Of Flesh and Blood (55 page)

Evan had sent two junior doctors to Seattle with a truck in search of more oxygen tanks, but the city wasn’t coping any better than the Alfred-son with its influenza catastrophe. Oxygen was as precious as rare gems. But Evan still had a few favors that he intended to call in. One of them was with the military supplier he was waiting for the operator to connect him to.

Evan was still holding on the line for the supplier when George hobbled into his room. As always, his son wore a suit with the empty right sleeve folded up to near shoulder level.

From the distress in his son’s eyes, Evan immediately recognized that something disastrous had happened. Without waiting for the operator, he hung the earpiece up in the stand and set it on his desk. “George?” he demanded.

“Father, it’s Liv.”

The air left Evan as though a tree had fallen across his chest. “Oh, George, no. Please, God, no . . .,” he croaked.

George looked Evan squarely in the eye. “Liv has been moved to the flu ward. She has a high fever. And she is coughing up rust-colored sputum.”

Evan grabbed his head in his hands and squeezed as hard as he could. “No, not Liv.
No, no, no
. . .”

With his only hand, George reached across the desk and grabbed Evan by the sleeve. “She needs you. Now, Father.”

“Of course,” Evan muttered as he leapt to his feet.

He raced around the desk and ran down the hallway and out of the building, without waiting for his lame son to keep up. Outside, the rain pelted down in sheets. Evan’s shoes dug into the sodden grass and splashed the mud on his pants as he sprinted toward the building that housed the flu ward. He stormed inside, tracking the mud over the floor. The rainwater ran down from his hair into his eyes and mouth, but he did not stop to dry himself.

Why can’t it be me?
he thought over and over again.

Evan dug a mask out of his inner pocket and fixed it haphazardly to his face as he burst through the doors of the flu ward. “Where is she?” he cried to the stunned nurse who stood washing her hands at the sink.

“Miss McGrath?” the nurse asked stupidly.

“Yes!”

She pointed to the far corner of the room, but Evan could not spot his daughter among the haggard, pale faces in the beds he could see. A few of Moses’s makeshift partitions still separated clusters of beds, though the ward had long since run out of curtains and poles. By now, the patients were all crowded close together, some lying on the floor with only a sheet or blanket between them and the floor. No one attempted to segregate white from black or men from women any longer. It was a small miracle just to find space to lay the next victim. Only death seemed to offer any new openings.

Evan rushed over to the corner of the room. He flung a partition out of his way and found Liv lying in a bed pushed tight against the wall.

Nothing he had seen in the past three days, or anytime in his life, prepared him for the sight of his daughter. Liv lay in her sweat-stained nightgown, covered from the waist down with a light blanket. Her face was wan; her lips bluish-tinged. An oxygen mask hung loosely around her face, hissing away almost uselessly. Panting heavily, she stared blankly at the ceiling and picked at imaginary objects floating above her.

The flu-induced delirium immediately told Evan how grave her illness was. His breath caught in his throat. He hopped over a patient lying on the floor and squeezed in beside her bed. “Liv, darling!” he said.

Liv’s hands fell to the bed and her head swiveled to look up at him. “Papa?” she asked uncertainly.

“Yes, Liv. It is.”

Her eyes came into focus and her discolored lips curved into the trace of an impish smile. “Oh, Papa,” she said.

Evan felt his heart cracking. He reached out and cupped her slick face. “Darling,” he murmured helplessly.

Liv lifted her hand and grabbed one of his, squeezing it weakly. “Papa, I am sorry.”

“For what could you possibly be sorry?”

“Cecilia.”

He patted her cheek softly. “There was nothing to be done for Cecilia.”

Liv frowned slightly. “I came to see her, Papa.”

“I know you did.”

“After you told me not to.” Liv squeezed his hand tighter. “I gave you
my word, Papa, and I broke it.” She stopped to gulp a few deep breaths of oxygen. “I could not let . . . Cecilia die alone. I just could not.”

A swell of pride joined the grief mushrooming in his chest. He leaned forward and touched his forehead to hers. “Oh, Liv. You are a wonderful kind soul.”

“I only want to be like you, Father,” she murmured. “To try to be as good a doctor and a person.”

Evan’s cheeks flushed and his eyes misted over. “You are going to be better on both accounts, my love.”

Suddenly, Liv’s hand shot up, and she feebly pushed at Evan’s chest. “Papa, not so close. You could become sick.”

He resisted her shove. “I am wearing my mask, Liv.”

The minimal force of her hands died away. For a long moment, their heads touched in silence. Each of Liv’s raspy breaths tore at his heartstrings.

“I would give anything to change places with you,” he muttered.

“What, Papa?” she asked, her eyes swimming again.

“Nothing.”

She swallowed noisily. “Does Junior know?”

Evan grimaced. “I do not believe so. I only heard minutes ago from George.”

“Will you tell him, Papa? Please.”

Evan bristled at the thought of Liv pining for her own half brother, but he understood that she needed any and all support at this moment. “Yes, I will, Liv,” he said, intending to send for Junior as soon as the boy arrived at the hospital.

“You do not approve.” Liv panted. “You do not like his father.”

I am his father
. “It is not that, Liv.”

“Junior is not like his father.” Her eyes drifted shut. She appeared to be tiring from the effort of speaking. “He is not bitter like Mr. Alfredson. He wants . . . to do . . . grand things.” Her voice trailed off to a hoarse croak. “I think I am in love.”

“You are still so very young, Liv.” He rubbed his forehead gently against hers.

She mumbled something unintelligible and lapsed into either sleep or unconsciousness. Evan wasn’t sure which.

“Dr. McGrath!” a woman called out behind him.

Starting at the sound, Evan straightened up and looked over his shoulder. The head nurse, Gertrude Flanders, was staring wide-eyed and gesturing wildly from a few feet away. “This is reckless contact, indeed, Dr. McGrath!”

“You are correct, Mrs. Flanders,” he said as he rubbed his eyes.

Flanders nodded with genuine sympathy. “I am so sorry for your daughter’s illness. But, Dr. McGrath, you taught us how vital it is to take more care around . . . affected patients.”

“You are absolutely right.” He sighed.

Evan had just hovered within inches of a highly contagious patient, ignoring the most basic of infection-control measures, but he simply did not care. The most important person in his life was at the brink of death.

Why, oh why, can it not be me instead?

“You see this, Bill?” Normie Chow trooped into his office, waving the newspaper.

“I did,” William sighed.

“And?”

“I am dealing with it, Normie.”

Chow looked unimpressed as he dropped into the chair on the other side of William’s desk. He unfolded the paper and held it up close to his face as though he had forgotten his reading glasses. “ ‘The McGraths are the medical family—arguably, the medical dynasty—who have controlled the Alfredson for more than a hundred years,’ ” Chow quoted. He lowered the paper momentarily and chuckled. “
A hundred
years? Bill, I thought you’d only been doing this job about eighty.”

William wasn’t in the mood. “Normie, I read the article.”

Ignoring him, Chow raised the paper and read on. “ ‘The McGrath family has rallied behind one of their own, Dr. Tyler McGrath. His father, Dr. William McGrath, the Alfredson’s president and CEO, has refused to answer questions regarding his son’s alleged malpractice. However, according to sources within the hospital, he has stonewalled and blocked all attempts at an internal investigation of Dr. Tyler McGrath’s actions that led to the untimely death of little Nathan Stafford . . .’ Yada, yada, yada.” His head popped up over the page.

Pain seared through William’s lower back. “What is your point, Normie?”

Chow dropped the paper to his side as though it were an ax falling. “You know what people around here are calling this?”

William shook his head.

“
McGrath-gate
.”

“Who’s calling it that?”

“Well, me.” Chow chortled. “I’m just hoping it’ll catch on.”

“Glad you find this all so entertaining, Normie.” William resisted the urge to rub his back. “Do you believe Mr. Rymer?”

“Nah. I got to give the guy some credit, though. Only person I know who hates doctors more than my grandpa did.” Chow’s face contorted into a grimace. “Besides, don’t matter what I think.”

William sighed. Chow was right. All that mattered was how the voting members of the Alfredson family viewed Rymer’s inflammatory article.

“So?” Chow asked. “You going to take this lying down, Bill?”

“That’s not my plan, no.” William pointed to the newspaper dangling from Chow’s hand. “In fact, the article has inspired me.”

“Inspired by
this
, Bill? Really?” Chow’s face scrunched again as he raised and dropped the newspaper. “You been reading self-help books again? ‘Every setback is really an opportunity’ and all that bull crap?”

William sat up straighter in his chair. “Between this board meeting, the
C. difficile
crisis, Denny Rymer, and so on, I’ve been too long on the defensive. And frankly, Normie, I am tired of it.” He sighed. “Perhaps the Alfredson—at least, as my family has always known it—is beyond salvaging. But I am determined to go down swinging.”

“That’s the spirit, Bill.” Chow made a supportive punch-to-the-chin gesture. “Won’t do you a scrap of good, but I’m glad you’re going to put up a fight.”

William chuckled at Chow’s fatalistic candor. “Might already be helping. Look at what has happened with Senator Wilder.”

“Did you make him better?”

“No, but I enlisted his help. He’s already spoken to the TV producer who was considering running the exposé on our superbug situation. Senator Wilder persuaded him not to run the story.”

“
Persuaded?
” Chow laughed. “Like with a horse’s head in the guy’s bed?”

“No. On the contrary. They’re spinning a positive story out of this. Senator Wilder is going public with his multiple sclerosis. He wants to endorse the experimental stem cell treatment my daughter-in-law, Jill Laidlaw, is pioneering.”

Chow stretched his arms over his head and yawned. “Speaking of Dr.
Laidlaw, she’s the last reported case of
C. diff
we’ve had in the past thirty-six hours.”

“No one else since?”

“Nope.”

“Good,” William said with genuine satisfaction. “How is the surgical ICU coping?”

“We’re treating the five remaining active cases, including your daughter-in-law. She’s the sickest of the lot, but as you know she
finally
agreed to go on treatment.” Chow rolled his eyes. “Holy smokes, you McGraths are stubborn sons of bitches. Who knew?” He shook his head. “You Scots make us Chinese look like an easygoing, laidback people. And that’s saying plenty!”

“Laidlaw is an English name.”

“Ah, she’s a McGrath at heart.” Chow waved away the difference with a backhanded flip of his wrist. “Point is, the
C. diff
outbreak appears to be contained for the time being.”

“For the time being?” William muttered. “You don’t think we’re over the worst of it?”

“Who knows?” Chow shrugged, as though the question were academic. “This hospital is big enough to span two time zones and house its own weather system. Those tiny
C. difficile
spores could hide out almost anywhere. Could be years until we eradicate them all. If ever.”

William nodded. “So, for the time being, we’re in reasonable shape?”

“Better than last week.” Chow heaved a sigh. “Then again, last week was not exactly a banner week for this joint.”

“Your team has done a good job under trying circumstances,” William said. “You’ve done well, Normie.”

Chow reddened slightly as he stood. “Yeah, well, I’m eager to get back to normal times and my usual habit of just phoning the job in.”

Chow left with a promise of another update in the morning. Moments later, the phone on William’s desk buzzed. He reached for the receiver.

“Dr. McGrath, it’s Denny Rymer,” the caller said in a syrupy voice.

“Ah, Mr. Rymer. Thank you for returning my call.”

“My pleasure,” Rymer cooed. “Does this mean you’re prepared to discuss the Stafford case?”

“No. No. Not at all.”

The sweetness drained from Rymer’s tone. “Then what’s this about?”

“I wanted to discuss legal action with you.”

“You mean the Staffords?”

“No, Mr. Rymer. The libel and antidefamation suit that the Alfredson Medical Center intends to launch against you and your newspaper.”

Rymer sniggered. “If you think you can intimidate me for one second by threatening to sue, you’re wasting your time, Dr. McGrath. Been there, done that.”

“I wonder, Mr. Rymer.” William paused. “What you wrote in today’s paper was patently false and damaging to the Alfredson and myself, personally.”

“I have sources that will back up everything I said,” Rymer said defiantly.

“You might want to check your sources more diligently.”

“I always do, Dr. McGrath.” But a note of hesitation crept into his tone.

“You said that I ‘stonewalled and blocked all attempts at an internal investigation.’ In fact, once we heard of the unfortunate outcome, we deemed the Stafford case an extraordinary death and immediately designated it for a Section Fifty-nine review.”

“Section Fifty-nine?” Rymer said nervously. “What is that?”

“It’s when a group of senior physicians from the Medical Advisory Committee perform an internal audit on a morbidity or mortality case. It’s as thorough as a coroner’s inquest. The findings and recommendations are binding.”