Health is Wealth

The days we spend on this Earth, from the moment our bursting tears are heard, until the day we move on elsewhere, are numbered. The rat race consumes us, killing ourselves trying to make ourselves, but one day, that stops. The hands reach midnight and soon our race is run. It seems, then, that health is wealth, and how we feel, is who we are. My name is Mary Fin, and this is who I am.

***

Unfortunately, in all senses, I am very poor.

I've lost count of how many mornings I've woken up here. The paint curls form the peeling walls, nestling into the dust collecting along the skirting boards. Andrea woke up first this morning, as usual, and Ruth will once we all start moving. Our mattresses are lined along the floor like puzzle pieces, battling for space between our bruises. I sit up, and pull myself to my knees using the window ledge. Another day, another attempt at finding a reason to smile. I look out the window and all I see is stop signs.

Today, I will smile because of the clouds. Crisp, white breaths across the sky, covering us from the relentless sun, and feeding our crops with the water they need. Nature's beauty is strong enough to survive all. And today, I will be too.

"Mary, have you got any spare paracetamol?" Whispers Andrea, tiptoeing over sleeping girls to join me at the end of my mattress.

"I've only got two left, I'm sorry, I was just about to take them myself." I clutch them in my palm, and she understands. The migraines haven't stopped in the three months I've worked here. "I start in ten minutes, what time do you finish today?"

She stands, resting a hand on my shoulder, "Don't worry, sister. I'll manage."

"No." I reach up and grab her hand, turning her back towards me. "Here."

"No. I'm not taking them off of you." She wafts me away, and our whispers slip into words.

I stand. "Andrea, come here, they're for you." She ignores me, and heads out of the door. I rush after her, wakening Ruth and one of the other girls, and grip her by the elbow.

"Ouch! You're hurting me!" She slashes her arm out of my grip, and I unfold my palm out to her. Two tablets, or, for us, a few hours of relief.

I smile, "And I'll hurt you a lot more if you don't take these off me. We've got six weeks left, Andrea. We're going to do it together." She scrapes them out of my palm and swallows them dry, giving me a wink before heading towards the top of her to do list. I fold my sheet along the bottom of my bed and change into today's clothes.

***

I was bought, packaged and shipped to the oil money mansions of the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. We've been brought here to clean for the Muhaddan family, if that's what they're actually called. This isn't the work I was born to do, but it's the path life has sent me down. Today's first job is to sweep the stairs leading to the second floor. Thirty-four steps, each three sweeps wide. It's been the same job, to start the same day, every day since I arrived. Next comes the ceilings, then the toilets and the kitchens. Mealtimes are twice daily, and I'll sleep once it's done. Nothing has changed except the migraines, which have now seemed to extend to my fingertips. The numbness doesn't hurt, more of a dull tingle, but feels cold and tender with any pressure. The bruises don't heal as quickly anymore, and my teeth are starting to crumble. Aside from that, though, today will be fine.

My body is wrapped in dirty robes, which were once white, but the cleaning duties don't extend to the self. That would be preposterous, of course, as I was brought here to clean for others. "Oi!" a voice wraps through the doorway as I steady my foot on the ladder's third rung. "Hey! Oi!" they yell again, and I stop, holding on with both hands. The father stomps across his polished marble floors, chest heaving. His eyes slump onto bags like a body in a hammock, bulging with redness. "Get off, get down, you dog!"

A dog. A strong and loyal animal loved by its owner. The irony. He kicks the ladder, shifting it under my feet. "Move, move!" I try to climb down, but he rattles it with each step until my rubber soles slip and I crash onto the floor next to him. He pierces his nails into my armpit and drags me up to his level, looking into my eyes. His English is broken, but I understand. "Is this what I pay you for?"

"No, si-"

"Oi!" He snaps. "Do not speak to me, you slave. Is this why I bought you?" The answer is yes, and both of us know that. Still, I shake my head. "Correct. Now, on your knees, scrub those floors, quickly. And put gloves on, with your dog paws." He throws me to the ground and shuts the door behind him.

I stood to continue the work I'd been originally assigned, and Ruth crept through the door he'd just left. "I'm sorry, sweetheart." Her arms wrapped around my neck and she sunk her body weight into me, our sweaty skin sticking together. "I'm so sorry."

"It's okay, I'll be okay." I tell her, though I don't believe it myself.

"How's your head?" She asks, her eyes flicking towards the doorway. We're not supposed to converse during work hours, even less if it's to show sympathy.

It's spinning. Sharp, shooting pains behind my eyes. Then, a constant, dull drilling into the point where my neck attaches itself to my skull. It's as though I can feel my brain rattling against the bone every time my eyes move. "It's fine, not too bad today."

She plants a kiss on my forehead and I climb back to the top of the ladder, my damp cloth now dry, and reach for the cobwebs. There haven't been cobwebs since I arrived, but that would mean I'd done my job, which, of course, I never have. I finish the hallway ceiling and knock on the door of the downstairs bathroom.

"Don't come in!" Shouts Mrs Muhaddan, the mother of the household. I hear her foot stamp against the door, as if she faces the toilet. I rest my ear against the door for a second, and hear her heavy breathing. Her stomach groans and she gasps between wretches as though she's being forcefully sick. I knock again, breaking the rules.

"Hello, Mrs. It's Mary. Are you okay?" I ask through gritted teeth, trying to keep my voice to a minimum.

"Who?" She shouts, then I hear something spilling into the toilet bowl.

I lean as close to the door as I can. "One of the cleaners, Mrs. Is there anything I can do to help you?" Nothing. Silence. "Mrs?" I tap the door again, but no answer. "Mrs Muhaddan?"

There are few moments in life where a decision is entirely made for you. At this moment, breaking these rules, the decision had nothing to do with the aftermath. If she was dying, I had to help her, regardless of whether I'd lose my job. It was the human thing to do. But then I'd have no work. The decision, then, is her health or my wealth.

I slam my shoulder into the door and it swings past her legs. She's hunched over in the corner, arms bandaged around her waist, elbows touching as her body heaves with each breath. She's crying, her bloodshot eyes looking up to me as I quickly turn to close the door behind me. "Mrs, I'm so sorry, you know I would never intrude, but I think I can help."

She doesn't speak, but seems happy to listen. "Tell me what's wrong, what hurts?"

Her arms unravel and she gestures towards the left side of her stomach. Her body spasms after each outtake of breath, shoulders flinching forwards with her teeth gritted at me like a vicious animal.

"I need my husband." She whispers, though I don't listen.

"You need medicine, Mrs. I can help you. Would you let me?"

"Get my husband." She demands, but I persist.

"If we go to the kitchen, I can give you some tea, it'll hel-" She tries to stand, but her aching body writhes her back to the ground, and she grapples with the floor. She doesn't speak, but the pain in her eyes tells her story. I leave her, and rush into the kitchen. Herbs, hot water, a cup. That's all she needs to soothe her pain.

I arrive back moments later with a hot cup of herbal tea. It's a blend I'd learnt back in Kenya, something I'd become known for in my neighbourhood. She sips, slowly, then soon comes to her senses. I creep away, and ask Ruth to tell Mr Muhaddan of her illness. As far as I'm concerned, this never happened.

But not for Mrs Muhaddan. I wasn't bought for them, but they've given me value. The herbs have helped her heal, and the doctors have told her it's colon issues. She'll visit the hospital twice a week now for a few months, and there should be little to worry about long-term. If only I was given the same treatment.

I've warned them for weeks now, with my finger tips getting colder and the migraines all the more sensitive. Sometimes my jaw feels disconnected from my body, like the pressure in my head wants to pop it off its hinge. The herbs I brewed for Mrs Muhaddan are all I need, but they tell me I was brought here to work, not cry. But I haven't cried. I'm afraid I'm too numb.

"Goodnight Andrea, goodnight Ruth." I whisper, then roll on to my right hand side, facing the wall. I'll sleep now, and tomorrow we'll find another reason why.

***

The sun through the blinds. The footsteps around my head. The weight of my arm, slipping on to the mattress. My right leg shifts, pressing against the floor and anchoring me onto my back. My left leg moves, moves, my left leg mo- I can't move my leg. I lift my neck to look at it, but that doesn't stiffen. My right arm reaches across and punches it, scratching into my skin but still I don't feel anything. "Andrea!" I shout. No words. A noise, yes, but nothing discernible. "Andrea! Ruth! Help me!" Nobody. Frantic, my breathing propping up my collapsing chest, my body itching in sweat, my mind spinning until, nothing. Blackness.

I awaken later in a hospital bed, clinically white gowns tucked around my thighs and the disconcerting mechanical hum of hospital equipment around the back of my head. White linen blends into white walls, blinking red lights splattering light into the dimly lit ward. I'm alone, and my body feels cold.

"Hello, you." A lady, maybe forty five, taller than me, rests her hand along the railing of the bed. "I'm doctor Feghouli, I'm going to look after you. What's your name?"

My voice tries but my tongue doesn't, flopping around my mouth like a wet dog in a puddle. She smiles, realigns the drip leading into my arm and leaves, returning a minute later with a child's A-Z letters chart. She points along the letters and I nod, spelling Mary. "Well okay Mary, you've had a stroke. You were dropped off here and we've brought you back round nice and gently. You're in no rush to move, just let us know when you need anything, okay?"

I smile to her, "But where's," my chest burning with every word, "Andrea?" before my eyes close for me, dragging me back into sleep.

This is how I've been living, now. I don't remember how many mornings I've woken up here, but the positivity is getting harder to come by. Indeed, life is what we make it, but how can I build when I struggle to breath? I've been thrown to the dogs, I'm worthless. My body is broken and my heart wants to too.

My sister interrupts my thoughts with a phone call, handed to me by Dr Feghouli. She tells me about Mum and her daughter. She was only around six months old when I left for Saudi Arabia. Tomorrow she'll turn three.

"And when you're out," she tells me "we'll get a new business growing."

"Sugar cane. That's the way forward. I need sugar canes."

She claps her hands with excitement, giggling through the phone. "And we'll have juices, and teas, and all of these herbs you like to use." My shoulders relax and a tingle rushes from my neck to my toes. My body is slowly waking up.

"I want to mentor, to bring people jobs. I want to be a name in the city, I want to share what I know, I want people to be happy, healthy because of what I make. I don't want anyone to feel, well, like this."

My sister smiles through the phone, her breath heavy with excitement, "You'll help so many people, look at you! Mary Fin, the sugar cane queen!" Then she stops, for a moment. "What about the family, the Muhaddans, have you heard from them?"

"Not a word. But that's the past, it's happened, now let's make our future happen too."

***

And that's exactly what I did. My body is healing, my mind following suit. I don't walk like I used to, and I'll never talk like I used to. I've changed, for the better. The sign outside the front door points customers inside, where our sugar canes hang across the ceiling. The herbs grow behind the back door, the bubbling teapots refilled every morning to be sipped across the city. The juices will fuel the many and the few, healthy, natural nutrients leading my beautiful people onto the lives they deserve to live. Their health is my wealth, and the gift of giving makes me the richest of them all.