by Jodi McIsaac
“With the CDC? What’d you find out?”
He looked down at his hands. “I’m not supposed to say anything . . .”
I leaned in closer. “Come on, who am I going to tell? I don’t even live here anymore. You said it might have something to do with my parents’ death. And if it could affect Wes, I should know.”
“It won’t affect Wes. At least, no more than anyone else. But I’m really not supposed to say. They don’t want to start a panic.”
“Have you ever known me to panic? C’mon, you can trust me.” The reproach in his eyes made my cheeks burn. Of course he didn’t trust me. He had every reason not to. “Never mind,” I muttered.
“Hey,” he said. “I’m over it, remember? And I do trust you not to call up half a dozen reporters. Nothing is conclusive. But they did give us some surprising numbers. Intake at the psych ward is up fifty-seven percent this week alone, and they think the number of unreported cases could be much higher.”
“That’s a pretty huge jump, isn’t it?”
He nodded. “Then they gave us their theories. It could be an environmental issue, like tainted meat or something in the water supply. They’re testing that out now. They’ve already ruled out rabies. But what worries me most is the third possibility.”
“And that is . . . ?”
“Well, it seems unlikely, but it’s possible that a virus or bacteria is causing these symptoms.”
I gaped at him. “What?”
He held up his hand. “I know; it sounds crazy. And it’s just a theory.”
“Who knows about this?”
“Right now just the CDC and the senior medical officials at the hospital. And you.” He raised his eyebrows significantly.
“I’ll keep it quiet, I promise. But aren’t you freaking out?”
“No, because the likelihood of it being contagious is extremely low.” He paused and wiped his hands with a brown paper napkin. “I shouldn’t have told you; I really don’t want you to worry.”
“When will they know for sure?”
“A couple of days, hopefully. But seriously, Clare, I don’t want you to worry about it. You have enough on your plate. How are you feeling about . . . everything?”
“I’ll be fine,” I said. “I don’t want to dump all my stuff on you.”
“Fair enough. But what about Wes? Will he be okay without your parents?”
Isn’t that the million-dollar question? “I hope so.”
We spent the next hour getting caught up, swapping stories about the last several years of our lives. I felt myself slipping back into the familiar, easy rhythm of being with Kenneth. It felt . . . normal. Like the way things should be.
He talked a lot about his daughter, Maisie, but said very little about his ex-wife. Finally I asked, “So what happened with your marriage? If you don’t mind . . .”
He shook his head. “I should have seen it coming. Like I said, it was my fault. For the most part, anyway.”
I found that hard to believe, but then again, I’d known Kenneth when we were young and carefree. I had no idea what he was like as a husband, as a father.
“It’s simple, really,” he continued. “I was so focused on my goals and career that I forgot Rachel had ambitions of her own—or maybe I just thought mine were more important. I learned that one the hard way. She said she needed to focus on herself for a while. After she left, Maisie and I were on our own. I had to get my priorities straight in a hurry.”
“I’m sure you’re a great dad,” I said.
“I’m trying to be. She’s worth it. How about you? Anyone special back in Seattle?”
“Nah. No one serious. Unless you count Latasha. We’re just roommates,” I added hurriedly when he raised his eyebrows.
He smirked. “I always wondered about you two. Well, tell her I said hi. But I should get going—it’s one of my few free evenings to spend with Maisie.”
“Okay.” We said good-bye, and I watched as the brief sense of normalcy I’d felt drove away with him.
My phone rang on the drive back to Rob’s. Latasha. I turned on the speakerphone.
“Hey, Latasha.”
“Hey there. How you holding up?”
“As well as can be expected.” I filled her in on Wes and the chaos of the hospital.
“Are you kidding me? What’s going on there?”
“I don’t know.” I wanted to tell her everything, but I’d given Kenneth my word. “I saw Kenneth. He says hi.”
“You saw him? Where?”
“He works at the hospital. And then I just ran into him at Rosa’s.”
“Oh God, Rosa’s. Was it . . . incredibly awkward? You guys haven’t seen each other since you left, right?”
“It was awkward. But we’re both adults. I told him I was sorry. He said he was over it. That’s about it.”
“Damn. Well, tell him hi back if you see him again. What are you doing tonight?”
“Writing an obituary, I suppose.”
“I wish I could be there with you.”
“Me too. I—hold on a second.”
“What is it?”
“Someone’s flagging me down. Looks like they ran out of gas or something. I’ll call you right back.”
Ahead of me, a car was on the shoulder, the hood raised. The car had clearly seen better days, but I couldn’t immediately see anything wrong with it. A young woman who couldn’t have been more than twenty stood beside it, waving her hands in the air. She had shoulder-length dirty blonde hair and a strategically ripped plaid shirt.
I pulled over in front of the car and got out. “Need some help?” I asked. I didn’t know the first thing about cars, but maybe I could give her a lift to the gas station or make a call for her. I didn’t like the idea of leaving a young woman stranded on the side of the road.
She pushed her hair behind her ears.
“They cut my brakes, the motherfuckers,” she said as I approached. I stopped walking.
“I’m sorry?”
“My brakes! They’ve been cut!” she repeated, baring her teeth. “Those fucking bastards want me dead.” She pushed her hair back again. Her hands trembled.
“Who wants you dead?”
“I don’t fuckin’ know! Probably everyone. Do you have a phone? I need to call the fucking governor and tell her what I think of this shit.”
“Um . . . I don’t think the governor can help you. But I can call a tow truck if you’d like.”
“Like that’ll help,” she spat.
“Why do you think your brakes were cut?” This was starting to sound too much like a conversation with my brother. Maybe this girl was just troubled . . . Then a sudden thought struck. Could she be one of the people Kenneth had told me about? He didn’t think that whatever was happening to them was contagious, but what if he was wrong? That’s impossible, I told myself. Craziness is not contagious.
“I already told you. They want to kill me!” She started kicking the tires so hard with her Converse sneakers I was surprised she didn’t break a toe.
“Hey, take it easy,” I said. “Don’t hurt yourself. Let’s get you some help.”
The young woman wheeled around without looking at me. She stared at the ground and started to kick up puffs of dirt, as if she couldn’t bear to stand still. “Don’t need help,” she muttered. “Need to talk to the governor. Or the president. Do you have his number?”
“No, I don’t. But I can call someone for you. How about your parents? Or a friend?” I didn’t take my eyes off her, but I started to back away, moving toward my car.
“Hey, aren’t you going to help me?” she yelled, sticking out her chin.
“I need to get my phone so we can call your parents.”
“Are you crazy? They’re probably in on it!”
“Then let’s call someone else,” I said. The metal door of the car pressed against my back. Turning, I eased it open and got into the driver’s seat. I closed the door gently, not wanting to spook her.
It
didn’t work. As I reached for my phone, she threw herself against the passenger door. She scrabbled for the handle, screaming.
My hand flew to the automatic locks just in time, but the resulting click sent her into a frenzy. She tore at the handle like a rabid animal and then slammed her hands and face against the window, her eyes bulging.
“You motherfucker! You want me to die?”
I shook so hard I dropped the keys on the floor. I’d been on the receiving end of this kind of rage before.
She stopped thrashing at the window and climbed onto the hood of the car. Then she kicked at the windshield with her heel. A dull thudding noise echoed throughout the car.
I grabbed the keys and pushed them into the ignition, twisting them so fiercely the engine screamed in protest. But I couldn’t bring myself to put my foot on the gas. I didn’t want to risk running over her. Even if I just knocked her off the hood, she could hit her head or break an arm. Finally, I rapped on the windshield with my knuckles, and she stopped kicking.
“Your car is on fire!” I shouted. It wasn’t, but I was counting on the fact that she was in some sort of delusional state.
It worked. She screamed and jumped off the hood of my car and ran toward her own, which was still sitting innocently on the shoulder. As I peeled back onto the road, she flapped at the imaginary flames with her hands.
Once a safe distance away, I pulled over and got out of the car. I gulped the fresh air and leaned against the cold metal, waiting for my heart—hell, my whole body—to slow down. Jesus Christ, what was that?
I called 911. A recorded voice told me they were experiencing higher than usual call volume and I should stay on the line. I frowned. Then the voice said, “If someone you know is exhibiting uncharacteristic or erratic behavior, call the health hotline at . . .” Kenneth hadn’t been joking. If it was bad enough to put on the 911 recording, why hadn’t there been a public announcement?
I hung up and dialed the hotline, only to be greeted with another message. “Thank you. Our operators are currently on other calls. Please stay on the line, or press two to leave a message, including a call-back number.”
I left a brief message, with the location of the girl and a description. I didn’t leave my number.
The sense of peace I’d felt at the restaurant had been shattered. For the space of an hour, I’d actually thought that maybe everything would be okay. Now, reality came rushing back in with brutal force. Nothing was okay. It never was, in this place.
CHAPTER SIX
The girl from the side of the road haunted my dreams that night. Only she kept changing into Wes, and then into my mom, and then suddenly there were more of them, pounding at my car windows and tearing at the metal as I cried and begged to be left alone. Rob woke me up. I’d been screaming for my mother.
I’ve been watching too much Walking Dead, I thought, shaking my head as I climbed the stairs of the hospital in the morning. I’d kept my head down as I snaked my way through the lobby. Reporters and cameramen had joined the patients and their families in demanding to know what was happening to their town.
Behind the desk on Wes’s floor, a nurse was swearing into a phone as the intercom blared overhead. I pressed my back against the wall and watched, wondering if she was dealing with one of the new psych patients. When she stopped barking into the phone, I marched up to the desk.
“I need to talk to someone about Wes Campbell. I’m his sister. He’s being discharged today.”
The nurse looked at her computer. She wore a mask around her mouth and nose, like the nurse and orderlies I’d seen yesterday. Just a precaution, or did they know something I didn’t?
“Yes, everything looks fine. He can go.”
That threw me off a little. “That’s it? What about his test results? The nurse yesterday told me we had to wait for them.”
“Everything came back normal,” she said. “And you signed the discharge forms yesterday, so he can leave. God knows we could use the bed.”
“Can I at least get a copy of the results?”
But then a woman’s voice boomed, “Someone give me a hand here!” I craned my neck to see down the corridor. A doctor in a stained white lab coat was wrestling with a large bald man who was trying to throw her off. The nurse in front of me muttered, “Not another one,” before springing out of her chair and bolting down the hall.
I swiveled around, looking for someone else to help me, but everyone on the floor seemed to be running, shouting, or furiously typing into computers and tablets.
“Excuse me, can you—?” I called out to one passing nurse.
“Not now,” she snapped, brushing past me.
Things were getting worse. Get Wes. Get the hell out of here.
Wes’s room was locked. It took me another five minutes to track down a nurse with a key. She gave me a harried look as she fumbled with her key chain. “Not the way to run a hospital,” she muttered. “No protocols for something like this . . .
“Good luck,” she said as she turned and marched swiftly back to the nurses’ station, where three separate phones were already ringing.
I pushed the door open. “Hey.”
“Morning,” Wes said. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, a brown duffel bag at his feet. I closed the door behind me. His room was an oasis of calm compared to the chaos of the ward.
“We can leave.”
“Cool.”
“Is that all you have?” I asked, indicating the bag.
“They don’t let you bring much.” He bent over and fiddled with his shoes.
“Wes, you know how you asked me how long I was staying? I’ve decided. I’m going back to Seattle after the funeral.”
He didn’t look up, but his hands suddenly went still. “That soon? You just got here.”
“Yeah. It’s just . . . you know I don’t love coming back here at the best of times. No offense. But I’ve moved on, you know? I don’t belong here. I need to get back home.”
“This is home.” His eyes stayed trained on the floor.
“Not for me.”
He slid off the bed and shoved his hands into his pockets. “I don’t get you. You took a plane across the entire country, and now you’re going back? It makes no fucking sense.”
“Wes, I came to do what I had to do. Say good-bye to Mom and Dad and make sure you’re going to be okay.” I took a deep breath. “You’re free now. Mom and Dad got you an apartment, right? You’ve always taken care of yourself before. You don’t need me to look after you.”
Finally, he looked me in the eyes. “You’re right, I can look after myself. But I thought you’d stay around for more than a couple of days. Hang out for a while.”
“There’s nothing for me here.”
“Only because you’re not looking! All you’ve ever wanted is to get away from them, get away from me, get away from this fucking town! But can’t you show a little decency?”
“Please tell me you’re not lecturing me on doing the right thing . . .”
“Yeah, I’ve fucked up pretty good in my life; I know it. That doesn’t mean you’re off the hook.”
I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t want things to be like this between us, especially not now. It was all just too much. I slumped down onto the bed beside him and put my head in my hands, tears leaking through my fingers.
Immediately, he put his arm around me. “Hey, I didn’t mean to make you cry.”
“You didn’t,” I said, my hands muffling my voice. “It’s just . . . everything. Last night this woman attacked me on the road. And I don’t know how to make any of these decisions about Mom and Dad, I’ve just been letting Rob do it all, and the police are asking me these horrible questions, and I . . . I have all these awful memories. I hate this place. I can’t do this, Wes. I can’t stay here.”
He pulled me closer. “You can,” he said gruffly. “Yeah, I can take care of myself. But I do need you, and I think you need me, too. Just stay for a few days longer. We shouldn’t be a
part right now. We’re all we’ve got.”
I couldn’t tell him this, but that was why I was crying.
He picked up his bag, and we slipped through the frenzy of nurses, doctors, patients, reporters, and anxious families. As we reached the glass entrance doors, a flurry of movement outside caught my eye. A woman about my age stood outside, in jeans and a long beige top. She was yelling at someone and waving her hands, her back to me. Her movements were erratic and jerky, as though she were having a mild seizure. Then the automatic doors opened, and her voice flooded into the entryway.
“Get away from me!” she screamed.
A distraught man stood beside a car, its driver and passenger doors gaping open. The faces of two children were pressed against the backseat window, their eyes and mouths wide. The man pleaded, “Emma, baby, please, you’re not yourself. Just come see the doctor with me.”
“No!” she spat. “I know what you really are!”
“Emma, you’re scaring the kids. Please calm down!” he begged.
Emma? I looked closer. It was Emma Ross, one of my best friends from high school. What was she doing?
“What did you do with Adrian, huh?” Emma raved. “Where’s my husband?”
“I’m your husband. I’m Adrian; I haven’t changed. You’re sick. You need help. Please, for the kids . . .”
A crowd was gathering. Reporters had flipped on their cameras. A couple of orderlies started forward, but they stopped in their tracks when someone barked out an order: “Everyone get back! No one go near them. Security is on the way.”
Emma continued to scream, her voice growing higher. “Those aren’t my kids, you bastard! Tell me what you’ve done to them!” She put a hand into her purse and pulled out a can of hair spray, which she pointed at her husband.
“What . . . what are you doing?” he stuttered. The blood left my face. I knew what she was doing. Wes had nearly killed himself once this way. She pulled a lighter from her pocket and flicked it.
“Stop!” I yelled. When I tried to run toward her, Wes grabbed my arm and yanked me back. “Let go!”
“I’ll go,” he said. He raised his hands in the air and took a step forward. “It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you.”
