I flush with shame just thinking about it, but luckily there’s enough going on to keep me from dwelling on the memory. The room has a glass wall and I watch as a third technician joins them. All three of them struggle to hold my boy down and he shrieks for me the whole time.

“Mama! Mama! No! Mama!”

I’m trembling as much from fear and helplessness as I am from withdrawal. I’m on day three without a drink and God help me, it’s tough.

I never guessed how hard it would be to have to fight back every instinct I have to protect Mandla even as I know that what they’re doing is essential to monitoring the disease’s impact. At seventeen months, my boy is a mere seven months away from the age most children with the virus die. I know he’s not going to miraculously be cured of HIV, but I don’t need him to be. I just need him to keep fighting for just a little while longer.

I’ve been in regular contact with Dr. Torres, the top HIV/AIDS expert at St. Vincent’s Hospital in New York City, over the past few months. They’ve been running pharmaceutical trials for a few years and seem to be having success with a cocktail of drugs called HAART, highly active antiretroviral therapy. It’s just a matter of time until they have a breakthrough, and I only need my boy to keep fighting long enough until the drugs are approved and I can get him on them.

When Mandla’s cries finally die down to pathetic little sobs, it’s so quiet that I can hear the clock in the reception area ticking behind me.

“Ma, jou kleintjie soek jou,” the third technician says to me as she comes out of the room looking disheveled. Mom, your little one is looking for you.

I expect him to fly into my arms when I enter the room. Instead, he lies there staring at me with accusing eyes.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

Delilah

25 December 1995

Verdriet, Magaliesburg, South Africa

Though we’d given Zodwa three weeks’ leave over the festive season, she said she’d rather stick around and rest up after her exams than go anywhere. She’d passed her matric with brilliant results and we’d hosted a special celebration dinner in her honor, after which I’d pulled her aside.

“I’m so proud of you, Zodwa, and would like to give you a graduation gift to congratulate you. Why don’t I get you a return bus ticket so you can spend the festive season with your family?”

“Thank you, Delilah. That’s very generous of you, but since my mother died, I don’t have any family left. It was just her and my brother, and now it’s just me.”