by R.S. Grey
“So you and Daisy, huh?” Ben, another classmate, asks while Lucas positions the blood pressure cuff on his arm.
“What?” Lucas asks.
“Are you two really together? You two couldn’t even get through high school algebra without Mr. Lopper seating y’all across the room from one another.”
“We’re working together,” Lucas corrects. “And I’d like to think we’ve matured since then.”
I meet Ben’s eyes over Lucas’ shoulder and shake my head. “We haven’t,” I mouth.
By lunch, we’re out of raffle tickets and my hand hurts from puffing up the blood pressure cuff. Thankfully, the barbecue cook-off started a few minutes ago, finally driving attention away from our booth.
I sit down and yank my stethoscope from around my neck.
Lucas takes the seat beside me.
I can smell smoked brisket and my mouth waters.
“Hungry?” he asks.
It’s the first bit of normal conversation he’s directed at me and I’m too scared to look at him. The intrusive thoughts haven’t diminished—they’ve grown worse. On Tuesday, he kissed me. On Wednesday, he spotted me at a singles event. On Thursday, he toyed with me in the lab. On Friday, he caged me inside my office and then I almost came onto him at Madeleine’s party. I am breaking the pattern. Saturday will be different. I am going to take those intrusive thoughts and bury them six feet under.
“Not going to talk to me?”
I shrug.
He ignores my silent treatment. “How was book club?”
I can’t resist any longer. I turn to him and he’s staring down at the spot where my denim shorts have ridden to my upper thigh. His eyes are the color of toasted walnuts today, dark, just like they were after our kiss. I heed their warning and stand, leaving Lucas to man the ship alone.
It feels good to put distance between us. Each step I take away from him gives me hope. Control. I wander through the barbecue cook-off, using the crowd to shield myself from the unsettling truths trying to stuff themselves into my brain. Did I give Lucas the wrong information about the booth so I wouldn’t have to share credit, or was it because I knew I couldn’t trust myself to be around him? At one point, I even found myself watching Lucas while he tended to a curvy brunette, wondering if he thought she was pretty. I was so perturbed by the sight that I didn’t register the fact that my old classmate Beau’s fingers had turned blue from how hard I’d inflated the blood pressure cuff on his arm. Right, well, his fingers were probably blue before he came to our booth.
I walk around the fair. Twice. I eat a barbecue sandwich and then double back and stand in line again to get one for Lucas. I’m two people away from ordering when I realize what I’m doing and bolt. I do not care about Lucas’ hunger.
When I finally make it back to our booth, I’ve been gone for too long—Lucas is packing up his stethoscope and blood pressure cuff.
“Where are you going?”
Was I really gone all afternoon? I look up and the sun is still high in the sky. He’s bolting early.
“Talking to me again?” he says, tossing me a knowing smile.
I hate when he does that. Smiles.
“Are you leaving?”
I realize I’ve stepped closer and am gripping the handle of his bag to rip it out of his hand and make him stay. I let go and step back.
When I speak again, I ensure my voice is even and normal. “I mean, it’s fine if you are. I was just wondering.”
He shakes his head and stands. “I got a call from Dr. McCormick. He needs me to go up to the clinic.”
“What for?”
“One of his close friends is headed there. James Holder. Remember the guy that came in with flu symptoms last Monday? Apparently it’s gotten pretty bad.”
“Well I’m going with you.”
“You can’t.”
I roll my eyes. “Like hell I can’t. You’re not going to go save the day and leave me here. Besides, half the people whose blood pressure we take end up going to the Twinkie stand anyway. I think we’re losing the battle.”
“Fine. We can ride over together.”
My mom dropped me off at the fair and the clinic is over a mile away. I consider declining, but I won’t give him the satisfaction of thinking he makes me uncomfortable.
“Yeah, fine. Whatever.”
I tell Lucas to hold the duffel bag open at the end of the table, and then dramatically sweep the leftover swag inside. My cheap pens end up in the trash when Lucas isn’t looking.
His truck is old, black like his soul, and in need of a major facelift. I’m surprised he’s kept it all these years. His parents gave it to him when he was sixteen and he used to spend time fixing it up when we were in high school. I give the clunker a fifty-fifty chance of making it to the clinic without breaking down.
I open the passenger side door and stare inside. It has one long bench seat filled with items that belong to Lucas: an extra stethoscope, running shoes, workout clothes folded neatly on the passenger seat. Lucas moves them, but when I hop up and take a seat, I’m engulfed by him. His scent. With a spine-tingling shiver, I realize I am in his lair.
He starts the truck and buckles up. I try to do the same, but the buckle gets caught.
“It’s broken. Here, let me.” He unbuckles and reaches over to help me. One second I had a whole bench seat of separation and now Lucas is here, right on top of me. His hard chest brushes mine and suddenly I’m aware of every nerve ending in my body crackling to life. His mouth is inches from mine and because I don’t trust my body, I zip my lips and press myself so hard against the seat that my skin fuses with the old cloth fibers. My good hand is fisted at my side.
“You have to sort of twist it and then tug real hard,” he explains.
Are we talking about the seat belt?
“Daisy?”
I closed my eyes at some point, so I pry them open and he’s there, hovering over me with a half-baked smile.
“You’re blushing again.”
He thinks he knows something, and I can’t have that.
“I was just recalling all the dates you drove around in this truck back in high school.” He squints and I like how the tables have turned, so I continue. “In cross country, Jessica Mayweather used to go on and on about what you two would do in this truck. Hope you got these seats deep cleaned at some point, Lucas.”
He yanks my seat belt hard and buckles me in. It’s too tight, but I don’t struggle.
“She was exaggerating.”
I turn toward the window so he can’t see my smile.
We don’t talk the entire way to the clinic. It’s a gift considering I still can’t quite wrap my head around the fact that I’m sitting in his truck after all these years. I wasn’t even lying earlier. Jessica Mayweather did run her mouth every day, bragging about her escapades with Lucas. In total, they were together a couple weeks our junior year. In my head, it was years.
“I didn’t realize you knew so much about my love life back in high school,” he goads once we’re on Main Street.
Well it’s not like I had my own to focus on or anything…
I shrug. “Girls talk.”
“Guys talk too.”
“Oh yeah?”
He whips his truck into a spot in front of the clinic. “Yeah, I think I recall Bobby Jenkins going on about how much of a struggle it was to even get to second base with you. Said you were really stiff.”
My cheeks have second-degree burns. If I ever see Bobby Jenkins again, I will sink a dagger in his heart. Now who’s stiff?
An expensive blue sportscar pulls into the space beside ours and I recognize James Holder, our patient, behind the steering wheel. Without another word about my teenage bedroom skills, Lucas and I switch into doctor mode. I wrap my stethoscope around my neck and hop out of the truck. By the time Lucas has the front door unlocked, Mr. Holder is shuffling inside, looking ten times worse than he did two weeks ago.
“Mr. Holder?” Lucas asks,
hurrying to help carry some of Mr. Holder’s weight. With Lucas’ help, we get him into an exam room. I retrieve his chart from the reception area and join Lucas in the room.
“It’s gotten worse since I first came in,” he explains. “I’m not eating, and on the off chance I’m even able to fall asleep, I wake up almost immediately, drenched in sweat. The rest of the time I’m just coughing up bloody mucus. This must be some flu.”
A flu diagnosis made sense at the time: it’s influenza season, he’s older, and he’s on medication that weakens his immune system. Because he was Dr. McCormick’s personal friend, we decided to play it safe and send off a phlegm sample for culture.
“Daisy,” Lucas starts, “I know it’s Saturday, but can you try calling the lab to see if they have the results yet?”
Now is not the time to argue about who should be on administrative duty. I stride out to Gina’s desk and call the diagnostic lab’s number. After a handful of rings, I am prompted to leave a message, which doesn’t help us at all. I step back into the exam room.
Lucas is checking his heart and lungs. “Deep breath for me.”
Mr. Holder complies and I start asking questions.
“Have you changed your diet or medications recently?”
“No.”
“Have you been overseas recently?”
“No.”
“Have you ever had symptoms this bad before?”
“No, but it’s the damnedest thing. The only time I’ve seen anyone cough like this was when I visited a slum in India. We went on a mission trip with the church, and I’ll never forget the hacking some of those poor people dealt with from all that pollution.”
My eyes widen, and I flip through his chart. “I thought you said you hadn’t traveled recently?”
“Well that was over two years ago! Do you also want to know what I ate the day Reagan got shot?” He tries to laugh, but it only triggers a coughing fit.
“On this mission trip, did you come into close contact with anybody that looked like they were sick?” I ask.
“Hell, they all looked pretty bad. They were the untouchables. We were there washing their feet, handing out Bibl—”
His sentence is interrupted by a particularly ragged cough, and when he brings his hands away from his mouth, they’re flecked with blood.
I cast a worried gaze at Lucas and shake my head. We need to step away from Mr. Holder. Now. My instincts tell me we’re dealing with something much worse than the flu. I find two face masks in the supply cabinet and hand one to Lucas. I expect him to argue, but he puts it on and then turns to ensure mine is covering my mouth properly.
We step back into the room and Mr. Holder is leaning over with his head in his hands, clearly exhausted. Without a lab diagnosis or chest x-ray, there’s not much more we can do. We gather what information we can: his temperature, blood pressure, and where exactly he was traveling in India, all clues to a diagnosis.
Once we’ve performed every test our small clinic allows, we tell him to sit tight as we walk into the exam room across the hall to talk in private.
“I think we’re both thinking the same thing. Should we send him to county? There’s only so much we can do here.”
I agree, but try the lab’s phone number one last time.
“Goddamnit,” I exclaim, slamming the phone down onto the receiver after another fruitless call. I close my eyes in frustration and when I reopen them, I notice the small red LED blinking on the answering machine. Gina usually checks the weekend messages first thing on Monday, but I hit play on the off chance it will help us.
“Dr. McCormick, Billy’s got chicken po—”
I hit next.
“Can you get me in on Monday? I need a refill—”
Next.
“The cows got out of the pasture again, I need to resche—”
Next.
“Hello? This is Erika with Mission Labs. It is extremely important that you return this call as soon as possible. We received a positive culture for M. tuberculosis for a patient J. Holder and this individual needs to be placed in isolation immediately. Anyone in close contact should be monitored as well. If we don’t hear back first thing Monday morning, we are legally obligated to alert the CDC.”
“Lucas!” I shout. “DO NOT GO BACK INSIDE THAT EXAM ROOM!”
Chapter Sixteen
“This is somehow your fault.”
“Oh really?” Lucas replies. “Please, tell me how it is my fault that our evangelical, immunocompromised patient traveled to India over two years ago, before I even knew him.”
“I’m still holding you accountable.”
Lucas rolls his eyes and collapses back on the exam table: our little bed for at least the next 24 hours.
The CDC was quick—probably still jumpy after the recent ebola scare that swept the nation. They had four public health officials at our office within the hour. Two of them escorted Mr. Holder out into a waiting ambulance and two of them stayed behind with us. I suspected they wanted to gather the patient’s history and ask a few questions, but it wasn’t until I saw their overkill hazmat suits that the idea of a full-blown quarantine became apparent.
The officials gently guided Lucas and me into an exam room and told us to stay put. They promised they’d return in a few minutes and we believed them…just like Mr. Holder had believed us. Quicker than I could have imagined, they had red tape unraveling and our door locked from the outside. I panicked.
“Hey, wait!” I shouted, pounding on the door to get their attention.
“Ma’am, please calm down. We’re transferring Mr. Holder to an isolation facility in Houston for treatment.”
“That’s wonderful,” I said, shaking the doorknob to get out of the room. “So we can go?”
“Not so quick.” The official held up his gloved hand. “I’ve got good news and I’ve got bad news. The bad news is that because you were in such close contact with the patient, we need the two of you to remain here in quarantine until we’re sure you didn’t contract the infection. The good news is that if your skin tests are negative after 24 hours, you’ll be free to go.”
24 hours? How could being locked in an exam room with Lucas possibly qualify as good news?
“Right. Okay. And so you’re only going to keep Dr. Thatcher here since he was the one to touch Mr. Holder, and I get to stay at home on a mandatory vacation? Sounds reasonable. If you just pull that red tape back a bit, I can slip right out.”
They stared blankly without indulging my hysterics.
“Just be glad it’s only a day. Because you first saw Mr. Holder two weeks ago, any infection would have had time to become detectable.”
He told us all of this an hour ago and since then, I haven’t given up hope of escaping. Lucas has. He’s lying on the exam table with his arm thrown over his eyes. I think he’s asleep.
My escape will have to be an individual effort.
“Hey, psst, buddy. Pal.”
I tap on the glass window on the exam room door and try to earn the attention of the official posted up right outside. He is my jailor and I have a plan.
“I know you can hear me out there. Do you have a name?”
He doesn’t move. His last job must have been with the Queen’s Guard.
“Listen, I’ll have you know that I am a very sexy doctor, with a robust…immune system.” My voice has taken on a slight edge of hysteria, but I hope it comes off as seductive. “If you let me out of here, I’ll unzip that vinyl suit, rip off that mask, and show you just how uninfected I am.”
The suggestion doesn’t tempt him, so I try a more obvious approach.
“Oops. My top just fell off. I’m naked right behind this glass window. Sooooo naked. Naked as the day I was born—but sexier.”
“Daisy, he has headphones in,” Lucas says from behind me.
I scowl. “How do you know?”
“I saw them.”
Somehow that is the last straw for me. I turn from the window and start pacing the s
mall exam room. “Are you kidding me?! We’re stuck in this room with nothing to entertain us and he’s out there listening to a podcast?”
“Could be an audiobook…”
He is amused.
He is stuck in this room with me for the next 24 hours and he is wearing a little smirk and reclining on the exam table like he is on a beach in Ibiza.
“Wait.” A panic-inducing thought spirals through me. “How are we going to survive for 24 hours without food?”
“They gave us food.”
He points to a small Tupperware on the counter and I go over to inspect it. There are a few granola bars. Bottles of water. MREs. I keep rifling through our rations until I come up with a chocolate chip cookie they must have dropped in to keep morale up. I slip it into my pocket when I’m sure Lucas has closed his eyes again.
I look around the room and the walls seem to have contracted an imperceptible amount. I spy the small bathroom attached to the exam room and shudder.
“You mean I have to pee with you five feet away? Are you kidding me?”
“Or you could hold it."
A small, pitiful noise comes from the back of my throat.
“Are you losing it? Because if you are, you should let me know so I can restrain you.”
I shoot him a glare. “I’d like to see you try.”
Movement out in the hallway distracts me and I leap toward the door. “Hey! Yoohoo!”
The official has pulled a chair over to the door so he can sit down, and I’ve grown desperate—so desperate, in fact, that I shout through the door that I am starting to exhibit symptoms of TB. It’s a lie, I hope.
“You know what?” I cough-cough like Karen from Mean Girls. “I have chest pain, chills, and a fever. I think you’d better take me to Houston too.”
He finally turns to face me.
“Oh thank god!”
I can taste freedom. He will let me out. He has to listen—I am a doctor after all. When the tests come back negative, we’ll all laugh and I’ll be on my way with the chocolate chip cookie still stuffed in my front pocket. Lucas will be back here eating cold survival porridge.
“She’s lying. She just wants out,” Lucas warns, bored. He’s found a stress ball somewhere in the room and is throwing it up over his head and catching it. Over and over and over.
