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Aleja Vega,

Friday, February 6, 2015

Just out of the shower, wrapped in a plush terrycloth robe, Doctor Aleja Vega sighed as she sat in her leather-covered arm chair and put her bare feet on the padded foot stool. The warmth radiating from the gas fireplace felt wonderful on her tired feet and legs. She took a sip of a very nice Malbec from Argentina while she relished the fact she was done for the day. She dearly wished she was done for good, because her weariness came from more than her body - her soul was weary – weary of almost two years of treating gang-bangers, pimps, whores, drug dealers, out of town business men, and sometimes women, who came to Chicago for business and a little fun, but that fun turned out to be more than they bargained for. She’d been at the top of her class in medical school in Havana and dreamed of being a renowned surgeon, helping people, but not these people.

Aleja wasn’t even a real doctor in the United States even though she was now a legal resident with a green card, having been allowed into the US under the Cuban Medical Professional Parole Program. But of course that hadn’t guaranteed she’d be able to practice medicine. No, to be admitted to practice in the US she would have to run a long and costly and oftentimes confusing gauntlet. Instead she did what she did, while saving her money, practicing medicine without a license to those who would rather not be treated at a hospital because questions might be asked about how or why they were shot, stabbed, beaten or overdosed.

She’d promised herself that someday she’d leave Chicago for some place warmer and do whatever it took to be licensed and practice medicine again - a place where she could use her surgical skills to help children and families.

It did pay well though. She had over five-thousand dollars in her medical bag from this day’s work alone. Hers was a cash business but that meant she had to hide the money in a deposit box, or through under the table investments – of which she now had several, but never in a bank where the curious IRS might want to know the source of her income. Her tax forms said she was employed in a pharmacy as an assistant - a job which was certainly not one where she could earn her mid-six-figure income each year. Just because she didn’t pay taxes on the money didn’t mean it was all profit. She had to pay cash for everything, including an outrageous monthly amount to the owner of the pharmacy to keep her on his books as his employee. Her landlord thought she was a high-priced escort, but was happy to take her cash for her large one-bedroom apartment in Chicago’s upscale Near North Side. She also had to pay a select few of Chicago’s finest, plus an army of doormen, bellmen, waiters, concierge staff and cleaning staff throughout the city who could be relied on to keep things confidential while sending customers her way. Aleja was very familiar with every expensive hotel in town and the least obtrusive ways in and out. She was also more familiar than she wanted to be with a number of Hispanic gangs. Her cash also provided access to a small but well-equipped operating room at a private clinic in town, and with it she employed a nurse anesthetist (another Cuban refugee) on retainer who assisted with her surgeries. And of course there was the expense of her very knowledgeable and discreet accountant.

She stared at the flames in the fireplace for a while, brooding on the vagaries that seemed to constantly upend her life - and not for the better. She had gone from rising young surgeon, married to Enrique, planning a family, to a widow and refugee fleeing corruption and evil men.

She tried not to dwell on it. It only made her, in turns, angry and sad. The past was the past and what of the future? She didn’t know. She had plans for the future but always seemed stuck in the present, destined to continue her life patching up criminals, the stupid and the unwary, until what?

Aleja took another sip of wine. Perhaps she needed something stronger. It was a cold Chicago night. Cuba might be corrupt, repressive, and destitute but at least it was warm. It seemed ironic that she longed for that kind of warmth and her own people, despite all that had happened to her, but there was no going back. With her flight to Colombia, she had been branded an ‘enemy of the people.’ To make it worse she had been married to a ‘counter revolutionary.’

Poor Enrique, an engineer with a head full of ideas about democracy – Aleja might have saved him by becoming the Minister of Health’s mistress. The Ministry of Health was headed by the odious Doctor Fredrico Garcia who had at first hinted, then demanded she sleep with him. He promised her many things, including her husband’s release in exchange for her submission, but she didn’t trust him. He was a despicable man with a poor sense of personal hygiene and an unbridled ego. Refusing Garcia even to save Enrique, did that make her selfish and uncaring? She had struggled with that question and the guilt that went with it for a long time. Didn’t she love Enrique enough to sacrifice herself?

Over time she accepted the fact, or at least rationalized that the Health Minister would never have come through on his promises to have Enrique released, and she also accepted the fact that Enrique would have never wanted her to do something so debasing. Even if he was released she was certain that she would have had to continue the relationship with Dr. Garcia to keep Enrique from going back to jail. That would have doomed their marriage regardless. Those thoughts had gone round and round for as long as she had been in exile, but it was all too late anyway.

Enrique died in prison while she was exiled to a government hospital in Venezuela. Doctor Garcia was as vindictive as he was petty. For not giving in to his demands she was sent to Venezuela, and now she was in Chicago – an unlicensed surgeon to people who were weak or careless or both, and those who preyed on them and exploited their weaknesses for drugs or other vices. Many gang members were stupid and immature – she could almost feel sorry for them, but there was also a cadre of evil people who in many cases would have died but not for her skills. If they had died the world would certainly be a better place. Unfortunately for Chicago and the world, surgeon in exile Aleja Vega patched them up and sent them out again to continue their destructive ways. But she took their money. A lot of it, but it was cold comfort for her well-being.

She tried to make amends through gifts to local charities, and providing her medical services to those who because of immigration status or lack of income, (often one was associated with the other) could not get medical treatment. And each Sunday she slipped five hundred dollars in the collection basket at Mass at Holy Name Cathedral. Unfortunately, total absolution seemed out of the question as long as she continued in her path outside the law.

Maudlin thoughts were more prevalent these days. She pushed them away and decided that such a cold night needed a medicinal dose of rum and crème de cacao mixed into her coffee. The Irish could have their coffee and she would have her Cuban coffee. It might not make her feel better, but perhaps it would keep away for a short time her bitter feelings of failure, and memories of shattered dreams.

Her phone rang. Damn! She glanced at the phone on the small oval wood table next to her chair. Why hadn’t she thought to turn the damn thing off, or at least leave it in the bedroom where she could ignore it and let it go to voice mail?

Aleja sighed and picked up the phone and was surprised and pleased to see it was Dmitri. His photo came up when he called and it always amused her because the forbidding Russian was smiling in the photo. She never showed the photo to anyone since Dmitri was notoriously photo-shy anyway, but also it was their secret. Most people considered the dour Russian incapable of smiling. Of course very few had ever seen him around his nieces and nephews and especially at the annual family Christmas party where he played Santa. She was delighted and grateful to be included in the Assonov family gatherings.

Dmitri had ‘adopted’ her not long after she had arrived in Chicago. She was twenty-eight at the time and on her own. Even though she prided herself on being resilient and tough, the change had been very hard on her. Although twenty years older than Aleja, he was less like a father, and more like a loving, devoted and very protective brother. With a smile in her voice she took the call. “Dmitri, tell me you’re calling because a friend or relative has just opened a Russian restaurant and you’re going to take me out and buy me dinner. I’m starving!”

When he paused for a few seconds too long she knew this was not a social call. “I’m very sorry Aleja ... there’s a very sick girl, maybe fifteen or sixteen, at the Waldorf...” Aleja’s heart sank as visions of warm borscht and sour cream with thickly buttered toasted pumpernickel, or piroshkies on the side, quickly disappeared, replaced by some pouty rich teen that had overdosed on mommy’s prescriptions to get attention, and needed her stomach pumped.

Those thoughts were quickly dispelled when he continued, “ ... pneumonia I think ... high fever, difficulty breathing, flushed skin, chills, wheezing...”

“Dmitri, you’re probably right ... classic symptoms.” She was more familiar with those symptoms than she wanted to think about. “She’s at the Waldorf? Why’s she not in the hospital?”

“She’s alone and very frightened ... say’s someone’s after her. The people I’m working for this week found her on a bench at Millennium Park. She refused to go with them unless they promised no emergency room. She’s got to be very much afraid if she was willing to spend the night in the cold as sick as she is, rather than be treated at the hospital.”

Aleja was on her feet pacing now. The thought of a teen so frightened that she would refuse treatment and stay out in the cold made her shiver.

“Okay Dmitri, I take it you’re on your way...”

“Yes, I’ll be out front in ten minutes.”

“We need to go by the clinic ... I’ll need to get some things I don’t have handy here.”

“Thank you Aleja. I’ll pick up some hot borscht.”

“With some piroshkies...”

Dmitri laughed. “Yes with some piroshkies. I will see you very soon. Remember don’t come out until I arrive and am out of the car.”

She bit back a retort that she wasn’t a child, and then smiled. He told her that every time he picked her up, but that was alright. She had almost learned that lesson the hard way when one night a black Audi which looked like one of Dmitri’s cars pulled up outside a building where she was treating a young woman who had been badly beaten by her pimp. She had walked out expecting to see what she always saw and didn’t think anything was amiss when the driver didn’t get out, when another black Audi pulled up right behind, and one of Dmitri’s drivers jumped out, gun in hand. The first car sped off. Someone was going to kidnap her! That never happened again but she took the lesson to heart and really didn’t mind when Dmitri cautioned her.

It was always about her safety. He cared about her.

Another time, she’d walked out of a block of apartments after patching up a gang member when the leader, a young man hopped up on drugs, had grabbed her by the arm as she approached Dmitri’s car and spun her around, cursing her in Spanish for ignoring him. This time of course Dmitri was already out of the car and moving with a speed that belied his size; he smashed his fist into the side of her assailant’s head and then stood on his wrist when the man pulled a large revolver from his belt. He cursed and threatened her and Dmitri. Dmitri picked up the revolver and escorted Aleja to the car and opened the back door – she always rode in the back – safer, he said.

The next day the gang leader disappeared. Word on the street was he had returned home to Mexico or Central America. She never asked, but no one else ever laid a hand on her.

Dmitri owned a fleet of Audi’s and employed only former Russian and Cuban service members, as drivers – all of them thoroughly vetted, with no criminal records, and drug tests were the norm. He paid them well and they were a loyal bunch. There was always a car and driver at her disposal regardless of time or day.

She realized early in her new career, the most important thing she needed in her line of work was protection, and it was the one thing she didn’t have to pay for, thanks to Dmitri.

Aleja moved to her bedroom to get dressed, all maudlin thoughts and disappointments brushed away. She was now in her professional mode as she carefully selected the appropriate clothes for the hotel. Long experience taught her the value of blending in with the other guests.

She knew a great deal about childhood pneumonia having treated many cases when she was exiled to Venezuela by the Ministry of Health, under the auspices of the Cuban medical outreach program. That program was supposed to assist the people of Venezuela in their own revolution, and it was also in partial payment for the one-hundred thousand barrels of oil a day shipped to Cuba from Venezuela.

Aleja was assigned to an ill-equipped and understaffed hospital in San Cristobal in the mountains of western Venezuela. It was unfathomable that in such a rich area there was often a shortage of basic medicines. Those shortages and broken equipment were the norm and meant that surgeries were often performed in abysmal conditions or postponed or cancelled altogether. Poor outcomes were blamed on her instead of the corrupt hospital administration. She was paid a stipend of about twenty dollars a month and basically lived in squalor, required to do many more procedures each month than she ever would consider safe in Cuba or anywhere else. Fortunately for her, it was only fifty-six kilometers from the border with Colombia, although escape was far from simple.

When she arrived in Chicago after a stop at the US Embassy in Colombia a little over two years ago she was living in an apartment shared with three other Hispanic women. The relocation services thought because she was Cuban she would get along with two women from Spain, and one from Mexico. That arrangement was a disaster. There was more drama than the daily offerings in the telenovelas on Univision Chicago. She couldn’t wait to get out – a feeling shared by all of her flat-mates, but they all worked the kind of entry-level jobs that didn’t pay much and required working long hours.

Aleja’s first job in Chicago was as a receptionist in an exclusive and expensive medical clinic in the city. She quickly realized that she had probably been hired more for her looks than her resume. Her medical skills were of little use in the job because she was not licensed, and it was made clear to her that she would not be allowed to do anything that required treating a patient. She was just there to look good and help with scheduling and bookkeeping.

It was widely known among the small staff that the two physicians who ran the practice had a few off the books patients who would be admitted via the back entrance and who always paid cash – no questions asked.

She often stayed past closing because the office was much more tranquil than her apartment, and she had access to the small kitchen. She would change into jeans and sweater and prepare her dinner and then read for a couple of hours. One snowy night there was a loud and insistent banging on the back door – the one that led to the alley. Startled, she looked at the security camera that was mounted above the back door and saw a tall, forty-something man with close cropped sandy-colored hair. He was wearing a top coat over what looked like a suit – at least she could see a bright white shirt collar and tie. She recognized him, although she’d never spoken to him. He was some kind of driver and he would occasionally bring an ‘off the books’ patient to the clinic. Tonight he was alone. She went down the back steps and let him in. Even in the dim light above the door to the alley he didn’t look well. His face was pale and sweaty – going into shock perhaps? The right sleeve of his coat was empty and she saw he was holding his right arm close to his body under the coat.

He stepped through the door grimacing with each step. “Doctor Vega, I’m glad to see you’re still here.” She had no idea how he knew she was a doctor, but decided to let it go for now as she helped him up the flight of steps. It was sometime later she realized he’d addressed her in Cuban-accented Spanish. Aleja was tall and thin and kept herself in shape but she struggled to help him. He was maybe six one or two and probably weighed about two-hundred. When they reached the top of the stairs she guided him into one of the larger exam rooms and got him seated on one of the upholstered exam tables.

He looked haggard and he struggled to catch his breath as she got the heavy snow-covered coat off him. Next she removed his nicely tailored suit coat which, like his overcoat, was just draped over his right shoulder. She tossed it aside but not before noting the large patch of fresh blood that extended around the right side. When she got that off him she saw he was pressing his right arm tight against his side, apparently in an attempt to staunch the flow of blood. She also noted with some surprise the butt of a large pistol in a shoulder holster under his left arm. Although he must have been in great pain, he said nothing,

Aleja retrieved some surgical scissors from a nearby drawer and pointed them at the leather strap to the holster that went under his right arm. He saw what she wanted to do and nodded. It was the only way to remove the strap without having to move his right arm. She cut the strap and then moved to his left side to slide the pistol and holster down his left arm. She recognized the pistol as a forty-five. Like most Cubans, she’d fulfilled her two-year mandatory service with Ejercito Revolucionaria, the Revolutionary Army – preparing to repel the Yankee invaders they said, and years after the revolution there were still some of the big Colts in the inventory. Even in a medical brigade firearms training and proficiency was mandatory. She’d discovered that she enjoyed shooting and was proficient at it. Her firearm skills proved crucial in her later travels when she escaped Venezuela and traveled through the mountains to Colombia with a band of smugglers.

Aleja then removed his tie and had him lie back on the table. He kept his arm pressed against his side. She didn’t bother to unbutton the shirt - it was ruined like the jacket, and just took her surgical scissors and cut it right up the front and down the right arm. He just watched her with his intense blue eyes.

“What am I going to see when I move your arm? I’d guess gun shot or knife wound. Yes?”

“Gun shot,” he said through clenched teeth. “Small caliber, probably a three-eighty ... through and through ... no arterial bleeding ... don’t think he hit anything vital ... I just need you to patch me up...”

His nonchalance while describing his wound, actually wounds, since he said it was a ‘through and through’ told her two things: this wasn’t his first time, and he was pretty tough.

“Let’s have a look.”

She gently took his arm and helped him move it away from his side. He said nothing but it was obviously painful. The side of his shirt was soaked with blood. Aleja finished cutting the shirt away and found he’d used a large sanitary napkin to cover the wound and try to control the bleeding. The pad was soaked through, as was the one that he’d used without much success to cover the exit wound toward the back. He bit back a groan when she helped turn him onto his left side to get a better look at the exit wound. Fortunately when she lifted the pads she discovered that for the most part the bleeding had stopped.

She overruled his insistence on nothing more than a local anesthetic, and after an assessment of blood pressure and pulse she applied ‘conscious sedation, ‘ which was an injection of a combination of a mild sedative to relax him, and an anesthetic to dull the pain.

He drifted in and out while she was probing the wounds, which without the anesthetic would have been excruciating painful. She extracted some cloth material, probably from his shirt or jacket, cleaned the wounds and dressed them.

Finally she removed the rest of his clothing revealing a well-muscled man with hardly a trace of fat, who looked like he worked out religiously. She also noted some older scars which indicated this stranger with a Russian accent who spoke Spanish, had been wounded before. Maybe a soldier?

Aleja sat next to him through the night, monitoring his vital signs every fifteen minutes at first, then when he seemed stable and his color was better she let herself doze in the chair near the exam table. She thought it fortunate that ‘Mr. Driver’ chose to get shot on Friday night since the office was closed on weekends.

The next morning he introduced himself as Dimitri, no last name. About noon he insisted he needed to return to his home. Aleja argued he should stay for a least several more hours if not overnight. Finally they compromised and she allowed him to call someone. About an hour later two Russian-looking men, neither of whom introduced themselves, arrived with a set of sweats and carefully assisted Dmitri into an SUV downstairs. She had only agreed to let him go if she could accompany him to continue to monitor his condition. His home was a three story brick building in Lincoln Park. She found out later he owned the building along with the ones on either side.

She moved into the guest bedroom and spent the weekend mainly watching for signs of sepsis. Over the next few days her biggest problem was keeping him in bed because as soon as he started to feel better he wanted to be up and going. Despite his grumbles he did what he was told. He seemed amused that she was ordering him about. Aleja did allow him his phone and laptop. Fortunately he recovered quickly and he seemed grateful.

During one of their frequent conversations while he was convalescing, she told him her story and about her current living situation.

“I have plenty of room here. I’ll have Maksim go with you to pick up your things and you can move in today ... until we can find some place more appropriate.”

Surprised, she just looked at him. He was older and certainly handsome enough, but why make this offer to a stranger?

Dmitri looked at her for a few seconds and smiled, as if reading her thoughts. “You helped me without question in a crisis and I am in your debt. Sin ataduras ... or as the Americans say, ‘no strings attached.’”

She stayed a month before quitting her job and moving into her new apartment. During that month they learned about each other. Aleja had to admit that Dmitri probably learned much more about her, than she him, but it was glorious having her own room. Of course, being able to spend as much time as she wanted in her own immense shower was also a delight. She also had access to his well-furnished and well-stocked kitchen. He was used to eating out but she surprised him with her cooking skills, and so they often had dinner together.

During that time Dmitri carefully spread the word to a few select people. Shortly thereafter she began her career as an unlicensed physician and surgeon who did discreet cash-only house calls.

They became friends, the stern looking Russian and the tall dark-haired Cuban doctor. He treated her with courtesy and respect and soon she found herself a member of the extended ‘Assonov’ family which straddled the expatriate Russian and Cuban communities. He never forgot her birthday and she was with him and his family at Christmas and other celebrations, plus there were those other times when he would come by for coffee or a drink on her back terrace. He always brought fresh flowers and often they went out to lunch or dinner together.

Over the last two years as they spent more time together she found herself sometimes regretting that their relationship wasn’t something more than friends - perhaps it was that he was twenty years her senior that gave him pause. Of course it could be his chosen profession as a protector for hire that made him reluctant to enter into a more intimate relationship. She noted though that he never seemed to lack for female companionship, although most of those relationships were of short duration. Some of the women were not very subtle in their jealously, resenting the easy familiarity she and Dmitri shared, especially when he called her by his Russian pet name for her, Solnishko, or ‘sunshine.’

Over time she’d discovered that he was more than a driver. He had been a soldier and now he was a protector. His skills had been honed in the Russian Special Forces, and the reason he spoke Spanish was his involvement with the Cuban military as an advisor in the Angolan conflict in the late eighties and early nineties. After that he was stationed in Cuba as an advisor to the Army. When the Soviet Union collapsed and he was recalled to Russia he resigned and stayed with his Cuban wife. After his wife died in childbirth he took a small boat to Florida.

He was still a mystery. She had not discovered how he had come to be in Chicago, or how he had become a successful businessman, or how he had managed to bring his three sisters and two brothers from Russia.

Dmitri walked into the suite at the Waldorf and introduced the striking twenty-something woman who was with him. “Ms. Brandt, this is my friend Doctor Vega.”

“I’m pleased to meet you. Thank you for coming.” Kate shook hands with the tall Hispanic doctor as she ushered them inside and closed the door. Kate was tall but Doctor Vega was taller, probably very close to six feet in her low-heel boots. She studied her as they walked into the suite. Doctor Vega was dressed casually but not inexpensively in designer jeans and a burgundy turtleneck under a dark wool pea coat. Her long hair was tied back with a ribbon that matched her sweater and she carried an expensive-looking tan leather valise. Dmitri followed with a large canvas duffle. Doctor Vega looked familiar even though Kate was sure they’d never met.

Getting right to the point the doctor said with only a slight Spanish accent, “I understand you have a young woman here who is very ill.”

“Yes, we found her at Millennium Park this afternoon and she said she was too afraid to go to the hospital. She’s through here.” Kate led them to the bedroom that she had previously occupied and quietly opened the door. The three of them walked into the room which was only illuminated by light from the bathroom. Natalie got up from her position on the edge of the bed, where she’d been bathing Rashmi’s forehead with a moistened wash cloth. Rashmi had her eyes closed and may have been asleep. Her breathing seemed labored though.

“Natalie this is Doctor Vega.”

“Hi, I’m glad you’re here. She’s been moaning and sort of drifting in and out. She’s very hot to the touch and then she wakes and has a bout of coughing. I guess she’s been taking aspirin today. She asked for some from her bag when she got here a couple of hours ago. She took three and drank a full glass of water. I’ve been sitting with her just trying to keep her cool but then she gets chills and her teeth chatter.”

Kate watched Dr. Vega shrug off her coat and toss it on a nearby chair and then walk into the bathroom, where she heard water from the sink running for a couple of minutes. When the doctor came out the sleeves of her sweater were pushed up to the elbows and she was drying her hands on a clean hand towel. She then took a pair of surgical gloves and a stethoscope from her tan bag, donned the gloves and pulled back the blankets. She looked at Dmitri and said, “I need more light,” gesturing toward a floor lamp in the corner of the room. He brought the lamp and got it situated to the doctor’s satisfaction. Then she turned to Natalie. “Please help me get her undressed.”

Kate noticed that Dmitri averted his eyes while the doctor and Natalie pulled Rashmi’s sweater off. He went to work taking items from the duffle, including sections of an IV pole which he assembled. He then hung a couple of plastic bags full of liquids on the arms of the pole. Rashmi moaned a bit and briefly opened her eyes as they exposed her injuries. Natalie gasped but the doctor simply frowned when they saw the serious bruising on Rashmi’s torso. Based upon the doctor’s casual acceptance of the injuries, Kate wondered about the nature of her practice. Doctor Vega shook her head when they took Rashmi’s jeans off revealing more bruising.

“Is that everything you need Doctor Vega?” Dmitri pointed to the items he had laid out on a table he’d moved nearer the bed. Kate saw it held syringes, plastic tubing and a portable oxygen bottle.

Doctor Vega gave it a quick look along with the bags now hanging from the IV pole. “Thank you Dmitri. I think that’s all I need for now.”

“I’ll be in the other room ... please call me if you need anything.” At that, Dmitri left.

Natalie and the doctor finished taking off Rashmi’s bra and panties. There was an almost inaudible sigh when Doctor Vega saw that the bruising did not extend to Rashmi’s pelvic region. She then pulled the blankets back up to her waist and sat on the edge of the bed and applied her stethoscope to Rashmi’s chest. Nodding, she turned to Natalie and said, “Please help me get her on her side.”