If only you knew what I was about to say, she thought, feeling an overwhelming relief that she had stepped back from the ledge. The word in her notes, the word she almost used, was the word “betrayed.”
“I’m going back to Africa,” she said. “It won’t matter.”
“You can’t hide there forever.”
She frowned. “I’m not hiding.”
He looked into her eyes. “Did you hear yourself today? You were magnificent. You’ll be thirty in a few months. The trust will be yours. Imagine what you could do with it.”
Zoe turned away and saw the girl running to catch the Frisbee, her blonde hair flowing behind her. I can’t, she thought, picturing Joseph’s face, but the idea stuck to her like a burr and would not let her go.
chapter 31
The next morning, Zoe awoke in the goose-down warmth of Trevor’s guest bed. She grabbed her iPhone off the bedside table and checked her messages. More than twenty-four hours had passed since Kuyeya’s MRI, and Dr. Chulu had promised her quick results now that the chief radiologist was back from leave.
She saw a text from Joseph, sent at 4:07 a.m. D.C. time: “Good to talk yesterday. Happy the hearing is over. Call Dr Chulu ASAP.”
Her pulse quickened as she searched for the physician’s number. She reached him on his mobile. “What’s going on?” she asked. “Is something wrong?”
“There have been complications,” he said guardedly. “Kuyeya needs surgery.”
“Why?” she asked, sitting upright in the bed.
He took a breath. “Children with Down syndrome sometimes have laxity in the ligament that separates the bone of the atlas—that is, the top cervical vertebra—from the spinal cord. It’s called atlantoaxial instability. Most of the time it doesn’t become symptomatic. But trauma can trigger it, such as a fall or a violent incident—”
“Like a rape,” Zoe interjected.
“Yes. It can take months to manifest. But when it reaches an advance, stage—when the cord itself is threatened—the only way to correct it is to perform a spinal fusion.”
“Shouldn’t you have caught this before?”
“An MRI is much more revealing than an X-ray.”
That’s why I wanted one before now, she thought. “So when is the surgery scheduled?” she asked, forcing herself to stay calm.
“That’s the problem. A fusion requires a neurosurgeon operating in theater with an orthopedic surgeon. The closest hospital equipped to perform the procedure is in Pretoria.”
“Why can’t UTH do it?”
“We have qualified surgeons,” he answered a bit defensively. “We lack a proper facility.”
“So medevac her to Pretoria. Get the South Africans to do it.”
He cleared his throat. “That would involve substantial expense.”
“How much?”
“Pretoria Wellness Hospital is a private facility. With the medevac, it will cost at least one hundred thousand dollars, perhaps more.”
Zoe was stunned. “How soon does this need to happen?”
“She needs to be operated on immediately. Her spinal cord is in peril. If she were to fall again, it could kill her.”
Dear God, Zoe thought, chills racing through her. “I’ll see what I can do.”
She hung up and placed a call to Atticus Spelling. The octogenarian was both a compulsive workaholic and a habitual early riser. His secretary—an old bird named Harriet—greeted Zoe officiously and transferred her to Spelling.
“Zoe,” he said. “Such a pleasant surprise.”
She dispensed with pretense. “Atticus, we’ve had our share of disagreements, but I know how much you love your grandchildren.”
“That goes without saying,” he agreed cautiously.
She told him a boiled-down version of Kuyeya’s story. “I need a hundred thousand dollars from the trust to save her life. I can put you in touch with Dr. Chulu if you want confirmation, but that’s the number he gave me.”
Spelling sighed. “I sympathize with the plight of this child, I truly do. But there are thousands of others just like her around the world. You would squander the trust principal quickly if you tried to cover all their bills.”
Zoe’s temper flared. “I’m not talking about every child. I’m talking about one child.”
The trustee didn’t break stride. “I’m sure there are charitable programs in place that can assist her. Find me one that has appropriate accountability structures, and I will consider a disbursal of that magnitude.”
Zoe exploded: “Damn you, Atticus. I’m asking for one half of one percent of the principal balance six months before it’s mine anyway. Please give me the money.”
“I’m sorry, Zoe, I can’t do it,” said the old man. “I have a fiduciary responsibility to fulfill. Call your father if you like.”
The next thing Zoe heard was the dial tone. She took a deep breath, struggling to maintain her composure. Then she threw on jeans and a T-shirt and went to find Trevor. He was in the dining room, eating a plate of scrambled eggs.
“Did I make the paper?” she asked.
He laughed wryly. “The front page of the Post. Below the fold, but still prominent.”