Lifeblood by Penny Rudolph Page A

a little different. There’s hardly any blood. Especially with laparoscopic surgery. That’s what I specialize in.”
    “I’ve heard of it,” Rachel said, “but I don’t know exactly what it is.”
    “I make only a few incisions, one for my fingers, one for a special scope—a sort of camera. There’s much less risk to the patients, they recover more quickly, and scarring is minimal.”
    “What kind of surgery? It can’t be abdominal.”
    Emma nodded. “But it is. That’s what I do. Mostly kidneys.”
    “And you decided to become a surgeon because it was more active?”
    Emma seemed to think about that. “I guess I formed a lot of my opinions while I was in Mexico.”
    “How did you happen to work there?”
    “When I got my MD, I joined Doctors Without Borders. I wanted to work somewhere I could practice my Spanish. Delivering babies, patching people up, and treating nasty diseases in a place where there wasn’t much food and less money.”
    Rachel leaned forward, fascinated by this woman.
    “I wasn’t crazy about obstetrics,” Emma went on. “Not that I don’t like babies. But in Chiapas, hardly any of them lived very long. For that matter, no one did. I couldn’t help wondering how bad it would be for the poor little tykes and how wrong it seemed to bring them into such a world.”
    “Maybe it’s different there now.”
    Emma laughed. “You don’t know Chiapas. It will be much the same for a very long time. Everyone is young. Half the population is under twenty, only the hardiest, maybe ten percent, reach forty-five. And many babies don’t survive their first year. They’re soon gone, all elbows and knees and gaunt faces, they look like helpless baby birds.”
    “It sounds so sad.”
    “It is sad. Misery, ignorance, pestilence, and early death. A few lucky ones earn a pittance working in the amber mines or for one of the companies sinking little wells to find out how much oil is under Chiapas. I hear there’s quite a lot. Some of those lucky ones—mostly lucky because their family has died, so there’s no one they have to support—earn enough to stay healthy until they are maybe twenty. But once the women have three or four babies, and the men begin drinking tequila, it is too late.”
    “Why don’t people leave?” Rachel took a drink of water. The blue rim of the glass was very thick.
    “They don’t know anything else. Some try. But they must go on foot and Guatemala to the south and Oaxaca to the north are just about as poor as Chiapas.”
    “When were you there?”
    “Late eighties, early nineties. When I was young enough to believe I could make a difference.”
    “But you must have made a difference. How could you not?”
    “Not enough difference. I was there the New Year’s Eve when the Zapatistas took over. Everyone had such hope about that. I left that January. I was about your age then.”
    “Zapatistas?”
    Emma gave a quizzical smile. “How is it you know so little? Didn’t you say your name is Chavez?”
    “I guess my father had reasons for keeping me sanitized of anything Mexican.”
    Emma raised her eyebrows, but didn’t comment on that. Instead, she said, “We will keep the Zapatistas for another time. Enough about me. Tell me how on earth you came to own a parking garage.”
    “My grandfather left it to me.”
    “And you wanted to operate it?”
    Rachel hesitated, wondering how much to tell. She didn’t know this woman very well. Emma seemed so direct and honest. But then Emma’s life was probably an open book. “Oh, I wanted to do something new and different,” Rachel said, and sketched the barest outline of what had brought her to Los Angeles, leaving more than a few gaps. Then she changed the subject.
    “Do you like working at Jefferson?”
    Emma gave her a broad smile. “Very much. I get to do what I do best.”
    “Surgery?”
    “Mostly, yes. With some of the best people in the field and an administration that is totally supportive. I simply