Chapter 22 Pravat
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: Pravat
Iwait until afternoon to text Rama, hoping a day’s rest helped him.
Hey, how’s it going?
Resuming working on the painting of the skyline, I barely notice when an hour passes. When I check my phone and see no messages, I tell myself Rama might be sleeping, but after another hour goes by without a word from him, I call. He doesn’t pick up.
Rama, are you okay?
When the phone finally pings several minutes later, I toss the palette knife onto the newspaper I’ve spread out on the table and look at the screen. A text from Rama with only single letter.
I
About to try calling him again, I pause when another text comes through.
I’m fine.
When he doesn’t say anything more, I text back.
Please call me when you get a chance.
Fifteen minutes later, my phone rings, and I hit the speaker button. The loud blare of a car horn fills the room, followed by someone shouting curse words in English.
“Rama?” I ask.
“Yeah, it’s me.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m…I, uh, I just got out of a taxi.”
Alarmed, I take the phone off speaker and stand. Far from his usual self-assured manner, Rama sounds rattled and confused.
“A taxi? Didn’t you stay home and rest today?”
“No, I went to work.”
“When I called you this morning to wish you a happy birthday, Pete said you weren’t feeling well.” Silence. “Rama? Are you still there?”
Another horn blares before he answers me. “I’m here. I had to find a place to sit down. I, uh, went to work today, but I’m on my way back to Pete’s.”
“Are you feeling all right?”
“I’m fine.” He doesn’t sound fine.
“Where are you exactly?”
“On my way to Pete’s. Didn’t I just tell you that?” He sounds genuinely puzzled.
“Yeah. The cab let you out and you found a place to sit. So, are you outside Pete’s building?”
The next pause is so long, I’m a ball of tension by the time he answers.
“I think I gave the driver the wrong address,” he says hesitantly before a loud burst of conversation mixed with the sounds of traffic blocks out his next words. When he speaks again, his voice is slightly panicked. “P?”
“I’m here. Call Pete and have him pick you up.” I begin to pace. He never calls me by just the honorific “P.” He sounds muddled and apprehensive, and he’s in the middle of a big city in a strange country. I want him safe.
“Pete’s at work. Maybe I should call another cab,” Rama says uncertainly.
“He told me this morning he took the day off. Call him. Do you know where you are? What street?”
“Oh, right. He told me that. Pravat…” he leaves off, sounding so unsure I want to crawl through the phone and wrap my arms around him.
“Just concentrate on one thing at a time. Is there a street sign near you?”
I wait, and after a moment, Rama gives me his location. Jotting it down, I tell him I’ll call Pete for him. I hate ending the connection between us, but I have no choice.
Relief floods me when Pete answers on the second ring.
“He’s what?” He asks incredulously after I tell him the situation. “That’s a good twelve blocks away from here. And why did he leave work so early?”
“He sounded confused. Will you go pick him up? He’s sitting on some wall near a church. And Pete, please call me when you have him home safe.”
The next several hours drag by. I know Pete’s busy getting Rama home and comfortable, but what if something happened?
What if, when Pete got there, Rama was nowhere to be found?
Worry consumes me, and I keep going over my conversation with Rama, wondering what could be making him act so out of character.
A Google search tells me it could be a lot of things, ranging from a urinary tract infection to a head injury or even a stroke.
When Pete finally calls me back, it’s well after dark. I almost drop the phone in my hurry to answer it. When he reports Rama’s safe and in bed, I fall back on the couch in relief.
“I found him two streets over from the address you gave me. He was sitting on the pavement talking to a homeless man. I took him straight to the emergency room.”
“What did the doctors say?” I ask.
“He was a little dehydrated. After they gave him fluids, he rallied and was irritated as hell that I’d taken him to the hospital.”
“You did the right thing,” I assure him.
“While the doctor was looking him over, I called his boss. He said he’d sent Rama home at noon because he seemed tired and disoriented. He wants him to stay out the rest of the week.”
“That’s good. Wait. He left at noon? That’s three hours before I spoke to him. What in the world had he been doing during that time?”
“He said he couldn’t remember.”
I rub my eyes. “Weren’t the doctors concerned? Didn’t they want to run any tests?”
“Yes, but Rama refused. Maybe Alex is right and it’s exhaustion and will clear up after a day or so of rest. He’s going to stay home with Rama tomorrow.”
“Sounds like you’re taking good care of him. I wish I could help. Please keep in touch.”
Pete promises he will, and I have no choice but to head to bed even though I know I won’t be able to sleep.
What if Rama’s current state resulted from an underlying condition?
What if he worsens and has to be hospitalized?
I begin calculating if I have enough money to fly to America.
It’s doubtful, but maybe I could borrow some from Kiet.
When I look at the clock and find it’s after two in the morning, I finally give up on sleep and make myself some coffee before returning to my canvas, painting being the only activity that holds a chance of distracting me from my worry.