Of Flesh and Blood (50 page)

Evan shook his head. “We need to administer oxygen to her.”

“Of course.” She nodded. “I have taken the liberty of already requesting a tank.”

“Mrs. Flanders, if we do not immediately change our practices, I am most concerned that Cecilia will not be the only nurse to fall ill.”

Flanders folded her arms across her chest. “How so, Dr. McGrath?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Evan saw another young woman pass by him heading toward the flu ward, but she disappeared inside the room before he could make out her face. Evan focused back on Flanders. “The nurses are moving from patient to patient without washing their hands,” he said gravely.

“My nurses are doing the absolute best they can,” she said with cool defiance. “They have no time. You see how sick their patients are.”

“They need to make the time!” he snapped. “Look at poor Cecilia. The one simple measure of proper hand-washing could make the difference between sickness and health—life and death—you understand?”

She eyed him for a moment and then nodded contritely.

“Also, we need to stop this practice of sharing contaminated water between the patients,” he said.

“All these patients already have the flu.” She waved back to the door to the ward. “What is the danger of using the same bucket for those who are already infected?”

“We do not know what else the patients are harboring. Only some patients develop the pneumonia and it is worse than any I have seen. Perhaps a share of patients also carries a bacterium along with the influenza.”

“I see.”

He pointed back in the room to the one visible window that was wide open. “And we must shut those blasted windows!”

“But what of the draft? The ventilation. Is that not helpful?”

“The breeze is blowing the influenza particles all around the room! It is potentially exposing the rest of us to the Spanish flu.”

“I see, Dr. McGrath.” Flanders’s chin dropped and her shoulders dipped in defeat. “My nurses are only following my instructions. I take full responsibilities for all these breaches of conduct.”

Evan shook his head. “Mrs. Flanders, you and your nurses are trying your best under unimaginable circumstances,” he said in a much gentler tone. “I admire them for their selflessness, but we must do everything in our powers to prevent another nurse or doctor from falling ill.”

“I could not agree more. I will go right this very—”

The young woman who had passed him earlier suddenly drifted into Evan’s field of view. His heart leapt in his throat. Without a word of explanation to Flanders, he dashed back into the room and caught the girl by the upper arm.

“Papa?” Liv gasped in surprise.

Maintaining his grip on her arm, he dragged her over to the sink. “Wash your hands, Liv!”

She scrubbed her hands under the water, and he did the same again. Then, with only a slightly lighter grip, he led her out of the ward, down the corridor, and through the front entrance. He stopped only when they reached the steps outside the building. He tugged at his mask and let it fall to his chest, as did Liv.

“What the devil are you doing in there?” he demanded.

“The nurses need help, Papa. They are so overwhelmed.”

“You are neither a doctor nor a nurse!” he cried. “You have no business on the flu ward. I specifically told you to stay away from the hospital during this epidemic.”

She placed her hands on her hips. “Please do not treat me like a child. I am perfectly capable of helping out.”

“You most certainly will not!”

Liv held out a palm to Evan. “Papa, there are not enough of them. It’s so awful. The patients are suffering so. I only want to help.”

“By exposing yourself to the Spanish flu?”

“I am following your precautions.”

“Easier said than done,” he said. “I witnessed experienced nurses blatantly ignoring my instructions this morning. We already have one gravely ill staff member because of it.”

“Poor Cecilia.” Liv’s face fell. “She has always been so kind to me, so welcoming and happy to answer my many questions.” Her voice cracked. “Will she . . . survive, Papa?”

Her angelic expression melted the last of Evan’s ire. He sighed heavily. “I do not believe so, Liv.”

Unfazed, Liv nodded. “Papa, Cecilia is alone there. Her family is not allowed to visit. I think she finds a little comfort in my presence.”

He shook his head adamantly. “No, Liv. You will not go back there. I will not permit it.”

Liv reached out and touched his shoulder so lightly that he barely felt her fingers. “No one should die alone.”

“She will not be alone. Her colleagues—her friends—are with her.” He patted her hand. “Liv, I admire your compassion. One day, you will be a wonderfully humane doctor. But right now, you must leave this flu to the fully qualified professionals. Do you understand me?”

“Yes.”

He looked away. “If anything were to happen to you . . .”

She squeezed his arm and laughed freely. “Oh, Father. You are such a dear sweet man.”

“Promise me, Liv,” he said, turning back to her. “Promise me you will not go back there.”

Before Liv could reply, Moses Brown suddenly appeared around the
corner and jogged up to them. In his early sixties, he was still an imposing figure. However, the years of dust from his carpentry work had taken a toll on his lungs, leaving him with severe asthma. He wheezed audibly from his run. “Mr. Alfredson is in your office,” Moses said. “He wants to see you right away.”

“Did his son come too, Moses?” Liv asked with nonchalance that Evan knew was feigned.

“No, ma’am,” Moses said. “Just Senior, today.”

“I wonder what the old man wants today of all days,” Evan grumbled. He looked at Liv sternly. “You stay away from the wards, Liv.”

She nodded but Evan recognized a spark of rebelliousness in her eyes. He turned to his old friend. “Moses, please keep an eye on Liv. Do not let her anywhere near the wards.”

“Papa!”

But Evan waved off Liv’s protest and hurried up the path toward the building.

He walked into his office to find Marshall Alfredson leaning back in the chair facing the desk and window. His gold-handled cane rested against the chair and a waft of blue cigar smoke floated above him. Marshall did not turn at the sound of Evan’s approaching footsteps. “Are you aware that Mr. Wellsby is still in my employ?” he said in lieu of a greeting.

Evan tensed at the mention of the name. He associated Marshall’s squat private investigator with some of the worst moments of his life, like the beating he received at the Alfredson coach house or the news of Olivia’s drowning. “That does not surprise me, Mr. Alfredson.”

“Wellsby is as good at his job now as he was twenty years ago. Possibly better.”

Evan circled the desk and dropped down into the chair across from Marshall. Seated, he suddenly realized how exhausted he was. He had hardly slept a minute since the first influenza case arrived. And now Liv’s reckless visits to the flu ward preoccupied him. Evan had no energy left to verbally spar with Marshall.

“For example,” Marshall went on, “Mr. Wellsby brought back a rather detailed report of a stroll your daughter took with my son last week.”

Evan’s stomach somersaulted. He sat up straighter in his seat but still did not say a word.

“According to Mr. Wellsby, they hid themselves behind one of the buildings that
I built and paid for
.” A sense of cold inevitability ran through Evan. Marshall took a drag of his cigar and blew the smoke at the doctor. “They were not there to discuss the war or politics, Dr. McGrath. But I think you know that already, do you not?” He grunted. “According to Mr. Wellsby, you saw them kissing behind the building as clearly as he did!”

Evan felt like a convict whose sentence had just been pronounced. “They are hardly more than children,” he mumbled to himself.

“Perhaps I could have overlooked this flagrant disregard of my most specific instructions,” Marshall growled. “But to hear that you witnessed this abomination and did nothing to stop it . . .” Saliva flew from his lips as his voice grew to a shout. “Why, it is beyond the pale!”

Evan stared at the old man, neither intimidated nor afraid. “Abomination, is it? Because it happens to be
my
daughter that your son has feelings for.”

“You will never understand!” Marshall snapped. “You cannot understand.”

“And you will never stop living in the past!”

Leaning on his cane, Marshall hoisted himself to his feet. “I warned you, sir.” He shook the still-lit cigar at him. “I explained the consequences were this to ever happen. And I intend to see them realized. I will remove you from this office
and
my hospital! You have until the end of this month to get your affairs in order here.”

Evan felt remarkably numb to his own dismissal. “All of this because I fell in love with your daughter?”

Marshall’s lip curled into a sneer. “Don’t you dare mention my daughter, McGrath!” He waved the cigar at him like it was a knife. “You have no idea what it feels like to lose what is most precious to you.”

Evan snorted a laugh. “Do not be so sure of that, Mr. Alfredson.”

“The end of the month!” Marshall repeated, and then pivoted and hobbled for the door, leaning heavily on his cane. He stopped at the door. “In the meantime, while we are searching for your successor, I want you to close the Alfredson to any more cases of this ghastly influenza.”

Anger suddenly jolted Evan into action. He leapt to his feet. “I will do no such thing.”

“What?”

“I am not closing our doors to victims of the Spanish flu,” Evan said as
he walked around his desk. “No one needs us more than those patients. It would be morally negligent to turn them away.”

Marshall limped back toward him. “I did not ask for your opinion.”

“Nor did I yours,” Evan snapped. “This is a hospital. We offer comfort and help to the sick and the needy. It is our guiding principle.”

“Yours maybe. Not mine.” Marshall kept approaching until he stood a few feet away. He dropped his cigar into the ashtray. “I did not build this hospital to watch it be brought down by an influenza epidemic.”

“
You?
You didn’t build this hospital!” Evan cried. “I did.”

Marshall’s eyes narrowed to slits. “How dare you!”

“On paper, you might own the building and the land, Mr. Alfredson.” Evan leaned closer. “You might even legally be able to replace me.” He brought his fist to his chest with a thump. “But make no mistake. I built this hospital. From its origins to the modern center it has grown into. And every step in between. I am the backbone and the soul of this clinic. You are just the bank, Mr. Alfredson. Nothing more.”

Marshall’s face went pale with rage. Hand shaking, he suddenly raised his walking stick and swung it wildly at the doctor.

Reacting out of instinct, Evan dodged a step and arched backward at the waist. He felt the breeze of the cane as it zipped past his head. He had barely regained his footing when Marshall cocked his arm again. Before the blow came down again, Evan launched himself forward and grabbed the old man’s arm, catching it between his hands.

Marshall fought back with surprising strength for his age. “You snake!” he cried, as he swung his free arm and clubbed Evan on the side of the head with a closed fist.

Twenty years of frustration and hatred erupted inside Evan. He yanked the walking stick free of Marshall’s hand and hopped back. He raised the weapon up over his own head. “You miserable old man,” he growled. “You won’t rest until you’ve destroyed everything. Will you?”

Marshall glared at Evan with a loathing as intense as any he had ever seen. Then suddenly, before Evan’s hand had even flinched, Marshall’s expression went blank. His legs buckled and he dropped to the ground as though shot. He landed on his side and seemed to involuntarily roll onto his back.

Marshall lay staring up at Evan with eyes wide open, but the left side of
his lip drooped noticeably. He was moving his right arm, but his left lay like a discarded rope. The old man was clearly conscious, as Evan saw the right side of his mouth moving and he heard garbled sounds.

Evan was so distraught that it took him a moment to realize Marshall was having a stroke. He dropped the cane and knelt down beside him. Marshall raised his right arm shakily to Evan and muttered something incoherent out of the right side of his mouth.

“What?” Evan asked, as he leaned his ear closer to the other man’s lips.

“Junior . . . and Liv . . .,” Marshall muttered.

“What about them?”

“You have to . . . stop them. It’s not . . . natural.”

Evan shook his head, dumbfounded. Even while suffering a massive stroke, the old man still obsessed over petty family grievances.

“They are . . .,” Marshall stuttered. “
They are . . . brother and sister
.”

Sitting on the leather couch with her feet tucked beneath her, Erin rested her head on Steve’s shoulder. The twins were finally asleep judging from the quiet floorboards above. Despite the warm autumn night, the wood-burning fireplace crackled beside them. Diana Krall crooned softly through the ceiling speakers. Two glasses of red wine stood on the coffee table, though Erin had hardly touched hers. She had been too busy talking.

Finished now, she inhaled the soapy scent of her husband’s shampoo. He’d been using the same generic brand since before they met. That was Steve—consistent, reliable, and comforting. All her recent emotional upheaval felt so much further removed by his side. Steve was her refuge. And she loved him deeply.

He mussed her hair and kissed her on the forehead. “Holy crap, Rin! It never ends for you,” he said with the perfect touch of lightness. “Kristen Hill, Africa, panic attacks, and now Auschwitz . . . Man, you’re overdue for a little slice of calm and happy. Why don’t you let me take you to Hawaii?”

She kissed him on the neck. “Might be safest if we moved into a bomb shelter for a while.”

Steve pulled his head back and studied her with his kind hazel eyes. “Poor Maarten. I would have never guessed. He always seemed like a guy without a care in the world.” He paused. “A slave laborer for Josef Mengele? Can you imagine living with
that
your whole life?”