“Little man’s just tired,” Ruth said. “It’s been a long day.” She planted a lingering kiss on his forehead and then held her arms out to him. “Besides, it would be difficult not to get hot in the reflected light of all those candles,” she quipped, and I laughed gamely, though the reversal in our roles was disarming.

Who was the calm woman before me and what had she done with my sister?

I was about to blow out my own candles when Mandla suddenly leaned forward and vomited down Ruth’s pants before he began having a violent seizure.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR

Ruth

27–29 December 1995

Rustenburg, Gauteng, South Africa

Two days after Christmas, I’m curled up in a chair next to Mandla’s bed at a hospital in Rustenburg.

Mandla is hooked up to various drips and monitors, and he’s been subjected to a huge battery of tests. The prognosis doesn’t look good; he had a febrile seizure brought on by complications of pneumonia, and his CD4 count has dropped since his last test. The doctors are concerned about his viral load though they aren’t talking AIDS just yet. Still, they’re speaking in that somber way that worries me.

I wanted so much for my boy to have the perfect Christmas that I refused to admit how sick he was. Stupid, selfish, Ruth.

I’ve barely slept and still wear the clothes I wore on Christmas Day. Dee brought toiletries and a change of clothes, but I’m too scared to leave Mandla’s side except to rush to the bathroom for a minute at a time. His temperature keeps spiking and they’re concerned he’ll have another seizure if they don’t get it under control.

I hear a rustling from the bed and look to see Mandla struggling with his oxygen mask again. My boy is a fighter but I wish he wouldn’t use so much of his strength to fight against the equipment and people that are trying to make him well. The machines, at least, are faithful in their service and do not discriminate. I wish I could say the same for the people.

When we first arrived at the hospital, it took four nurses to try to hold Mandla down so that they could draw blood and put a drip in him. As soon as I declared his status to them, two of the nurses backed away, refusing to tend to him.

“Just put gloves on, for God’s sake,” I shouted, trying to get them to help him.

“Pinprick accidents happen all the time,” the one nurse said, “especially with flailing children. I’m not taking the risk.”