The Covenant Read Online Free PDF Page A

and get a good examination.”
    “Yes, Doctor Jon. But this time, this time it is about myself.”
    He looked at her, surprised, concerned. She never asked about herself. “Are you sick?”
    She took a deep breath. “Doctor Jon, the water. It comes out red.”
    “Water? Do you mean urine? The water you make when you go to the bathroom?”
    “Yes. That water.”
    “And do you have any pain, or tenderness anywhere?”
    She shook her head. “No. But I know it is very bad. My sister had this. Very, very bad.”
    He thought for a moment. “How long have you had this, Fatima?”
    “Just now it started. This morning.”
    “Fatima, what did you eat last night for dinner?”
    “Humous, and cousbara salad, and beet salad…”
    “Beet salad! That’s it. Fatima, you are probably fine. Beets will do that, make the water red. It’s harmless.”
    He could see the relief flood her face. “You really should get used to going to your own doctor, Fatima. You need a good examination at least once or twice a year…”
    “No. I don’t like doctors. I mean, I don’t like to go to doctors, to take off my clothes.”
    ”Fatima…”
    “Thank you, Doctor, I’ll go now…”
    “Fatima. Don’t eat any beets for the rest of the week. If it comes back, you tell me right away, okay? And then I’ll get Dr. Rosen to examine you.”
    “Shukran.”
    “Bevakasha ”, he replied. She didn’t move.
    “Doctor Jon…”
    “Fatima. It isn’t necessary…” he implored without a shred of hope. She ignored him, as usual, heaving the enormous straw basket she often carried on her head onto his desk. It was filled with fresh red grapes from her own vines. They smelled of sweetness and musky undergrowth and the hot, Mediterranean sun. She must have gone back to her village for the weekend, he thought, feeling sorry for what must have been endless waits to get through security checks, endless walks down long dusty roads to avoid roadblocks… He thought of his fig tree, understanding why she’d made the effort.
    “Give some to liana.” She smiled, gesturing toward the smiling, framed picture of the child he kept on his desk as she emptied the basket into a large plastic bag. “She loves my grapes.”
    “This is true.” (That had been his fatal error, years before, revealing to Fatima how much his daughter loved her grapes, thereby ensuring himself what was turning out to be a lifetime supply.) “But Fatima, why so many? You could sell them and make a nice little profit.”
    She shook her head stubbornly. “I work for money. Grapes are a gift from Allah. They are for family, for friends.”
    He broke off a bunch, popping them into his mouth, letting the tangy, red juice bathe his tongue. It was delicious. “Shukran , Fatima.”
    She balanced the empty basket carefully on her head, her posture beautiful, her face acknowledging his thanks with quiet pleasure. She closed the door silently behind her.
    He put on his white coat and began his morning rounds.
    The beautiful Moroccan grandmother was reacting badly to the increase in her chemotherapy dosage. She never complained, but he could see it in the white pallor on her olive complexion, her lack of appetite, her silence. What to do? he wondered. The drug was working at this dosage, the tests showed that. Perhaps an antiemetic to help control the nausea? That toomight have side effects. He would have to check her more often, he made a note to himself, try out some other drugs to help with the side effects. And if that didn’t work… Maybe a different drug?
    In contrast, his twelve-year-old hell-raiser was in fine spirits. A little too fine. He smiled, listening to the complaints of the nurses on the boy’s latest practical joke—something involving a syringe and a bedpan—he didn’t want details. “If you don’t behave, you’ll just have to get well and go home!” He shook his finger at the boy, who took off his baseball cap and grinned.
    “Want to check your face in the