by C. Gockel
If he got home.
Don’t go there, I told myself. He’ll be here. He will.
I just didn’t know what he’d find when he eventually did make it home.
The pills were cool in my palm. I realized then that I’d forgotten to get any water for my mother to take them with, so I went into the kitchen, filled a glass halfway, and went back out to the family room. She hadn’t moved, was lying there twitching and shaking the way Taylor Ortiz had.
“Mom,” I said softly. She didn’t seem to acknowledge me, so I didn’t know if she’d really heard me or not. Maybe my saying her name was to reassure myself as much as it was to let her know I was there. “Here’s some water, and some pills for your fever.”
I slipped my arm under her shoulders and lifted her a few inches, just enough so I could bring the water to her lips. Like Taylor, she drank greedily, gulping so much that I had to pull the glass away so there would be enough left for her to take the pills.
“Okay, first one,” I told her, slipping one of the ibuprofen capsules between her lips. It just sort of sat there on her tongue, so I poured more water into her mouth. Her swallow reflex cut in, and she downed the pill without too much trouble. The second one was a little more difficult, but she did finally take it.
After that procedure, I realized I should’ve taken her temperature first, that the water might make the reading inaccurate. Since there wasn’t anything I could do about it at the moment, I sat down in one of the armchairs, figuring if I waited a few minutes, it would probably be safe to try the thermometer.
Waiting was bad, though. If all I was doing was sitting there and watching my mother shake and shiver on the couch, then I had plenty of time to think…and thinking was the last thing I wanted to do. My thoughts chased one another around and around, worrying at each other, fretting, biting. What if my father never came home? What if Devin had fallen sick at Lori’s? What if they were both sick?
And above all, Why isn’t anyone helping us?
I could feel myself starting to shake, but I didn’t think it was from a fever. No, I guessed it was just good old-fashioned fear with an extra helping of uncertainty. Clenching my hands together, I willed them to stop trembling. My mother was probably too out of it to really notice, but I didn’t want my fingers shaking when I finally did take her temperature.
Since I couldn’t think of anything else to do, I picked up the remote for the TV and switched it on, quickly lowering the volume so it wouldn’t disturb my mother. As I flipped from channel to channel, I didn’t see anything that was remotely reassuring. More talking heads, discussing self-quarantine procedures and dispensing advice how you shouldn’t go out or come into contact with anyone if you had any symptoms, and if you did come down with a fever, to make sure you wore a mask or tied some kind of barrier over your nose and mouth when it came time to go to the emergency room. And all of them looked pale and strained, and were giving the side-eye to one another when they thought the others weren’t looking, as if trying to detect signs that one of their fellow newscasters might be starting to show symptoms. On one channel, I caught a pretty young woman who didn’t look much older than I sending furtive glances somewhere off-camera, as if at someone who was standing by and monitoring what they were all saying. That couldn’t be good.
With all the people being sent to emergency rooms, hospitals had to be overwhelmed. I wondered how many people were sick, and how many were like me, exposed but still asymptomatic. Maybe fifty-fifty? I couldn’t even begin to guess. All I did know was that I didn’t see how hospitals could even begin to keep up.
Annoyed that all the stations were repeating the same useless information, I turned off the television and picked up the thermometer. My mother really didn’t want to take it, but after a bit of wrestling, I got it shoved between her lips and more or less under her tongue. Her skin felt clammy and hot at the same time, which I doubted was a good sign. Maybe two ibuprofen weren’t enough. Maybe I should have given her three, or even four.
Or maybe I could have poured the whole damn bottle down her throat, and it still wouldn’t have done a bit of good.
Clenching my jaw, I sat and looked out the window at the trees moving in the gentle September breeze, at the sparrow who landed on one branch and cocked his head in my direction, almost as if he could see me sitting inside, watching him. The window in the family room faced out onto the side yard and the fence that separated us from the Montoyas next door. I didn’t see any movement over there, which most days wouldn’t have been that unusual. It was the middle of the day; both the Montoyas worked full-time, and their kids were in grade school. But the schools were closed, and it seemed as if most places of business were shutting up and sending their employees home as well.
Were they home, but ill? Or well enough, but hiding, not wanting to take the risk of being exposed? I didn’t know, and I had my hands full here. If my father came home, I’d probably go over and check on them, but until then….
The thermometer beeped at me, and I gently drew it from my mother’s mouth and looked at the readout. Then I squeezed my eyes shut, certain they had to be reading it wrong, that they were tricking me in some way.
I opened them again.
106.8.
Was that possible?
I supposed it had to be, since that was what the thermometer was saying. I also had a feeling that two ibuprofen might not be cutting it here. Okay, on the news they were saying to apply cool cloths, so that seemed to be the next step. Well, right after I called 911. Maybe that wouldn’t do any good, but right then I was so scared by my mother’s temperature that I had to at least try to get help.
After I set the thermometer back down on the coffee table, I got up and went to the kitchen, where my parents still had an old-fashioned corded phone mounted on the wall. Devin and I had both laughed at it, but my father had given us the evil eye and said that land lines were way more reliable than cell phones, and that one day we might be very glad of that old push-button phone.
I lifted the receiver from its cradle, but when I put it to my ear, all I heard was a fast busy signal, the kind you get when the phone service is out. Scowling, I jiggled the hook, then listened again. Still nothing. So much for good old-fashioned technology.
My cell phone was upstairs in my apartment, still in my purse where I’d dropped it on the floor by the door. I really didn’t want to leave my mother alone, but I needed to see if the cell network was functioning any better than the land one.
After peeking into the family room and reassuring myself that she was resting as well as she could be, all things considered, I let myself out and climbed the steps to my apartment two at a time. Since I hadn’t locked the door, it only took a few seconds for me to get in, pull the phone out of my purse, and dial 911.
“We’re sorry — all circuits are currently busy. Please try again later.”
The computer-generated voice sounded positively snotty. Somehow I resisted the urge to fling my cell phone against the wall, since I knew that wouldn’t do any good. Instead, I stuffed it into the pocket of my jeans and hurried back to the house. I sure would try again later, but in the meantime, I had to do what I could to take care of my mother.
Her condition didn’t seem to have worsened during the couple of minutes I was gone. That was something. I got a few dish towels out of the drawer and dampened them with cold water, then went into the family room and laid them across her forehead. Some of the moisture dripped on her gray silk blouse, leaving damp blotches. I hoped they wouldn’t leave stains.
Seriously, you’re worrying about a couple of stains at a time like this?
I supposed I was fixating on that, just because it was easier to worry about something like ruining my mother’s clothes rather than the big-picture stuff, like how none of the phones were working. Yes, I’d heard how that could happen after some kind of disaster, but Albuquerque wasn’t really prone to disasters, whether natural or man-made.
The back door slammed, an
d my mother started, then began twitching and shaking again. Damn. And I’d just gotten her to a place where she seemed to be more or less resting comfortably. But maybe that slamming door meant my father had come home.
I readjusted the damp towel on my mother’s forehead, then got up and went into the kitchen. Devin was getting a glass out of the cupboard as I entered. He looked fine — no flushed cheeks, no sheen of sweat — and in that moment I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to hug him in relief or punch him in the arm for making us worry like that about him.
“Where the hell have you been?” I demanded.
“Lori’s,” he replied, going to the refrigerator and getting some ice and water out of the door.
“Well, you scared the crap out of Mom. She couldn’t get a hold of you — ”
He shrugged. “I sent a text. Maybe it didn’t go through. Anyway, they sent us home, and Lori couldn’t get in touch with either of her parents, so she was freaking out. So I stayed with her.”
“Oh,” I said, feeling some of my righteous indignation begin to seep away. Lori was an only child, and a little coddled, so I could see why she’d be more than ordinarily upset at not being able to contact her parents. “Is she okay?”
“Yeah, her mom finally got a text through and said she was on her way home, so I thought I’d better get over here.” His gaze sharpened on me, and I wondered what he saw. Lord knows, I was starting to feel kind of overloaded. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, but Mom isn’t,” I replied bluntly. Maybe too bluntly, because he almost dropped the glass he was holding.
“She’s — she’s not sick, is she?”
“Yes. She just got the fever about a half hour ago.”
Beneath his end-of-summer tan, my brother’s face drained of all color. “She can’t be sick!”
Right then he didn’t look like the big, broad-shouldered running back, but a scared kid. I wanted to go hug him, but lately he’d been scorning such sisterly displays of emotion, so I wasn’t sure how he would react. Instead, I kept my voice calm as I told him, “She had a high fever, but I got her to take some ibuprofen, and she’s resting now with some cold cloths on her head. So far, so good.”
That sounded very reasonable, very steady. Never mind that I didn’t really believe it. If this disease really was at all survivable, that information would’ve been all over the news by now. The complete radio silence on the actual facts of the disease told me that it was beyond dire…it was catastrophic.
My words didn’t seem to reassure Devin. He gave me a stricken look and then went into the family room, where he stopped a few feet away from the couch and stared down at our mother. She seemed to be sleeping, but something seemed off about her face, as if her cheeks and eye sockets had begun to look sunken, far too shadowed.
No, that couldn’t be right. It had to be a trick of the lighting in the room; I’d pulled the drapes almost closed so the afternoon light that was beginning to slant into the space wouldn’t disturb her. Just some sort of strange optical illusion.
Only I feared that wasn’t it at all.
Devin appeared to be of the same mind. He stood there, hands hanging helplessly at his sides, as he stared down at her. Finally, he whispered, “She’s going to die, isn’t she?”
In that moment, I was furious with him for giving voice to that thought, as if by saying it out loud he could somehow cause it to happen. “No, she’s not,” I shot back, my voice shaking.
“She is,” he insisted, and right then I was glad that she was more or less comatose. At least that way she couldn’t possibly hear what we were saying. “When I was over at Lori’s house, we were on the computer, trying to get more information. A lot of the sites we went to were down, but we found one with this guy on video saying that everyone who catches it dies, and that the government is shutting down anyone who tries to spread the truth.”
I recalled that one blonde newscaster, and the way her gaze kept flickering nervously to something — or someone — off-screen. FBI…or CIA…or NSA…agents, standing there and watching to make sure the reporters all said the same thing?
At any other time, that would have felt like rank paranoia. Now, though….
“That’s crazy,” I said, although I didn’t sound all that convinced, even to myself. “No disease is one hundred percent fatal.”
“That we know of,” Devin shot back. Then his face twisted as he looked back down at our mother, at her strangely waxy and sunken features. “Is there anything else we can do? Like, I don’t know, ice packs or something?”
“Maybe,” I said. It was worth a try. Covering her in ice packs would complete the ruin of her outfit, but I doubted that mattered much at the moment.
Glad to have something to do, Devin and I went to the kitchen and got out some big gallon-sized plastic storage bags and started filling them with ice. That seriously depleted our current ice supply, but I knew the ice-maker would start chugging away in an attempt to make up the deficit.
“How are you feeling?” I asked as we zipped up the last bag.
“Fine,” he said. “I mean, I feel…weird…but I don’t feel sick.”
That about sized it up. Weird, but not sick. The world was tilting beneath us, but neither of us knew what to do about it.
I set the bags I carried down on the coffee table, not worried about whether the cold and the moisture would mar the wooden surface. Such concerns seemed miles away from where we were right now. “I want to check her temperature again first,” I told Devin, picking up the thermometer and slipping it into our mother’s mouth. She squirmed a bit, but I held firm, and she subsided. We waited as the seconds went by, and when the thermometer beeped, I was pulling it out before it was even done.
When I looked at the readout, I couldn’t believe what it said.
“One hundred and seven point two,” I read as my stomach began to knot. So much for the ibuprofen and the cold towels.
Devin’s dark eyes were practically round, they widened so much. “That’s not possible…is it?”
“Well, it’s possible to have a fever that high,” I replied, then stopped there. It wouldn’t do much good to point out that such an unnaturally high fever could result in brain and organ damage…and that there wasn’t a damn thing we could do to stop it, apparently. I drew in a breath and added, “Let’s get the ice on her. Obviously, the cold compresses weren’t enough.”
He nodded, and I picked up the bags full of ice I’d placed on the coffee table. I wasn’t even sure of the best positioning of the ice packs, but I figured she’d need one on her head, and some up against her sides, maybe on her chest….
The bag in my left hand went on her forehead, and the one in my right down on her chest. She winced, although her eyes didn’t open. The bag I’d put on her chest shifted slightly, and I repositioned it. “Give me yours,” I told Devin, guessing that he wouldn’t feel very comfortable about setting bags full of ice on his mother’s body. From the alacrity with which he handed them off, I had a feeling my guess was correct. I placed those two on either side of her waist, trying to position them in such a way that they’d get maximum contact with her torso. It was the core that needed to get cooled down. Or at least, I thought that was how it worked.
She didn’t like it, I could tell — she kept shifting slightly, trying to get away from the cold, but she was so weak that her movements were ineffectual. Still, if she moved around much more than that, I’d have to find some way to secure the ice packs in place. There had to be some rope or twine or something like that in the garage.
I wondered if I should send Devin out to fetch it. He was staring down at our mother, glassy-eyed, as if not quite able to take in what was happening to her.
Then I saw the way he swayed on his feet, and a wave of cold that had nothing to do with the ice packs I’d just handled washed over me.
“Devin?” I asked, and it seemed it took him far longer than it should for him to glance over at me.
His pupils appeared to ha
ve dilated until they were so large that the black almost swallowed up the warm brown of his irises. “Huh?”
“How do you feel?” I enunciated the words carefully so there would be no chance for him to misunderstand.
“Um…weird.”
I went to him and put my hand on his forehead. He didn’t flinch away, which told me something was very wrong. Actually, the clammy heat against my palm told me everything I needed to know.
When I spoke, the words sounded as if they were coming from very far away, as if someone other than myself was saying them. “Devin, why don’t you go upstairs and get into bed? I’ll bet you’re tired.”
“Yeah, I am kind of tired,” he mumbled, then turned with excruciating slowness and began moving toward the hallway and the staircase that led to the second floor. I prayed he’d be able to get there under his own power. My mother had been difficult enough to move. I knew there was no way I’d be able to haul 170 pounds of running back up those stairs.
But somehow he did it, putting one foot hesitatingly after the other, until at last he reached the upstairs hall and stumbled into his room. I followed, giving him his space, and when he collapsed onto his bed, legs hanging off the side, I wanted to let out a sigh of relief…but I didn’t.
How could I, when I knew my brother had just been handed a death sentence?
Chapter 3
I did go in, and untie his shoes and pull them off. Then I waited as he wriggled under the covers.
“Get some rest, Devin,” I told him, and he gave me a bleary nod.
“’Kay.”
Maybe he slept after that, or just plain passed out. Part of me was thinking I should go downstairs and fetch the big bottle of ibuprofen, but what was the point? I’d given some to my mother, and it hadn’t made a whit of a difference. In fact, she’d only gotten worse.
I couldn’t linger here, anyway — I had to go check on her. Devin seemed more or less quiescent for the moment, so it seemed safe to go back downstairs.
