The Curse

By VF White

Brian Miller, an idealistic young doctor from a wealthy family, opens a clinic in rural Mexico. When a barefoot boy knocks on his door and takes him into the mountains to help a midwife, he is disturbed by the shocking experience. Amid clashing cultures, he searches for the cause of the events he has witnessed and is forced to confront the weakness of science and his own beliefs in explaining such mysteries. His naive investigation leads him further into life-threatening danger. “The Curse” is the tale of this young doctor's journey into the unknown worlds around him and into the even more mysterious world inside himself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Apr 12, 2014
• ISBN: 9781312096899

Book preview

The Curse

The Curse

A novel by

VF White

The characters and events of this book are fictitious.

Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended.

Copyright © 2004, 2013 by Vernon Fred White

All rights reserved

ISBN 978-1-312-09689-9

Distributed by Lulu – ID# 14580227

1

Somewhere in the distance, Heaven’s arrow is loaded and Earth’s bowstring is drawn. Tension mounts as bow and string tremble against the strain. Then, in a moment of mystery, that arrow resounds through the cosmos on its imperfect flight. Whose hand draws that arrow? And whose eye takes that aim? After all is considered, it is yours and it is mine.

The young doctor’s eyes were already open, but his body stiffened as his ear cocked in the direction of the sound. At dawn no noise competed with the distant tapping which grew louder and louder. A child was running, but those footsteps weren’t casual or playful; they had purpose, direction, and urgency. In the sound, he felt that an arrow of fate was headed his direction. Someone is coming for me. He knew it from the tension he felt so deep inside that he could not distinguish it from the faraway trembling of the universe, so he lay in his bed and he waited.

The pounding on his door reinforced his certainty. Rising from bed, he swept the mosquito net to one side, pulled a pair of worn khakis over his legs, and walked at a steady pace to the front door of his clinic. As he approached, the noise grew louder. Then, opening the door, he discovered a barefoot boy, eight or nine years of age. She sent me. the boy panted. "The partera needs help."

The young doctor opened his mouth to ask what was wrong but realized that a child would scarcely know the details. "And where is this partera?"

At the house. The baby doesn’t want to come out.

He determined by the lack of dust that the boy must be from the mountains. Dust was the defining characteristic of Cochineal. He could identify the residents of Cochineal by the fine layer of dust that covered their skin and settled deep into the folds of their clothing. It was a pale powdery dust that clung to everything with static electricity and gave everything in town the same dull beige color. Rain did little more than rearrange the dust so that nothing ever looked fresh and clean.

While the young doctor loaded equipment and supplies into a duffle bag, the barefoot boy watched with his eyes wide open. It amazed and slightly offended the young doctor that they would send a mere child to fetch him, but he knew that these were backward people. He was the first doctor in the area, and they usually sought his help in the most desperate circumstances. To be called by a partera from the mountains was a sign that something was very, very wrong.

The boy led him to the gorge carved in the mountains by El Arroyo Negro. They ascended a trail that climbed steeply through the fog that clung every morning to those mountains. Once above the fog, the young doctor looked back to see how they floated on a cloud that blocked any view of the world below. Then, turning his eyes forward, the dense vegetation obscured the path before them. He and this boy walked together in a cocoon.

Everything and every person entering or leaving the remote mountain communities had to traverse this same rugged path; it was the only way in and the only way out. It tunneled through the forest, carved by ageless traffic and paved by the endless footsteps of man and beast. As the morning sun filtered down through the trees, light reflected off soil that was so black it was nearly luminous. Distracted he turned his ankle.

The boy heard him, glanced back, and slowed his pace. Self-conscious, the young doctor shook off his distraction, shifted the heavy bag to his opposite shoulder, and exerted himself to catch up. He blinked back the sweat that trickled into his eyes and pondered the improbability of a man of his education being lead through the forest by a barefoot child. Yet without complaint, he followed, not knowing where they went.

Eventually a shack, hidden among small trees, appeared. A woman met him at the door and the barefoot boy silently disappeared. Without lifting her eyes to his face, the woman turned her back and signaled that he should follow. From behind he could see wiry strands of gray hair escaping below the tan scarf that covered her head. The sleeves of her loose white top were rolled above her elbows revealing veins that stood out like shadowy ropes on the brown skin of her forearms. She wore a dark skirt that was faded and frayed into strands at the hem. He liked this woman.

But as he entered, a humid stench – the vaporous mixture of every body fluid – hung in the air and parted like a curtain across his face. His eyes gradually adjusted to the dark and he began to distinguish a table in the center of room on which lay the limp body of a young woman. She was naked from the waist down with her shirt was crumpled beneath her armpits. A band of colorfully woven cloth was drawn tight above her pregnant belly presumably to push the baby out. Her head lay flat on the table, her eyes were mere cracks, her mouth was open, and her only movement was the unconscious rise and fall of her chest.

One part of him recoiled in fear, yet another part begged to finally get to work. His own breathing accelerated as he approached the table, straining to maintain an air of confidence. With one movement, he swung the bag from his shoulder onto the dirt floor and stepped forward. Tell me what’s going on?

The woman said, The baby doesn’t want to come out.

Recognizing this was probably the partera, he winced at her uneducated response. "How old is the señorita?"

Another woman, hidden in the shadows behind the table, hesitantly stepped forward. "Nineteen, señor."

That woman must be the girl’s mother. She wore a clean maroon skirt with small yellow spots that ended above her ankles, exposing her bare feet.

Is this her first baby?

"Sí, señor."

He felt the size of his patient’s abdomen. When did you expect the baby to be born?

The partera said, I thought she would deliver yesterday.

No, I mean, how many months pregnant is she?

The mother took another step forward. She’s about to complete nine months.

Are you sure? The baby seems small. When was her last period?

The mother shuffled her feet and retreated because women’s functions should not be mentioned around men. Impatient the young doctor went on. So when did the pains start?

It has been two days now, doctor. answered the partera.

He slipped a glove over his fingers for a vaginal exam. And how far has she dilated?

As he inserted his fingers, the partera said, The baby comes with its face.

A chill ran down his spine. Instead of the hard bones of the baby’s skull, his fingers slid over an eerie lumpy surface. First he distinguished the baby’s swollen lips, then a nose wedged tightly against the pelvic bones, and finally the creepy sensation of the baby’s eye at his fingertip. He imagined the authoritative voice of the renowned obstetrician who taught at his medical school, A face presentation, mentum posterior, is an undeliverable position.

The two women could not see the alarm on his face, but both understood the language of his body as he recognized the grave situation. He wished this had never happened, that he was back in his bed; but now that he was here, he couldn’t just walk away. It was impossible to shrug his shoulders and say that nothing can be done. No! It was his duty to do all that he could.

Death hung in the air over their heads. Death was a part of that stench he encountered at the doorway. The baby might already be dead, and the life of this young woman was in question. Through the painful contractions and his exam, her only response was the intermittent flickering of her eyes behind half-closed eyelids.

Removing his hand, he paused to survey the options. None of them were good. Even in ideal circumstances, he wasn’t sure this young woman’s life could be saved. She needed a whole hospital, a cesarean section. It might be possible to construct a stretcher to carry her to Cochineal. That would require several strong men. From there, he could drive her to the hospital in Ocosingo. But it would be futile; she would never survive the trip.

The image of performing a cesarean section on this kitchen table in this dark room with its dirt floor was too gruesome. He had no anesthesia, not even morphine. His experience and his instruments were inadequate. The girl was already too weak and would surely die. And above all, there was no guarantee that the baby was still alive.

He paused calling on all the powers of medicine to conjure up just one shred of hope. He must get the baby out, dead or alive, before this young woman died. If he could move the infant from the face position, it might be possible. But how could such a thing be accomplished? He did not know, but he had to try. The three women faded into objects upon which his profession would work.

He fired questions at the partera. How long has she been pushing?

We waited for you, but we started again an hour ago.

What have you tried?

Everything I know.

Did she push on her side?

Sí.

On her stomach?

Sí.

Did you try it…? He couldn’t think of the word, so he squatted beside the table. Like this?

Sí, that’s how we do it here. She drank a tea of possum tail and pushed for three hours. That’s when her mother called for me. I’ve tried everything I know, and I’ve been here for twelve hours.

Twelve hours! He coughed faintly and looked at the mother who stood like a statue in the shadow. Then lifting his head to the partera who stood beside him, he saw her face for the first time and his heart swelled.

He felt the girl’s pulse and took her blood pressure. He started an intravenous line, now wishing he had brought more than just two bags of IV fluid. At a small basin on the counter, he scrubbed his hands and his forearms and pulled a clean pair of gloves over his hands. Every act and every movement became part of a ritual to preserve his objectivity and inspire confidence.

What is the señorita’s name?

María de la Virgen de Santa Rosa. The mother responded in a matter-of-fact tone as she stepped again into the light.

And what do you call her?

The mother paused as if she had never thought of it before. Rosi…? Sí! We call her Rosi, señor!

He gazed at the flaccid patient. Rosi! Rosi! I’m a doctor! I’m going to try to turn the baby around. Her eyelids moved immeasurably.

Wetting the glove he forced his hand inside, but Rosi widened her eyes and grabbed blindly at his wrists. When she straightened her legs and brought her knees together, the hand slipped out.

He called out, I need help.

Both women approached and restrained Rosi’s arms and legs while he repeated the attempt. After much effort, he was able to insert his whole hand inside. Rosi initially fought back, but in time she weakened and eventually she remained still.

With no knowledge of how to accomplish the task, he worked at turning the baby from the face position. He pushed the face up out of the pelvis. Then twisting his fingers around searching for any discernible ridge, he tried to move it. But each time, it fell back face first, and his fingers would find the same features only more swollen from the manipulation. Then he would try again, and again. As his strength waned, the length of each attempt shortened and the pause between them grew longer. But the baby always came down face first.

The constant pressure of the flesh against his hand numbed its sensation. His muscles trembled. Whenever his coordination and strength were lost, his shoulders would slump forward, he would stare at the dirt floor sure he could do no more. But in the pause, compassion gave him strength and his desperate hope would return.

Then, repeating what he had done countless times before, his effort was rewarded by a thump that reverberated through Rosi’s body. The other women sensed the change and their hopes rallied. Their backs straightened as they lifted themselves from the bent exhaustion of holding her arms and legs.

After the thump, the young doctor felt the hard round bones of the infant’s skull settle into the pelvis where the face had once rested. Only then did he remove the useless claw that had once been his hand.

The miracle had happened!

In time Rosi’s eyes flickered as the infant’s head appeared below. The entire room gasped in relief, but the delivery of the head was followed by a sudden wet burst as the rest of the baby’s body was propelled outward. He fumbled to grab hold of the infant, recognizing immediately that it had no arms or legs.

The young doctor stared in disbelief at the deformed infant in his hands and he could not move. His tired mind failed to produce one cohesive thought.

It was the agonal gasp of the infant that awoke him. Mechanically, he cleaned the fluid from its mouth, cut the cord, and wrapped it in a cloth. But as he held the bundle out to the Rosi’s mother, she took a step back. Surprised, the young doctor said, Here, take him. He’s still alive.

She stood motionless with her hands folded over her belly and backed deeper into the shadows. "Señora, this is your grandson. He may not be normal and will surely die, but he deserves to be held for the few minutes of his…"

But still she would not move. He cried out, It’s not a monster! He’s a human being!

By then, the mother’s back was against the wall and her face was no longer visible. Speechless, the young doctor stood facing her fiercely for nearly a full minute. But again, it was the infant’s gasp that awoke his bewildered mind. He turned to the partera, Here, take him!

But she likewise made no movement forward. She stood beside him wringing her hands and fearfully shaking her head from side to side. Infuriated, the young doctor stomped and roared in English, Damn it! He’s alive! It’s a baby!

At last, resignation overcame him and he gazed at the infant. All he could do was shake his head and mutter in Spanish, Absurd. Unbelievable! This is unbearable!

Placing the bundle on a chair, he returned to Rosi. The placenta delivered, but her bleeding was heavy. While he massaged the uterus to stop the hemorrhage, the muscles of his forearms cramped from exertion. Once the bleeding slowed, he turned his eyes back to the tiny bundle. Without hope he watched as the bundle shuddered weakly. After a pause, it shuddered again, and finally it moved no more. The infant, born without arms or legs, died alone with no one to hold him as his tiny life drifted away.

As the light of day dissipated, the young doctor left behind that shack in the mountains and moved homeward. Glancing up at the pale blue rim of light collecting on the edge of the western sky, he felt an empty hole inside. The arrow of fate had flown that morning, but it did not pass him by, it struck him hard.

2

Doctor Brian Miller rose from his bed and walked directly to his bathroom mirror. While disturbed recollections of the delivery woke him in the early morning, the thought that drove sleep from his mind was the realization that he could not clearly remember what he looked like. He combed his hair every morning but could not remember the last time he actually paid attention to his face. So he leaned into the mirror for closer examination and slid his fingers gently over the skin until they rested on the three vertical lines between his eyebrows.

His mother always said, When Brian was born, they put him in my arms and he opened his eyes to look around. Then he wrinkled up his little forehead like he was thinking. He was always such an observant boy.

He hated how his mom told that story, yet he could not deny that the lines were there. For him those lines pointed out that something wasn’t right. From birth, Brian Miller knew the world was broken; he felt it in his gut. But he couldn’t laugh about it because he knew that things needed to be fixed.

By now he recognized how that feeling had become a driving force in his life. As a child, his parents built a special room that was filled with toys; but when he saw how rich they were, he couldn’t play there. He knew something was wrong: other children were poor.

In high school, he was pretty good at basketball. But Coach told him, You need to get serious about the game. He was sure that too was wrong, so he quit the team to take an afterschool job filling the shelves at a grocery store in a part of town his parents never visited. He wasn’t sure why he did it, but eventually he remembered how his friend told him that he was lucky to have a family that was so rich that he would never have to work in his lifetime. This friend, Roberto, lived with an uncle in what his parents called the slums.

His father and Grandpa Miller were proud of him and talked about how he would eventually go to Northwestern like they did and then take over the family company. But he refused to apply to any university but Arizona State, and though he qualified for an academic scholarship, he flatly refused to apply because others needed it more than he did.

When he graduated, Grandpa Miller and his dad took him to an expensive French restaurant to include him in their business discussions. But when his grandfather gave him a watch, Brian felt a surge inside and shouted, I don’t get what you guys do! What is property development anyway? You don’t develop anything but money!

Grandpa Miller never forgave him.

At twenty-one, he was astounded by the sum of money that came into his possession. There was something inherently wrong with that amount of money; he was ashamed that it existed and he felt guilty that it bore his name. So he set up a foundation to fund a clinic in rural Mexico.

His parent’s disapproval of this reckless altruism was nothing compared to their shock when he completed his residency and left everything behind to operate that clinic himself. But inside they were proud of him and bragged so much about the foundation that donations came in. Even after all his expenditures, the fund was larger than when it began.

So the story of Brian’s mother had missed the mark; the lines on his forehead weren’t truly from observation. When he looked in the mirror, he knew things were not right with the world and that it had something to do with him. The huge eyeball of the world rested upon him