He stepped back from Eddie’s crib and leaned his ear toward her lips.
“See that guy over there in the running suit?”
“Yeah.”
“He wants Eddie’s liver.”
“What?” That made no sense. She must have scrambled her words.
“Shush, don’t let him hear us. He wants Eddie’s liver.”
“What are you talking about?” He studied her face, tried to figure out what she was trying to say. Wants a liver? Surely that man already had a liver.
Her eyes were hollow, fixed in a faraway gaze. “His little girl over there?” She tilted her head toward the crib across the narrow, crowded room. “The one who looks like a dirty canary? She needs a liver transplant.” Anna shot a fierce, hateful glare at the man. “See that pager hanging on his belt? That’s so they can call him as soon as they find a donor liver.”
The man seemed to be purring as he stroked his daughter’s hand, rubbing her frosty pink polished fingernails.
“That has nothing to do with Eddie.”
“Yes, it does. He wants Eddie to die so his daughter can have Eddie’s liver. She needs a small one because she’s such a little girl.” Anna tucked a lock of greasy hair behind her ear and then continued. “Eddie’s would be about the right size.” Her voice lowered to a growl. “Don’t let him have it.”
“Where’d you get that crazy idea? Did he say something to you?” He eyed the man. Middle-aged. Running suit. Clean jogging shoes. A
New Yorker
magazine balanced on his lap. He looked like an ordinary father, not a ghoul.
“No, but I can tell by watching him.” She closed her eyes. “I see the wish on his face when he walks by Eddie’s crib. It’s like he’s measuring Eddie’s liver for size.”
He looked again at the man. He was humming to his daughter now, and tapping on her nose. Three times. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Anna wore a blank stare. He had heard that kind of tortured logic before, spoken by desperate, crazy patients. But this was his wife.
“Get that notion out of your head. No one’s going to take Eddie’s liver, because Eddie isn’t going to die.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
“He’ll die sometime.”
“We’ll all die sometime but Eddie isn’t going to die soon.” As he spoke, the words, assured and authoritative, bounced through his head as if they didn’t belong to him, as if they had floated in from another room. He didn’t know if what he said was actually true. But the liver transplant idea needed to be put to rest.
In silence, he reached for her hand. It was limp, as if detached from her body. His finger traced the path of her veins along the back of her hand, over her wrist, and to the spaces in her forearm where they dove deep between the muscle sheaths and coursed, close to the bone, toward her shoulder.
The nurse slid a thermometer into Eddie’s armpit, waited a moment, pulled it out, and wrote
37.4
on the vital-signs chart. Then she injected a colorless liquid into his IV line and flicked the reservoir with her fingernail, clearing the bubbles from the fluid.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“Antibiotic.” She slid the syringe and needle into the sharps container.
“Which one?”
“Ceftriaxone.” Her voice was muffled by the empty hypodermic needle sleeve wedged between her lips. He nodded. She pried open Eddie’s eyelids, shined a flashlight on both pupils, and charted their sizes on his bedside record.
Jake squeezed Anna’s hand. Eddie’s pupils must have reacted to the light. A good sign—or rather, if they hadn’t reacted, it would have been a bad sign.
“Honey, have you heard about Eddie’s EEG? He has brain activity.”
“Dr. Farley told me.” She seemed vacant. “Tell me what they do when a baby dies.” Her voice was weak, almost hoarse, like sandpaper rubbing against another piece of sandpaper.
“What do you mean?”
“If Eddie dies, what will they do with him?”
“He isn’t going to die.”
“Tell me what they’ll do if he does.”
“We’re not going to talk like this.”
“Tell me, Jake. Where will he go?” Now her words were resolute, spoken as a command.
He took a deep breath but remained silent.
“Tell me, or I’ll ask the nurse. I have to know this.”
“After the doctors determine that a patient has died”—he spoke of an abstract patient, not of Eddie or even of a dead child—“the nurses pull out all the tubes and wipe off the adhesive tape marks and straighten up the sheets and hospital gown.”
He paused. Where were these questions coming from?
She stared out the window. “Keep talking. Then what?”
“Well, then the family is allowed to stay with the deceased as long as they need to. Ultimately the body is taken down to the morgue.”
She seemed to listen intently, her eyes half closed. “Where’s that?”
“The morgue?”
She slowly nodded.
“In the basement of the hospital.”
She was quiet again. She hadn’t asked about a postmortem exam. He didn’t know how he would have answered that. If Eddie were to die, it might be a coroner’s case; by law, an autopsy would be done because he had been critically ill when he arrived in the ER. He envisioned Eddie on the morgue table, dwarfed by the endless expanse of shiny stainless steel. He saw the rubber garden hoses—the ones used to wash down the table when the autopsy was completed—looped on the floor, the jars of formaldehyde, lined up in a row and labeled with Eddie’s name and hospital number. The scale where the pathologist would plop Eddie’s organs—brain, kidneys, liver, spleen—hung by a chain from the ceiling.
He leaped from his chair, let Anna’s hand drop into her lap. Eddie dead. Eddie dead. He ran out into the hallway and leaned his forehead against the wall. He closed his eyes, erased the details of the ICU. The ventilators—gone. The anxious parents—gone. The nearly dead kids—gone.
Voices rang through the ICU like a weird, postmodern chorale, swelling, first, in one corner of the room and then moving in an aural wave to another corner. Someone coughed. An IV pump beeped. A pager chimed. Jake reflexively reached for his belt. It wasn’t his.
When he returned to Eddie’s cubicle, Anna grabbed his arm.
“What do the parents do?” Her voice was a flat whisper. “Just put on their jackets, walk out the door, and drive home?”
“Eventually, yes.” He swallowed and then continued. “That’s about it.”
“Not me. I’m never leaving Eddie.”
Chapter 21
Rose Marie
I
t was Saturday, and Rose Marie was doing the weekly cleaning. As she swiped the dust rag, which was really an old cotton diaper, over the window frames, she heard the thunk against the porch. Would the paper say anything about it? Would they identify her day care? Identify her?
She pulled open the front door, let out a soft groan as she stooped for the newspaper, and headed to the kitchen. The ink was blurred along the fold. Hopefully that wasn’t the part with the story. She wanted to read the whole thing. She flattened the crease of the newsprint against the tabletop with the edge of her hand.
She scanned the headlines of the front page. Not there. On page two she glanced at the death notices and the weather forecast. Not there.
In the middle of the third page the headline read:
Four Area Children Hospitalized with Meningitis
Four? She read it again. Four. Eddie and Amanda and who else? Quickly she skimmed the article for names, her eyes darting across the print, ready to land on the words “Amanda” or “Edward” or “Rose Marie Lustov.” There were no names, other than the director of the county health department. Then she returned to the beginning and read, slowly and carefully so she didn’t miss anything important.
Four LaSalle County children have been hospitalized in the past five days with meningitis. Three boys, ages six months, two years, and six years, and a four-year-old girl, are in LaSalle Children’s Hospital and St. Andrew’s Hospital. The three older children are in serious condition while the six-month-old boy is listed in critical condition.
According to Dr. Myron Klug, medical director of the LaSalle County Health Department, meningitis is an infection of the membranes that surround the brain and spinal cord. The most serious form of the infection is caused by bacteria while a milder form is caused by viruses. Some types of bacterial meningitis can be spread by coughing, kissing, sharing drinking glasses, and other close contact. Dr. Klug said that the six-month-old and the four-year-old attend the same Huron Township day care center, but no link has been identified between these two cases and either of the other cases. The other children in the day care, including the three-year-old brother of the six-month-old, show no signs of the infection, Dr. Klug reported.
Vaccines are available to prevent some forms of bacterial meningitis, said Dr. Klug, and are recommended for routine immunization of children starting at two months of age. The investigation of these cases is still underway, and Dr. Klug said he didn’t yet know if the ill children had received the vaccines. Bacterial meningitis is usually treatable with antibiotics, but serious side effects may occur, such as deafness, blindness, mental retardation, seizure disorder, or cerebral palsy if treatment is delayed. There is no antibiotic treatment for viral meningitis, and children with this form of the infection recover fully.
Dr. Klug emphasized that there is no evidence of an epidemic at this time and urged parents to consult their family physician if their children develop unexplained fever, severe headache, vomiting, listlessness, or stiff neck. The LaSalle County Health Department Immunization Clinic is open Tuesdays from nine to noon at the courthouse; appointments are recommended.
The words swirled across the page, looming large at one moment, fading into the background at another. Her eyes flitted from line to line. She read each paragraph again, and then again. Four children. What was going on?
She warmed a cup of water in the microwave for coffee. At least the other two weren’t in her day care. Chris, Meghan, Sawyer, and Davey were well. At least as far as she knew.
She started at the beginning of the article and read it yet again. It seemed odd for Eddie—sweet little Eddie, with the big ears and long, skinny neck—to be called “the six-month-old boy” and Amanda—bossy but imaginative Amanda—to be called “the four-year-old girl.” Those words were too impersonal, as if the children weren’t really people. Or were insignificant people who didn’t deserve to have names.
She tossed the descriptions of the children around in her head several times, amending them to suit her. A six-month-old loveable baby named Eddie. A four-year-old princess named Amanda, who just two weeks ago had declared she wasn’t Amanda anymore, because her name was Gretchen. When asked to put the puzzle pieces back in the box, she had turned her head away, lifted her chin, puckered her lips, and announced, “I can’t, because I’m Gretchen.” Now she was neither Amanda nor Gretchen, but rather “the four-year-old girl.”
She called Amanda’s house. No one answered. They were probably all at the hospital. She didn’t even know which hospital. After nine rings, she hung up.
She dialed Davey’s house. She had to know about the other children. The answering machine responded.
“Please call me if Davey’s sick. I sure hope we get to the bottom of this soon,” she said into the phone.
No one was home at Sawyer’s house, either, so she left another message.
Meghan’s mother, thank goodness, answered.
“How’s Meghan?” Rose Marie asked, worried about the answer. An army of insects seemed to dance around her insides.
“She’s fine. I read the news in the paper; can’t tell if I should freak out or not. What’s the story about Davey and Sawyer?”
“I don’t know. No one answers at their houses. If I learn anything, I’ll let you know.”
She reread the newspaper article one last time, making absolutely sure her name wasn’t in it. She didn’t want anyone in town to know that two of the sick children attended her day care. With a sigh, she folded the newspaper and turned on the television to see what the local news would say about the kids.
The first news item detailed the strike by the city bus drivers planned for the next day. Rose Marie fidgeted in her chair.
Then it came.
“Possible Meningitis Outbreak” was written in blue and black letters across the screen. In a breathless, rapid-fire voice, the newsman described the four cases. None of the children’s names were mentioned. Her stomach churned as she listened for her own name.
“Two of the infected children attend the same LaSalle County day care.” She held her breath. He didn’t say Lustov, didn’t give her address.
“Dr. Myron Klug is director of the local health department,” he said as he thrust a microphone toward a stern man who stood in a parking lot downtown. Dr. Klug repeated a few of the details and explained that they had no evidence for an epidemic in their county.
She turned off the television set and wrapped her arms around her waist. What would happen? she wondered. To Eddie, to the rest of the children? To her?
“The
Free Press
and channel sixteen both say there are four cases of meningitis in LaSalle County,” she said to Sarah.
“Holy Cow. Sounds like an epidemic.”
“But only two of the cases were in my children, as far as I know. My day care had nothing to do with the other two. I think. The director of public health said there was no evidence of an epidemic and people shouldn’t panic.”
“Now what?”
“The health department guy said I didn’t have to do anything, at least not right now. I’ve been cleaning this morning. It can’t hurt.”
By ten o’clock in the morning—after pushing the two Stratoloungers into the center of the living room so she could clear out the cookie crumbs, dog hair, stray toys, and lost barrettes that had been kicked under the furniture—she was vacuuming the carpet. When finished, she shoved the Stratoloungers back against the wall.
“This’s going to be the cleanest house in the state,” she muttered under her breath. Next, under the couch. She slid the vacuum’s upholstery attachment from side to side beneath the sofa skirt, inched it forward with each sweep, and thought about the reporter.
How did he find out about Amanda? About her? Who gave him her phone number? Amanda’s mother? Unlikely. Anna? Couldn’t be. Who would do that to her?
Next she cleaned the bookcases. Her library, as she liked to call it, contained mostly children’s books, which were stacked on the bottom shelves and used too often to get dusty. The book on top of the pile,
Rain, Hail, and Lightning
, was Davey’s favorite. He liked to make thunder noises as she read about the storms. She wondered if Davey’s mother would bring him back, if the other mothers would pull their kids out as well. Was Amanda in the ICU? Would she and Eddie be okay?
When she finished cleaning the living room, she changed the linen on her bed and scrubbed the bathroom floor with Lysol and a stiff brush, paying particular attention to the base of the toilet. Even though she repeatedly told the little boys to aim
in
the potty, not
at
the potty, sometimes they missed. She couldn’t be held responsible for that. She mopped the bathroom floor every night. How much more was she expected to do?
She hadn’t heard from the Campbells for two days. Presumably Chris hadn’t caught Eddie’s meningitis but she needed to be sure. She didn’t want to bother Anna at the hospital again, so she called their house, hoping to find her at home. At least, her parents were likely to be there.
As the dial tone rang in her ear, she hoisted herself onto the kitchen stool. Under the table, Beefeater lay curled into an O, his nose wedged between his rear feet. This was one of his favorite places, perfect for snatching fallen food. The curve of the dog’s spine, with its row of bony knobs barely visible under his slick Jack Russell hair, reminded her of a rosary. Beefeater lived a charmed life, confident of his next meal, able to sleep away the afternoon without a worry. Besides, he was her automatic crumb cleaner-upper. He kept the kitchen floor spotless.
Anna had never said much about her parents, except that they lived in Baltimore. She assumed Anna’s mother would share her daughter’s sense of style. She vaguely remembered Anna saying, upon returning from a visit to Maryland when Chris was two, that her parents’ home “wasn’t childproofed.” There was something about lipstick on the dining room wallpaper, a vague reference to what she assumed had been an unpleasant situation.
Although she had never met Anna’s mother, she recognized her voice immediately. It carried the same measured pace, the same remote quality as Anna’s. She tried to imagine Anna’s mother. Probably trim, like Anna, with sprightly movements. Her hair would be streaked with gray, or possibly pure white, or maybe skillfully dyed, and her face, with Anna’s high forehead and narrow, hazel eyes, would be relaxed and knowing, while the folds of skin that ran beside her cheeks would be deeper than her daughter’s.
“Both Jake and Anna are at the hospital,” Anna’s mother said. “Yes, Eddie’s still in the ICU.”
“And Chris?”
“He’s standing right here and would love to talk to you.”
“Hi, Rose Marie.” Chris’s familiar voice sounded like a cherub singing—rather, a worried cherub singing. “Mommy’s at the hospital. Eddie’s real sick.”
“I know, honey. I bet you miss your mommy.”
“I want to go to the hospital.”
“Of course. Are you having fun with your grandma and grandpa?”
“Grandma made pancakes that said ‘C’ for Chris.”
She smiled as she pictured him stuffing the pancakes into his mouth. “You’re being a brave soldier, Chris. Maybe you can come to my house next week, even if your grandma and grandpa are still here.”
“Bye.” Chris was gone; the dial tone buzzed in her ear. He had sounded healthy, as chipper as ever.
“But Meghan’s still fine, right?” she said, watching wind blow through the trees out the kitchen window. Meghan’s mother was on the phone, had just told her they’d made other arrangements for Meghan’s care for the next week or so.
“We need to be sure there isn’t a problem. You understand, I’m sure.”
“Well, I don’t know what to think. I’m just glad all of the other children are healthy.”
“We’ll let you know what we decide.”
After she hung up, she walked to her bedroom. Beefeater lay on her bed. “Move over,” she said and lay down. Sawyer’s mother had also read the article in the paper and had called just a few minutes before Meghan’s mother. They were all abandoning her. She closed her eyes and tried to think. Her mind was in a muddle. Nothing made sense.