Ten Days

by Janet Gilsdorf

  She felt the edge of the chair against the back of her legs. She perched on the seat, rested her head on the gurney, and stroked her baby’s foot.

  Chapter 10

  Jake

  Jake leaned against the edge of the table. An EKG strip, anchored by a half-full bottle of Diet Pepsi, looped over its side and coiled toward the floor. He cradled Chris in his left arm. The boy seemed to be asleep. On the far wall, a hand-printed sign read:

  Foreign bodies found in vaginas and rectums:

  Baby bootie, hand knit

  The last time he read this sign, he had found it funny. The objects and the body cavities were comically incongruent, the way things were in the ER. Now, it wasn’t funny at all. He now considered the dissonance to be ugly, a violation of something he couldn’t quite describe.

  The phone beside him rang. The receiver lay upside down on its cradle, signaling that someone had placed a page to this number.

  “ER. Staff room, Campbell speaking,” he said. He looked around the room. “Not here,” he said and replaced the receiver on its cradle.

  The door opened and June Easterday walked in. Jake stood up. She gave him an uncomfortable smile.

  “I wish this hadn’t happened to your son.” She peeled off her surgical gloves and tossed them at the trash can. One landed inside the can; the other hit the metal rim, slid off, and puddled on the floor, its fingers twisted against the linoleum like a grotesquely deformed hand.

  Jake nodded. “I don’t know what happened last night. When I talked to my wife about nine o’clock, she said Eddie had a fever. They both had colds and, as she described it, he didn’t sound particularly ill to me.” He swayed from side to side and patted the brightly colored balloons printed on Chris’s pajama top. “Any of the labs back yet?”

  Sunil looked up from the computer screen. “The spinal tap results just came in.”

  Dr. Easterday peered over Sunil’s shoulder. “Let’s see,” she said. She tapped the tip of a pen against the screen as the lab values scrolled up. “CSF white count is forty-three hundred and the red cell count is thirty.” She slid the pen back into her breast pocket, nestling it beside the tongue blades and her flashlight. “Um . . .” The letters and numbers rolled off the top of the screen as soon as new ones appeared from below. “Diff on that is ninety percent segs.”

  He leaned his cheek against the top of Chris’s head. The white count said it all—too many cells, almost all neutrophils. Meningitis. He closed his eyes, envisioned the oceans of pus that were swirling over Eddie’s brain, strangling its cells, un-wiring its neural networks. He might not survive, ran a fair chance of not being normal. Several former patients who had meningitis, now shadowy, nameless figures, marched through his head. He remembered the brain-damaged ones, those with uncontrollable seizures, severe mental retardation, twisted limbs, empty minds. Eddie could join their ranks.

  “Gram stain?” he asked. He wanted more details, more medical information. Yet, he knew all he needed to know. Eddie had meningitis.

  Sunil continued scrolling the electronic pages.

  “Here it is.” Dr. Easterday jammed a fingernail against the screen as if to trap the words before they disappeared. “ ‘Numerous polys present.’ ‘Moderate Gram positive cocci in pairs.’ ”

  “That’s the end of the report,” Sunil said. “Glucose and protein are still pending.”

  “I’d guess pneumococcus,” she said. “That, as you know, can be a nasty bug. But we won’t bet the ranch on the Gram smear. We’ve started both ceftriaxone and Vanco.”

  Jake patted Chris’s top again. “What’s the risk to Chris?” he said.

  “No risk if it’s Strep pneumo, because that isn’t contagious. You’re right, though, about other bacteria. Meningococcus, for example, may spread from person to person.”

  “But you don’t know for sure yet that he has pneumococcus,” he said.

  “Right, again. We won’t know that for a day or so. But, the bacteria are Gram positive—and the Gram stain is usually correct—so they would be S. pneumo.”

  He hugged Chris. At least this son was safe. Or, likely safe.

  “Here’s his chest X-ray.” She pointed to a film on the view box. “Normal.”

  He looked at the radiograph, at the ladders of ribs that ran up the sides of his son’s chest. The alabaster blob in the center was his heart. Little Eddie’s little heart. He couldn’t see it beat on the X-ray, but obviously it was still beating. Between the ribs were the charcoal-colored lungs. Whitish bone, blackish air— Eddie in varying shades of gray. His son’s insides had been captured by the zap of an X-ray beam, his baby reduced to a static, colorless, two-dimensional image with no apparent depth.

  Jake followed Dr. Easterday back to Eddie’s cubicle. She pulled aside the curtain. Anna sat curled into a chair beside the gurney, her head resting on the sheet next to Eddie’s shoulder, her hand on his thigh. She seemed to have tied herself into the smallest possible knot. Maybe she wanted no one to see her. Or, maybe she wished to be an insignificant dot that had no relationship to the surrounding events. She might be willing herself to a place far, far away. Sometimes she did that . . . bundled up her feelings and disappeared. Like the time she went for a long walk, alone, after learning her grandmother had died. She said she didn’t want to talk about it.

  He sat on the remaining chair beside the gurney and laid his hand on Eddie’s foot. It was cool. The skin was pale, almost gray. Poor perfusion. He wrapped his fingers around Eddie’s toes, trying to warm them. Chris held on to Jake’s shirt like a burr.

  “We have the results from the spinal tap . . .” Dr. Easterday began.

  Anna lifted her head.

  “It shows many, many white blood cells, meaning he has meningitis.”

  Anna groaned. She closed her eyes. When she opened them, they wore the glaze of desperation, the blur of terror. She stared into Dr. Easterday’s face, then into his, then back at Dr. Easterday.

  The doctor continued. “We also know the fluid has Gram-positive cocci in pairs . . .”

  “What’s that?” Anna’s voice was hoarse.

  His wife wouldn’t understand medical terms. “That means they see bacteria in his spinal fluid,” he said.

  “Most likely the germ causing his meningitis is Strep pneumo,” Dr. Easterday added.

  “Is that bad?” Anna whispered.

  “Well, he has a very serious infection.” Dr. Easterday paused a moment.

  Jake recognized the carefully chosen words. She wanted to convey information to Anna without confusing or unduly scaring her. But Anna was already maximally scared.

  Then Dr. Easterday continued. “He’s already received the first doses of the antibiotics we use to treat this infection. He got them in his IV.” Then she turned away from Anna, back to him. “So far, his vital signs are fairly stable.”

  “What do you mean, ‘so far’?” Anna asked. Her voice was like poison.

  “We hope his vital signs will stay stable forever,” Dr. Easterday answered, “but this is a serious infection and—”

  “Anna, look,” he interrupted. “Eddie’s very, very sick. He may even die. We have to be prepared for that.” He heard his voice waver. He looked to the floor.

  Anna was sobbing now. She sucked in great gulps of air and clawed at her cheeks. Then she buried her face against Eddie’s leg and whispered, “Don’t die, Eddie. Please don’t die.”

  Chapter 11

  Rose Marie

  The phone rang. It must be Anna. Finally she’d learn what had happened to the Campbell kids.

  “Hi, Rose Marie. This is Jake Campbell.”

  She moved the phone receiver from her left to her right—her better—ear. It was odd for the boys’ father to be calling. Anna must be really sick. “Is An—” she began.

  “We have bad news about Eddie,” he said.

  Her body froze but her brain galloped. Was he dead? Hurt? Lost? She gripped the phone receiver against her ear, held her breath.


  “We’ve been in the emergency room since six this morning.” He made a deep, stuttery sound, halfway between a choke and a cough. “Eddie has meningitis.”

  “Oh, God.” She sagged into the rocking chair. “Gosh, Dr. Campbell.” She couldn’t think of the right words. “That . . . that’s awful. I’m so sorry. How is he? Is he okay?” She didn’t know exactly what meningitis was, but it sounded bad. Dr. Campbell sounded bad.

  The phone was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “Well, he’s very sick—on his way up to intensive care.”

  His voice was thinner, rougher than usual; it sounded as if he were speaking into a pillow. Occasionally, when he picked up the boys, he looked tired with baggy eyes, slumped shoulders, a weak smile. Sometimes he needed a haircut, when his hay-colored hair curled, cockamamie, down his neck. He must look like that now.

  She scratched her ear. “How’s Anna?”

  “She’s pretty upset.” His words were so quiet she could hardly hear them.

  “This’s awful. Just awful. How’d little Eddie get something like that?”

  “We don’t know.”

  She tried to remember what she knew about meningitis. She’d read something a couple weeks ago but, at the time, paid little attention. Maybe in Newsweek. Probably in the Free Press. It was some kind of infection, as she recalled, and it was bad. She combed her fingers through her hair, trying to arrange her thoughts. Certainly worse than strep throat, or pneumonia. As bad as rabies? How about Ebola? Or AIDS?

  “Dr. Campbell,” she said slowly, stumbling to find the right words. “Meningitis is . . . uh . . . meningitis isn’t catching or anything, is it? I mean . . .” She paused and dug her fingernail deep into the groove in the rocking chair’s arm where the wood had split. “I really hate to ask this but . . . will the other children get it?”

  He didn’t answer immediately. Silence, heavy and awkward, hung between them. Finally he said, “I don’t think so.”

  From the corner of her eye, she could see Sawyer eating the Cheerios again. She waved her hand at him, shook her head, and mouthed the words, “No. Quit. Now.”

  “Rose Marie, I have a huge favor to ask. I’d like to bring Chris over in about a half hour. Could he spend the rest of the afternoon at your house?”

  She twisted the phone cord around her finger two turns and then answered, “Sure.” She had planned to go to the grocery store. She’d go later. Also, she still didn’t have hot water. She’d heat more on the stove. “Absolutely,” she added. “Of course he can.”

  “He’s here at the hospital with me. I have a bit of work to finish and Anna won’t leave Eddie to go home with Chris.”

  “He can stay here as long as necessary,” she said. “He could even stay overnight. Whatever works best for you, Dr. Campbell.”

  “Thanks a lot. We really appreciate this.” After a moment, he added, “Figure out how much we owe you for the extra time and add it to this month’s bill.”

  She was relieved to hear about the payment. With Eddie so sick, it would have been crass to discuss money.

  “One more thing,” he said. “Are any of Chris’s clothes at your place? He’s still in his pajamas and is pretty mad about that.”

  “Oh, I think we can find something for him to wear.”

  The doorbell rang. Before unlocking the latch, she peered out the window. Jake, pale, looking bewildered, dressed in rumpled hospital clothes, stood on the porch. Chris, in his pajamas, snuggled in his father’s arms.

  “Come in,” she said as the door swung open. “Come right in.” She gave her voice a lighthearted, falsetto lilt. She wanted Chris to see her as a carefree, happy person.

  “Thanks again, Rose Marie.”

  “How’s Eddie?” She lifted Chris from Jake’s arms and sat down on the sofa. She cuddled him against her chest and slowly rocked from side to side. Chris was uncharacteristically quiet.

  “Well, he’s holding his own,” Jake said. “He’s breathing with the help of a ventilator. His heart seems strong.”

  “You’re just in time for lunch, Chris,” she cooed, patting his back. “We’re having hot dogs and lime Jell-O.” She looked up at Jake. “Would you like a bite to eat, Dr. Campbell? You’re probably starved. We have plenty.”

  “Oh, no, but thanks. I have to get back to the hospital. I’ll try to pick him up by seven o’clock.” He bent over and kissed his son’s forehead. “Good-bye, buddy. See you later.”

  Chris’s head nodded against her bosom. “Bye, Daddy,” he mumbled.

  “As I said, he can stay here tonight if that’ll help.”

  Jake shook his head. “I’ll take him home.”

  After Jake left, she carried Chris to the rocking chair in the kitchen and cradled him on her lap. The other children were eating lunch. She rocked to familiar sounds, the scrape of spoons against plates, the soft thud of a milk glass being set on the table, the low murmur of kid talk. Chris needed cuddle time.

  He squirmed off her lap and whined. “My mommy made me wear my jammies.”

  “Well, that’s kind of strange, isn’t it?” she said as she twisted her mouth and narrowed her eyes, trying to give Chris a whimsical, “how odd” look. “Let’s find some regular clothes for you.”

  After lunch, while the children rested on their nap pads, she brooded. The rockers of her chair rumbled against the kitchen linoleum. What had she read about meningitis? Her mind sifted through the memories. She was sure she had read about it in the newspaper. Students from Michigan State. Or was it Wayne State? Or both? Kids in Detroit? Helen Keller had it and that’s why she was deaf and blind.

  “For Pete’s sake,” she said to no one, “why can I remember the Helen Keller part but not what meningitis is?”

  Even when Beefeater stepped on her feet on his way across the kitchen floor to the last of the fallen Cheerios, she kept the chair in motion. The rhythm of the rocking—insistent, repetitive, monotonous—helped organize her thinking.

  Sarah would know about meningitis; she kept track of things like that. She dialed her daughter’s cell phone number.

  It was a relief to hear Sarah’s voice. She was always calm, logical. “Honey, I need help,” she said and explained that Eddie was in the hospital, that he had a bad infection. Quoting word for word what Jake had said, she tried to describe meningitis.

  “Jeez, Mom, that’s awful. Is Eddie going to be okay?”

  “Well, Dr. Campbell says he’s in intensive care. Said his heart was strong.”

  “That’s good . . .”

  “I asked him if the other kids could catch it and he said he didn’t think so, but I’m not so sure. I remember reading about college kids. Something about it spreading in the dorm. Or, maybe they worried it would spread in the dorm. I can’t exactly remember. I hope my other children can’t get it.”

  “I don’t know anything about that. Let’s see . . .”

  She pictured Sarah in thought. Her daughter’s fawn eyes would be staring upward and to the left and her broad, fleshy chin would be jutting forward.

  Beefeater pawed at something trapped under the sideboard and made a high-pitched, screechy noise. A Cheerio? A fragment of dog biscuit? A mouse—Heaven forbid? She grabbed him by the collar, shoved him into the pantry, and closed the door.

  “I’ll get on the Internet and see what I can find. In the meanwhile, I think you should just stay cool.”

  She could barely hear her daughter’s words over Beefeater’s howling and the scritch-scratching of his paws on the pantry door. She rapped on the wall, hoping to keep him quiet. “I don’t think that’s possible.”

  “Sure it is.” Sarah hung up the phone.

  She couldn’t stop fretting about poor Anna with a terribly sick baby. Among the mothers of her current flock of children, Anna was the most careful. She had surveyed the house meticulously before letting Chris stay there, inspected the electrical outlets for safety plugs, looked under the kitchen sink for poisons, checked the integrity of the fence latch. Eddie was always s
potless when he arrived at her house, sunny highlights twinkling off his wispy hair, clean fingernails, dry diaper, and sleeper smelling of Downy. How could such a hygienic baby get such a bad infection?

  She heard a cough. Then another cough. Must be Chris. She started across the kitchen floor, stopped to listen, heard nothing, and then returned to her rocking chair. The kids were all still asleep.

  Where was the Webster’s? She needed to learn about meningitis. Roger had used it every night to look up words as he worked the crossword puzzle in the Free Press. The book was old, but the meaning of that word wouldn’t have changed much.

  The dictionary wasn’t in her bedside cabinet or on the shelves beside the fireplace. Finally she found it in the kitchen, wedged between the Betty Crocker Cookbook and a tattered, paperback copy of Hawaii.

  Meningitis: n. Pathol. Inflammation of the meninges, esp. of the pia mater and arachnoid, caused by a bacterial or viral infection and characterized by high fever, severe headache, and stiff neck or back muscles.

  So, she was right—it was an infection—but what did the rest of that mean? When Eddie was last at her house, he had no fever and his neck and back didn’t seem stiff. How on earth would you tell if a baby had a headache?

  The phone rang. It was Sarah’s friend, Barbara, the talkative pediatrician.

  “What kind of meningitis does he have?”

  “I don’t know.” She found the question puzzling. “What kinds are there?”

  “Well, several. It’s an infection of the brain and is caused by different types of germs,” Barbara explained.

  She grimaced at the words “infection of the brain.” Poor Eddie. Infection sounded like pus. Did Eddie have pus in his brain?

  Barbara continued. “Most cases caused by viruses are benign and require no treatment. Those caused by bacteria are more serious. And there are several different bacteria that can cause meningitis. Some are contagious, some are not. Antibiotics are used to treat the bacterial kind.” Barbara then asked when Eddie had last come to her house, and about the kids’ vaccinations.