. Come quickly.
Lisbeth’s breath caught. Her mother had died when she was five. At least that’s how Papa had explained Mama’s sudden disappearance. His crew had searched the area desperately, but when they never recovered a body, Papa had been forced to conclude that Mama had lost her way in the dark. Lisbeth had accepted his explanation—loved him too much not to—but deep down
Once she had the rank ulcer irrigated, she tried to break away again, but Dr. Redding, her attending, finally appeared on the floor. If she didn’t take advantage of his presence, she’d have to track him down later to sign charts. She mentioned the baby, and he said he’d take a look before he left on a family ski trip. It would be years before she got the holidays off.
Just when Lisbeth thought the coast was clear, Nelda caught her again and insisted she check some labs on the computer . . . pronto . . . which Lisbeth managed to do while simultaneously standing on her irate tongue and aching feet.
Three hours later, she stumbled to the deserted doctor’s lounge in desperate need of coffee and a bathroom break. CNN played on the muted TV mounted to the wall.
Lisbeth emptied the last of the coffee dregs into a Styrofoam cup. Serious shots of caffeine made her jumpy, but what choice did she have? She’d promised Craig he wouldn’t have to spend Christmas Day watching her sleep.
The thick brew smelled like burnt camel dung and tasted scorched, but Lisbeth was too hungry to care. Her last sustenance, a stale donut, had been gobbled down sixteen hours ago at the daily noon lecture. Were it not for her roommate Queenie’s secret stash of Pringles, residency would be a forced weight loss plan.
Lisbeth swiped Queenie’s chips from her locker and dropped into the nearest chair. She removed her smashed sandwich and Papa’s letter from her pocket. Surely it wasn’t a Christmas card. Mama was the one who had made a big deal about Christmas. After her mother’s strange disappearance, she and Papa had made a fairly happy life for themselves, but they never again made a big deal about the holidays.
Drawing the envelope to her nose, Lisbeth closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. The orange and lemony traces of her father’s Erinmore pipe tobacco lingered along the seal. Suddenly she was five years old and wondering if she’d caused the fight between her parents that dark and chilly night.
She pressed the guilt from her mind and studied the postmark on the envelope. Carthage. There was only one reason Papa would base from there. A chill ran up her spine. How long had Papa been in the desert? Sometimes he carried coffee-stained missives around in his shirt pocket for weeks waiting on Nigel’s supply plane to skirt the plateaus and land on the barren expanse of sand that always surrounded his archaeological excavation camp. How ironic that the lifestyle of a man devoted to accurately dating rare artifacts made it impossible to assign a valid shelf life to his news.
Lisbeth tore a clean slit along the envelope’s edge. She pulled out a single sheet of yellow paper. Bits of sand and dust left from the ghibli , a dry southern wind that rearranges the Sahara dunes every spring and fall, fell into her lap. Precious images whizzed through her mind: Papa sitting on an overturned bucket under the shade of a tattered tarp. His faded dungarees filthy from days of sifting through mountains of earth. A tablet perched upon his long, sinewy legs. The lined pages aflutter as he struggled to write a message to her.
She smoothed the wrinkled page, running a trembling hand across his scribbled words.
Have found your mother at the Cave of the Swimmers. Come quickly.
Lisbeth’s breath caught. Her mother had died when she was five. At least that’s how Papa had explained Mama’s sudden disappearance. His crew had searched the area desperately, but when they never recovered a body, Papa had been forced to conclude that Mama had lost her way in the dark. Lisbeth had accepted his explanation—loved him too much not to—but deep down
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