“Are you giving her anything? Herbs? Are you trying to heal her?”
My father looked solemn. He slowly shook his head. “There is nothing that can be done.”
“What!” I gasped. “Father, you cured Mr. Benson’s brain tumor. He was supposed to die. You’re telling me you can’t do anything about a simple virus?”
Calmly, my father responded, “Daniel. Tumors, cancer, they are nature’s beasts. My energy and medicines of nature can and do conquer the travesties nature throws our way. Unfortunately, Daniel, this is man’s work. And because of this, nature cannot defeat it.”
“Have you tried?”
“What do you think?”
Silence.
I felt badly at that moment for suggesting my father had done nothing. Of course he had. Looking around the bedroom, I could see the herbs everywhere.
“Stay with your mother, Daniel. I have much to prepare. She is a good woman. God will be sparing her soon. Stay with her.”
When my father delivered those words to me it caused my soul to ache. I finally looked to the bed and my mother who was lying there.
Sitting down in the chair, I reached for my mother’s hand. It was hot to the touch and she was unresponsive. Bringing my lips to her hand, I kissed her and closed my eyes. I reached up and brushed my fingers against the fibers of the wool coat.
Sensing my father was still in the room, I glanced over my shoulder. He stood there quietly.
“She’s wearing a winter coat,” I said. “Is she going somewhere?”
With a gentle smile and words that matched he replied. “Of course.” He paused. “Daniel, your mother asked to wear that coat for her journey. Look closely at the coat. Do you not remember it?”
It took a second and then I remembered.
My God. When I got my first real job I bought my mother that coat. It was expensive, but she didn’t have one and needed one for a trip to Washington. I didn’t want her to be cold or without a coat.
She complained it was too nice, too expensive to wear.
My father spoke. “Remember it, Daniel? Remember what your mother said when you gave it to her? She said to you that she would wear it to Washington but then she was putting it away. She was going to save that coat and wear it when she had some place very special to go. She asked for the coat today. She wanted to wear it. She is leaving for the most special of places.”
It was a reaction I couldn’t control.
I began to cry.
My mother, the most perfect of women. She never hurt a soul and never spoke a bad word of anyone. I couldn’t even recall her raising her voice at my father ever. She was a gentle being. And there she was ravaged by this unknown illness and wearing a winter coat I had given her a decade earlier.
She was lying peacefully and suffering with a quiet grace.
I suspected my father had given her something to comfort her.
My father finally left the room to do whatever he had to do and I stayed there with my mother. I kept holding her hand, watching her and absorbed what I knew were my final moments with her.
2.
Responsibility
My mother died.
Two hours after my arrival, she passed on. My father must have sensed she was going because he stopped his task and returned to the room. A few moments later she opened her eyes, smiled and left us.
I don’t believe it was the virus that took her. My father said it was her heart and God’s will. I accepted that.
What I couldn’t accept was his rushing me.
What about my mother? Weren’t we to call the authorities? Hospital? Something? My father shook his head, covered my mother with a blanket, opened a window and said we would return to bury her. But he said we had things to do and had to go.
He wanted to just leave her there?
What was the rush? What about Sam, my brother?
Sick.
His family?
Sick.
Were we going there?
In a sense.
Sam, his wife and their children were all ill but were meeting us. In fact, they were already waiting.
Then I learned why there wasn’t a long line of people at my father’s door.
There was, at one time, a very long line. My father had sent them all away.
He sent them to St. Germaine’s church which was six blocks away. It had a huge school and hall. He had directed the ill to go there with instructions for them to bring a blanket and pillow for comfort.
Then my father got a hold of the authorities to inform them of the gathering of sick people. Leaving my mother before she took a turn for the worse, he went to the military aid station set up at a Sacramento Walmart. They were sympathetic to my father. At least the staff Sergeant Doug Bentley who was on duty was sympathetic. He did what he could, pulled some strings, lied and misdirected a delivery truck full of supplies to St. Germaine’s.
He had accomplished all of this in six hours while I sat behind my desk staring at figures. My father did all of this.
But he hadn’t been back to St. Germaine’s. His last phone call with Sergeant Bentley had informed him of the truck full of supplies and only that the people had arrived but nothing more.
He felt an urgency to get there and a responsibility as well. After all, he had set it up.
It could have been a complete failure. He just didn’t know. Only going there would tell.
In the two hours that I sat with my mother my father had proceeded to pack his car with herbs and supplies and raid several houses, including our own for food. He murmured something about me having to make another food run. I didn’t pay much attention. We were too busy rushing.
With reluctance I went with him. And I went with one question on my mind.
Why?
‘We cannot cure them, only care for them.’ That was my father’s first explanation as to why we were there.
No cure? What good were we? Although I would say my father was as close to a doctor as anyone came, still…
Was he putting it nicely that misery loves company?
My mother had just died and instead of mourning, I was being swept away to help more sick. More dying.
The theory was that if we kept them together they would be easier to care for and we could try to make them more comfortable.
“They deserve dignity and to be cared for. Wouldn’t you want the same?” My father asked me.
When we arrived at St. Germaine’s, his words proved to be a lot easier said than done.
Visually, it was evident.
The parking lot was packed, not with cars, but with people.
That told me what was waiting for us in the church, the hall and the school.
Word had gotten out.
People came from all over.
My brother Sam had tried to do all that he could, but he was down for the count when we arrived.
There were only two other people standing.
One was the pastor and the other was Sgt. Bentley.
The pastor didn’t look well. He was pale and coughing and his eyes were dark and sunken.
We moved my brother Sam and his family to a back office. How pathetic it was. They deserved better than that. They deserved our attention. But Sam, so much like my father, seemed to understand. He said to weakly, “Danny, you have an obligation. We’ll be fine.”
There wasn’t a space to be had, but even more people kept showing up. In the church, all the pews were filled and the aisles were packed. We could barely move. In a building that was usually filled with the sounds of prayers and songs, we heard a choir of agony.
It was horrible.
There were nine hundred IV bags with fluids and yet we ran out. Nine hundred bags? We hadn’t made a dent in the sea of sick.
I didn’t know the first thing about administering an IV. I looked over at Bentley as I fumbled with one.
“Can you help me?” I asked him. “Do you know what to do with this stuff?”
“Dude,” he said. “I haven’
t a clue.”
“But you worked at an aid station,” I said, as if he was placed there because of his medical skills. It didn’t dawn on me that he didn’t have a choice until he said. …
“I was barber in the Army; I don’t have a stitch of medical training.”
Great. An Army barber. Well, at least I knew if we needed a crew cut or high and tight …
That was wrong, but those were my first thoughts.
How my father kept going, I don’t know. He never looked tired or slumped. He kept going with his spirits high.
We arrived about four thirty, and by eleven p.m. we had exhausted our IV bags and drug supplies.
There were still so many people who needed medicine. My brother and his family were amongst them.
For as far as the eye could see people camped out. I couldn’t figure out why they were there. If it were me, I’d want to be in my own home in the comfort of my own bed. I would not want to be in some parking lot facing a crucifix on top of a building with stained glass windows.
My father explained that they sought the company of others and the comfort of God.
There were just so many.
We found a couple of healthy people to help out, but it still wasn’t enough.
All we could do was wipe down the sick, speak gentle words and move on to the next patient.
Shortly before midnight, Bentley told my father he had to go and find more supplies. We had more people at the church than they had checked into the aid station. We needed more than to just make rounds. The ill needed something, even if it was placebos. My father agreed. Bentley took a truck and left. I didn’t expect him to return. I thought he was booking. But he did come back.
He arrived a couple hours later with another soldier and a tarp covered military truck. He informed me that he didn’t have a clue what was in the truck and that he had sneaked into the aid station and had stolen the truck when it arrived.
Stolen it.
I actually said, “Go, Bentley.”
My father was impressed as well. He gave Bentley that firm, shoulder squeeze and wise look that conveyed, ‘You did well. Good job.’
I always loved when my father gave that to me. In fact he did that a lot that first day at the church.
His looks of wisdom and conveyance of pride were what inspired me to go on. I kept going. Patient to patient. It certainly wasn’t will, care or compassion. Because as dawn approached and exhaustion set in, I had none.
None.
I was empty.
***
Somewhere in every person a biological clock ticks. Eventually it will shut us down, sick or not, and the only thing that can even remotely hinder it is adrenaline.
There were seven of us with literally thousands of people.
Five of us cared for the ill while Bentley and the newest soldier handled the dead. There weren’t many that day, but we knew it was coming.
Around five in the morning I could barely stand. Mrs. Matthews, an elderly woman who had worked in senior homes, offered to take a shift. She and another man, Bill something or other, stated they’d work while we rested and then they’d rest while we worked.
It sounded fair.
I jumped at the offer. I bid my father goodnight and then went to see Sam, his wife and daughter.
None of them were doing well. They digressed as fast and as bad as everyone else. The only difference was my father gave them something special. Something he didn’t have much of. It made them sleep.
My father told me not to expect a response. They were peaceful and would remain that way until the illness took them.
I still said my piece to my brother, in case I didn’t get another chance. I thanked him for being the best friend and brother anyone could have.
Being first to arrive in our designated rest office, I was out like a light before my head hit the rolled up blanket I used as a pillow.
I had the weirdest dream. One would think I would dream of all that happened, instead, I dreamed of bid day and how we landed the big job because no one else was around to bid it.
How twisted was that?
I was both the first asleep and the first to awaken. My father had found rest in the room too. I never heard him enter, nor did I feel him put a blanket over me. I assumed it was my father. Who else would cover me and slightly tuck in the edges securing me like a child, his child, no matter how old I was.
I had only slept a couple of hours but I felt rested. I stretched, grabbed a water, took a drink and sauntered to the window.
The sun was shining, but it only brightened the death that sprawled across the grounds. Looking out the window I could see the military truck that once emptied was now collecting bodies.
Had we lost that many while I slept?
Bentley was awake. Either he worked straight through the night or was up even earlier than me.
I could see him through the window. He was seated at a table not far from the truck that was off a distance from the ill, enough to be free of the sounds and smells.
Even from my view I could see it.
A white cup.
Did he have coffee?
I made my way out of the church building, out of the back door and headed toward him.
The smell of coffee filled the air. I needed some before I embarked on my day.
As I neared him, I could hear the occasional static over the SINCGARS man pack radio. Bentley had brought one from the aid station for us to communicate. I remembered him telling me that those things were designed to survive anything, even nuclear war. Too bad those who manned them weren’t as resilient. It was so quiet, even with the telephone style transmitter microphone; I could still hear the sound of a voice coming through.
Bentley was making contact. There were still people out there.
He had a clipboard in front of him, a pen in hand and held the radio to his ear.
“Roger that,” Bentley said. He wrote something down. “Twelve hundred hours. Out.” He hung up the radio and made another notation.
“Bentley …” I stepped up to him, watching him write. “So, like, do you do your own hair? That’s a pretty nice high and tight.”
Bentley snickered, looked sideways at me with a shake of his head and a tired smile. “No. But I do a damn good one. Why? You want a high and tight?”
“Not me.” I held up my hand. “I’m Asian. You clip my hair that short, it won’t be a high and tight. It will just be a high. High and everywhere.”
Another laugh from Bentley. “That why you wear it longer?”
I shrugged. “That and to bug my dad.”
“We’re all the same.” He smiled then returned to work.
“Did you sleep at all last night?’
Bentley nodded. “Some.”
“When did we lose all those people?”
As if he didn’t know what I was talking about, Bentley looked at the truck. “Mrs. Matthews told me about them this morning. She said that she thinks a bit more will go, so I’m holding off burning.”
“How many?”
“Forty-two.”
I closed my eyes.
“It’s … it’s pretty much the same everywhere. It’s getting harder and harder to get a hold of anyone working a radio,” Bentley said. “Those manning them are sick. And a lot just don’t want to do it anymore.”
“Any luck at all?”
Bentley nodded. “Seems, there are several camps almost wiped out. I spoke to a guy in Connecticut who is moving from one aid station to another. Actually today they said they think they may have a cure based on an herb.”
I knew about that. Some doctor in Hawaii had told my father about the herb. My father tried it, but didn’t have the success that doctor did.
Bentley continued, “You and I both know that’s not gonna work.”
“You didn’t tell them that, did you?”
Bentley shook his head. “No. Besides, they have some scientist souping it up. So maybe it will work.”
“Spe
aking of work. What exactly are you working on?”
“Figures. Someone has to keep tallies. I figured …” Bentley sighed. “Maybe when the world picks back up down the line, someone will want to know what happened.”
He paused. Then he said, “I spoke to a guy up north near the Washington Border. He’s gathering up people and letting them know about meeting.”
“What for?”
“When this thing is done we’re all gonna meet up. Why wouldn’t we want to meet up with the few others that didn’t get sick?”
For some reason, I don’t know why, I had assumed that only a few would die.
I had a mindset that this thing was like the Spanish Flu. Maybe a bit stronger, but not much. It would run its course, we’d lose people, then the rest of us would go on.
A few would get sick and die. Not a few wouldn’t get sick at all.
It was scary. It was as if our little church aid station was an exception to the rule instead of the norm.
Bentley looked at me almost as if he knew where my thought process was going. He asked. “Why do you look like meeting up with people is a weird thing to do?”
“I never … I never thought that we’d have to meet up with people,” I said. “I just assumed that after this was over, we’d pick up the pieces and go on.”
“We will,’ he stated. “ There just won’t be that many of us.”
“Enough though, right?”
“Danny,” he said my name with a hint of sadness. “This thing kills everyone it hits. The last figure I got was like ninety percent got ill. I think it’s more. I went out there, remember? I didn’t see a soul on the street.”
Was I that far removed from reality? Suddenly all those plague novels and movies like The Omega Man and The Stand were happening. They were true. The ‘big one’ that the Centers for Disease Control talked about, was a hell of a lot bigger than they ever expected.
We, the few who didn’t get sick, would be like needles in a haystack and that one person organizing a meeting was like a magnet, finding us and bringing us together.
Talk about a frightening world.
A nightmare come true.
What could I say to Bentley? Nothing. Nothing bright, funny or optimistic came from my mouth. I merely muttered that I needed coffee, placed my hands in my pockets and walked on.
The Third Ten Page 116
