Homeless (7 page)

We walk down a long hall to a big room that has lots of curtains separating beds. I’ve seen emergency rooms on television, but I’ve never been in one before. It reminds me of the clinic—the lighting is bright and everything is clean. The only thing missing is the sound of barking dogs.

A male nurse with a beard who reminds me of Mr. Lake points us to a curtained area. He talks to my parents about boring hospital things as he takes my blood pressure and temperature. I think he’s trying to keep us all calm. After he writes down my vital statistics on a chart, he takes a bottle of special disinfectant soap and a small basin out of a cupboard.

“Let’s clean this bite up, shall we?” he says cheerfully.

Dr. Gabe already cleaned the bite, and then Dr. Mac did. This hand has never been so clean.

The nurse gently washes the bite, then he lays a piece of gauze over it. My hand feels hot and itchy.

“Dr. Juarez will be here in just a minute,” he says, standing. As he leaves, he pulls the curtain closed to give us some privacy.

Mother strokes my hair. She looks more worried than I’ve ever seen her. “It’s my fault,” she says. “I should never have agreed to let you work around animals at the clinic. They’re dangerous. This proves it.”

“Now, Kamala,” Daddy says in a soothing tone of voice. “Let’s not get carried away. Things happen to children. They get broken bones and bumps all the time. You’d be out of a job if they didn’t!”

Mother has to smile about that. Most of her patients are kids who have fallen off a trampoline or broken an arm while in-line skating.

“You may have a point about bumps and bruises,” she says. “But this proves what I’ve always said about cats: You can’t trust them. They are sneaky and dangerous.”

I’m not going to get a cat for the next three lifetimes, I just know it.

Dr. Juarez pulls aside the curtain. He’s wearing a tie with pictures of Tweety Bird on it. That makes me smile, a little.

“Hello, Kamala, Ravi,” he says to my parents.

Good. They all know one another. Maybe having one of their friends treat me will make my parents relax.

He puts on a fresh pair of latex gloves, just like Dr. Mac does before she examines a patient. He sits on a stool and rolls it over to the bed where I’m sitting. He smiles at me warmly.

“I need to take a look at this,” he says. “I will try to be gentle, but it may hurt a little. OK?” he asks.

I nod.

He lifts the gauze from the bite and studies the holes made by Tiger’s teeth.

“You were truly chomped, my dear,” Dr. Juarez says. “Can you move your fingers for me?”

That’s not a problem. I open and close my fingers easily.

“Good.” Dr. Juarez turns so he can see Mother and Daddy. “I don’t see any evidence of damage to nerves or to the bones of her hand,” he says. “Sometimes the bite of a dog can break a finger, but that rarely happens with cats. Their jaws aren’t strong enough. And puncture wounds don’t need stitches.”

Mother and Daddy nod.

“I met Dr. MacKenzie outside,” Dr. Juarez continues, “and the man from the county animal department—Snyder, Gary Snyder. The cat was vaccinated only yesterday, so we have no way of knowing whether or not it has rabies. We have some decisions to make. I assume she had her last tetanus vaccination when she was six years old? Then she’ll need a booster today, as well as an antibiotic.”

“Two shots?” I ask.

He pauses to look at me. “You need both. Cat bites are very deep. I can pretty much guarantee you have some nasty germs in that wound,” he explains. “We also have to think about rabies. Dr. MacKenzie says she vaccinated the cat before Sunita got bitten, but the shot may not have had time to take effect. I’ll ask her to have the cat tested immediately.”

Mother covers her mouth with her hand, like she’s holding something in.

“It’s OK, Kamala,” Dr. Juarez says. “Over seventy percent of rabies cases are transmitted through raccoons and skunks, and another large percentage comes from bats. The chances of this cat having rabies are very, very small.”

“And if the animal is negative, she won’t need rabies shots?” Daddy asks.

“Wait a minute,” I say, remembering something I read once. “How exactly will they test Tiger?”

Dr. Juarez hesitates and looks at the tips of his black shoes. “The only way to test for rabies in a suspected animal is by testing the brain tissue.” He lowers his voice. “The only way to do that is to kill the animal. It is done very kindly. He’ll get an injection and won’t feel a thing.”

Hot tears spring to my eyes.

“You can’t do that!” I blurt out. “It’s not fair. It was my fault. I should never have opened the cage and tried to pet him.” Tears run down my cheeks, and I look at my parents. “I’m sorry.”

“You would rather have rabies shots than have this cat—this cat owned by nobody—put to sleep?” Daddy asks.

Dr. Juarez hands me a tissue, and I wipe my tears.

“It doesn’t matter who owns him,” I say. “I can’t let him be killed because I was stupid. Dr. Mac had a giant sign on his cage warning us not to get close, and Dr. Gabe said something, too. Can’t you see? It’s wrong to kill him.”

“There is another way to proceed,” Dr. Juarez says. “The animal can stay in quarantine, under observation. If it doesn’t show any signs of rabies after ten days, then it is not infected. It would not have to be killed.”

“Really?” I ask.

“But in the meantime, you would still have to receive two shots tonight, and one more next week. If he’s infected, you would need three more after that.”

“That’s a lot,” I say. “Why don’t we just wait until the ten days are up? If he has it, then I would start the shots.”

“That could be too late for you,” Dr. Juarez explains. “We need to start treatment immediately to be safe.”

“If Sunita’s infected, will the shots prevent rabies from developing?” Daddy asks.

“Absolutely,” Dr. Juarez promises. “Remember —the chance that Sunita is infected is very small, but we’re always extremely cautious with rabies. Thousands of people every year get these shots.”

Mother looks at Dr. Juarez and then back at me.

“No,” I say. “Don’t say it.”

“Say what?” she asks.

“Don’t say that you want Tiger killed,” I say. “I’ll take the shots.”

We go back and forth a few times, my parents trying every way they know to get me to change my mind. But in the end, I win. Tiger will get his chance to live.

Dr. Juarez cleans the skin on my right arm near the shoulder and gives me the first injection.

I take a sharp breath. “Oooo!”

“Are you going to make it?” Daddy asks.

I nod. It doesn’t hurt as much as when Tiger bit me.

Dr. Juarez gives me three more shots—one in the right arm, two in the left. I’m feeling a little like a pincushion.

“That’s it.” Dr. Juarez pulls off the latex gloves and tosses them in the trash. “All done. You’ll need to take antibiotics at home for a week and watch the wound for signs of an infection, but with two docs in the house, that shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Thank you,” I say politely.

“I’ll see you,” he says to my parents. “Never a dull moment in the E.R.”

Dr. Mac and Gary Snyder are waiting for us in the waiting room. We sit down to explain what happened.

“I decided to get the shots,” I say. “I didn’t want them to kill Tiger.”

“She was very firm about this,” Daddy says. “Is it true that you will watch him for ten days?”

“Exactly,” Gary says. “I’m in the middle of filling out a report on this. We have to follow up on every suspected rabies case. You may get some calls from reporters. Rabies stories are always big news, even if they turn out to be nothing.”

“As long as Sunita is safe, that’s all that matters,” Daddy says, putting his arm around my shoulder and squeezing.

“Ouch!” I squeak. “My shoulder—the shots.”

“Sorry, honey.” Daddy kisses my forehead.

Dr. Mac looks miserable. “I can’t apologize enough, Dr. Patel. I feel responsible for this.”

Daddy shakes his head. “Please. Don’t give it a moment’s thought. Sunita was firm about that as well. She says she ignored your instructions.”

Mother presses her lips together tightly. I don’t think this is a good time to ask if we can adopt one of the strays. That time may never come. What a horrible day this has turned out to be.

The automatic door at the other end of the room whooshes open, and we all turn to look. An intense-looking woman rushes in carrying a pencil and a slim notebook. She strides over to us.

“We got a call from Animal Control about a rabies victim,” she says, glancing first at Gary’s green uniform and then at me. “Are you the little girl who was attacked by a vicious wild cat?”

V
icious wild cat . . . vicious wild cat . . .
The words of the reporter keep echoing in my head.

I’m trapped in a nightmare of angry cats, six feet tall, with shaggy fur, sharp claws, and pointed teeth. I try to run from them, but no matter where I go, I’m trapped. The cats are coming closer, closer, and closer . . . I can’t get away!

Suddenly, the nightmare shifts.

I’m the cat.

I stretch out my front paws, trying to run faster than I’ve ever run before. My whiskers bristle in the wind, sensing what is going on around me. Through my paws, I can feel the vibrations of something chasing me.
Hurry!
My tail lashes, and my ears swivel to try to figure out what’s so big and loud—what’s trying to hurt me. I glance over my shoulder. Giant humans with huge hands swoop in and grope at me, trying to grab me!

There, ahead—a small, dark cave. I’ll be safe there. I swerve and put on a burst of speed, running right into the small hole.

Bang!
The trapdoor closes.

They got me. I meow as loud as I can, calling for somebody, anybody to come and rescue me. Let me out!

The sound of meowing wakes me. I sit straight up in bed. It’s me. I’m the one making the noise.

What a weird dream!

I’m not a cat. I’m not being chased by cats. I flop back on my pillows.

“Sunita?” calls Mother, tapping lightly on my door.

“I’m awake.”

“Good thing,” Mother says as she walks in. “It’s nearly lunchtime. Do you want me to bring up some soup? You can stay in bed if you want. How do you feel?”

“Fine, I guess. And I’ve had enough sleep, thanks.” That dream is still very vivid. “I’ll come downstairs to eat.”

Mother gives me a quick kiss. “I’ll get something ready for you.”

I have to change out of my pajamas slowly. My shoulders hurt from the injections, and my hand is killing me. I wish I could get dressed with my eyes closed. There are cats all over my room—on posters, on covers of the books piled on my night-stand, even on the screen saver of my computer. Every time I see one, it reminds me of my dream and the feeling of being locked up. Is that how a wild cat feels when it is trapped and taken away? Is that how Tiger felt? Is that why he bit me?

It gives me the shivers.

My friends from Dr. Mac’s Place visit after lunch.

“Cool—you made it into the newspaper!” David shouts as he runs into the family room, where I’m sitting in front of the TV. I mute the ice-skating competition I’m watching.

“I read it,” I say. The reporter who was at the hospital yesterday wrote up the story of what happened to me. The headline read “R ABIES SCARE.” When I saw it at the kitchen table, I didn’t feel like eating anything.

The girls walk in, talking to my mother. My five-year-old brother and sister, Harshil and Jasmine, are hiding in the kitchen, watching everything.

“Hi, Sunita,” Maggie says.

“She already saw the article,” David says to her.

“Sit down, you guys. Has anyone else called about Socrates?” I ask.

“No. We went back to look for him again this morning,” Brenna says. “No luck. But he’ll turn up,” she adds hastily. “He’s probably found a nice person who’s feeding him caviar or something. I predict two days.”