by Jodi McIsaac
He ignored this. “You never told your boyfriend Kenneth what happened, did you?”
“He wasn’t my boyfriend. And what the hell does that have to do with anything?”
“How come you never told him?”
“Because I didn’t need one more person who didn’t believe me.”
“I believed you. And then you left me to fend for myself.”
“I did no such thing. You were well cared for. You know that.”
“Well cared for? Are you fucking crazy? You don’t know what it’s like in there, with them watching your every move and force-feeding you pills you never agreed to take. Doctors poking you whenever and wherever they want. I was a fucking lab rat.”
“You were sick. You needed help.”
“I needed you.”
“I was twenty-two. I deserved to have a life. I still do.” My jaw was clenched so hard it was starting to ache. The pressure behind my temples was pushing all patience aside. He was not going to guilt me over this. I did what I had to do. It was self-preservation, and I didn’t regret it.
“I deserved a life too,” he said. “And you let them take it from me.”
“Nobody took anything from you! It wasn’t my fault. I didn’t ask you to beat up that asshole. You almost killed him, for Christ’s sake! What did you think they were going to do, let you go?”
Wes stood up now as well, and I automatically backed up a few paces, until my back was pressed against the kitchen counter.
“Tell me he didn’t deserve it,” he snarled.
Of course he’d deserved it. “You needed help, and I’m glad you got it.”
“You’re glad I was out of the way, you mean,” he said. “Admit it. I was the only one who defended you, and you left me to rot.”
I forced myself to meet his eyes, but I was shaking. It was as if I’d been transported back to a time when I could avoid confrontation by running upstairs to my room with pink walls and pink carpet and a pink bedspread, slam the door behind me, and throw myself onto the bed. It was this place; it was messing with me. I needed to go back to Seattle, where I was a grown-up. Here I would always be a child.
Most people would have quailed under the look Wes gave me, especially combined with his tattoos, piercings, chains, and metal studs. And it’s not that I felt no fear. I knew he could kill me with his bare hands if he felt like it, and my heart quivered a little at the fire in his eyes. The difference was that most people never considered whether or not their siblings would kill them, and it was a question with which I was very familiar—comfortable, even, despite what I’d said about Wes’s gentle nature.
The buzz of my phone broke our impasse. It was a text from Kenneth.
The CDC is having a press conference in a few minutes. I think all our questions are about to be answered.
“Hang on,” I said to Wes, who was still glaring at me. “We can talk about this more later, but something important is happening right now . . . something I want to see.”
I turned on the TV in the living room and tried to figure out the remote.
“What’s going on?” he asked as I flicked through the channels.
“The CDC is having a press conference,” I said. “Centers for Disease Control. They think there’s something wrong here in Clarkeston—an illness or something in the water. It’s why the hospital’s been so crazy.”
I found a news station and sat down on the sofa. Wes sat beside me, still glowering. But he seemed willing to let things rest—for now.
On the screen, a thin, white-haired man in a dark blue suit approached a podium with the state of Maine’s seal on it.
My phone rang. It was Latasha. “You watching the CDC thing?” she asked.
“Yeah, Kenneth just texted me. How did you—?”
“Saw it online. Shhh, it’s starting.”
“Thank you,” the man said to whoever had introduced him. He was identified on the screen as Dr. Harry Normand, director of the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. He cleared his throat.
“As some of you are aware, we have been investigating the rise of unusual behavior in and around the town of Clarkeston. We were asked by the Maine Health Department to investigate the increase in patients presenting at the Riverside Psychiatric Facility. This issue was brought to our attention only days ago. During this time, our scientists have been working exceptionally hard, often in hazardous environments, and for that, they certainly have our thanks.”
He paused and looked down at his notes.
“We have investigated many potential causes and have now identified the agent of this condition as a pathogen—an infectious particle called a prion. Now, I want to say right up front that this is good news: we know what’s causing it, so now we can determine how to treat it. We will be releasing new information through the CDC website as soon as we have it.”
“Oh my God. Kenneth was right,” I breathed into the phone. Latasha said nothing, but I could hear her fingers flying across the keyboard.
Reporters shouted out questions, but Dr. Normand held up a hand. “Let me explain what we know; then we’ll get to questions. This is the first time we’ve identified this particular type of pathogen. It’s neither a virus nor a bacterium. Rather, it’s a misfolded protein. There are other diseases caused by prions, but what makes this one unique is that it is, to our knowledge, highly infectious.”
There were more shouts from the reporters, which Dr. Normand waved down, this time with more difficulty. “We do not know where it came from, but finding its source is one of our highest priorities right now.”
He consulted his notes again. “The prions attack the brain tissue of the infected person. The disease they create is characterized by rapidly progressive neurological deterioration, which can result in personality changes; impaired memory, judgment, and thinking; severe depression; bizarre behavior; hallucinations; paranoia; and delusions. It does not cause a fever or other flu-like symptoms, and infected individuals often remain physically healthy.”
“Hooooooly shit,” Wes said, his eyes wide.
“For now we are calling the disease created by this prion Gaspereau, after the lab where the pathogen was identified,” Dr. Normand continued.
“How does it spread?” one reporter shouted at the same time another said, “Is it fatal?”
“Fortunately, it does not seem that Gaspereau is fatal,” the doctor replied. “As I said, the infected individuals remain in perfect physical health. However, since some of the symptoms can lead to violence, there is a link between the growth of this disease and the recent rise in the violent crime rate in Clarkeston.”
Wes and I exchanged glances. I hadn’t told him about my suspicions regarding the man who’d killed our parents. But it seemed Kenneth had been right.
“The pathogen that causes Gaspereau is transmitted in the same fashion as the common cold virus, most readily by respiratory droplets that are released when an infected person coughs or sneezes. These droplets may then land on the mouth, nose, or eyes of those nearby. It can also be spread when a person touches an infected surface and then his or her own mouth, nose, or eyes.” He cleared his throat. “The incubation period is relatively short, approximately twenty-four to seventy-two hours between contact with the pathogen and the first appearance of symptoms.”
I’d never seen a press conference go to shit so quickly. Reporters clamored toward the platform, shouting questions and waving their recorders. A few slipped out the doors in the back—whether to file their stories or get the hell out of Dodge, I didn’t know.
“Has a vaccine been developed yet?” shouted a reporter.
Normand shook his head. “As Gaspereau is caused by neither a virus nor a bacteria, a vaccine is not a plausible solution at this point, nor are antibiotics.”
“Are you saying there’s no cure?”
“We are working toward developing a solution as fast as possible,” Normand responded.
“Is there the possibility of the pathogen goin
g airborne?”
“Right now, there is no evidence of such a possibility,” Normand said. “But we do encourage all those in the infected area, which right now is limited to the town of Clarkeston and the surrounding countryside, to wear a mask whenever they go out in public.”
“How long has the CDC known about this? Why haven’t we heard about it before?”
“Our test results were only confirmed today; as soon as we knew, we organized this press conference. We are doing everything we can to keep the public informed and safe.”
“Is he serious?” Latasha said. I jumped. I’d almost forgotten she was on the line. “A disease that makes you go mad and spreads like the common cold?”
“He looks pretty serious,” I said.
“Clare, you get your ass on a plane right now,” she said, a note of panic in her voice. “Bring Wes; he can stay here. But for God’s sake, get the hell out of there.”
I tore my gaze away from the screen to look at Wes. He was looking back and forth between the television and me, his eyes full of confusion. When he spoke, his voice was low and quiet.
“Is he saying . . . schizophrenia is contagious?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Back at the press conference, Dr. Normand cleared his throat. “I’d like to invite Governor Angela Preston to speak now.” Visibly relieved, he left the podium, and a woman in a gray suit stepped forward. She reminded me of the staff at the hospital; it looked as though she, too, hadn’t slept for days.
“Thank you, Dr. Normand,” she said. “And thank you for everything you and your team are doing.” She opened a folder and read from prepared notes.
“Our government has been closely monitoring the situation in Clarkeston ever since the increase in these symptoms was brought to our attention by health authorities a week ago. We have been working closely with hospitals and the CDC to find the root cause of this situation, which, as you’ve just heard, we now know. This newly discovered disease has progressed much faster than anyone could have anticipated. Now that the CDC has determined what is causing Gaspereau, our government will take all measures necessary to ensure the safety and health of our citizens and prevent the further spread of this disease.”
The reporters still in the room shouted more questions, but Governor Preston was having none of it.
“Sit down,” she snapped. “We’re all adults here.” Reluctantly, the reporters resumed their seats, their phones and recorders still held high in the air.
She drew a deep breath and looked as though she couldn’t quite believe what she was about to say.
“I am immediately authorizing the implementation of our state’s pandemic response plan, which right now is limited to the Clarkeston region. We will meet this challenge with information, efficiency, and cool heads.” She emphasized this last part and glared at the reporters.
“Because of the rapid rate of infection and the current lack of a treatment, the best thing we can do right now is contain the spread of the disease. In order for this to work, we need everyone to take part. Here are the rules. Again, this is just for those living in or near Clarkeston.
“Number one. Stay home as much as you can. If you are caring for an infected person, we ask that you do not leave your home—and most importantly, that you do not allow the sick family member to leave. If you need medication or food, there is a hotline—I think it’s coming up on the screen now—you can call, and someone will assist you. If someone around you becomes violent and you are worried for your safety, call 911. If you must leave the Clarkeston area, you’ll need a signed doctor’s note declaring that you are free of the disease.
“Number two. If you have to go out, avoid public gatherings. Keep your distance from others. Essential businesses will be kept open, and other businesses are being considered on a case-by-case basis. If you are an employer, consider allowing nonessential employees to stay home. The less contact we have with each other, the less this disease can spread.
“Number three. Wash your hands and wear a mask. The pathogen is not airborne, but by wearing a mask you will be less likely to touch your mouth or nose if you do come in contact with infectious particles. That’s all I have for now; regular updates will be forthcoming.”
The cameras followed as the governor left the room, surrounded by security. I stared, aghast, at the television as the news anchors dissected Dr. Normand and Governor Preston’s announcements.
“Oh my God, Clare,” Latasha said. “Are you okay?”
My stomach had solidified. The tips of my fingers were numb.
“I should never have come home,” I whispered.
“You had no idea this would happen,” Latasha said. “No one did, apparently.”
I wanted to freak out, have a full-on nervous breakdown right there in my dead parents’ living room. But I couldn’t. Not in front of Wes. My mind was racing; had I had any contact with someone with Gaspereau? That girl on the side of road—how close had she been? I was almost face to face with Emma. All those people in the waiting room . . . But I haven’t touched anyone. Have I? Has Wes?
“I don’t buy it. Someone messed up,” Latasha said.
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t buy that no one saw this coming. There are armies of scientists out there whose sole purpose is to track down and identify new threats. How did this go unnoticed? How do they not have a treatment?”
I had no answers. My head was still spinning. I concentrated very hard on a spot on the floor, fighting the panic.
“Do you know anyone who’s sick?” Latasha asked. “Do you think . . . you’ve been exposed?”
“I . . . I don’t think so,” I said. “I mean, I feel fine. But . . . Kenneth, he works in the hospital, and he wasn’t wearing a mask until today. Hardly anyone was. What if he gets it?”
“He’s a doctor. I’m sure he’s taking precautions,” she said, but she couldn’t hide the worry in her voice. “Did you . . . get close to him?”
“No. I . . . he touched my arms. That’s it. But . . . he seemed fine . . .”
“Oh, Clare . . . be careful. I’m so scared for you.”
“Me too,” I whispered. “I’m going to try to get a flight home. I’ll keep you posted.”
I hung up. “Come to Seattle with me,” I said to Wes. “You can hang out there until this blows over. I’ll see if Uncle Rob will come as well.”
“What are you talking about?” He tugged on his scraggly beard.
“Didn’t you hear them? An infectious disease that makes you, well—crazy?”
“Crazy like me, you mean?”
“I didn’t mean it that way. You saw Emma at the hospital. That wasn’t her. And the man who killed Mom and Dad—he must have had this disease. It’s the only thing that explains it. Why else would one of their friends turn on them like that?”
“Maybe. But what about Mom and Dad’s funeral?”
“It’s—they’re gone, Wes. They won’t care. It’s more important that we protect ourselves.”
“More important to you, you mean. I’m not going anywhere. And you promised—you said you’d stay until after the funeral.”
“That was before I knew what was really going on! Wes, you can’t want to stay here. I’ll pay for your plane ticket and everything.”
“I don’t care. This is my home. And I’m not going to run away because of some little virus. I’ve faced worse—demons and rogue angels. You think I can’t face this?”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Fine,” I spat. “You stay here as long as you want. But I’m leaving on the next flight I can find.”
“Whatever. I’m going out for a smoke.”
I heard the front door slam as I opened my computer. Then I called Rob.
“Did you hear about the CDC press conference?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “What was it about?”
I explained it as best I could.
“Damn,” he said. “Well, that explains a lot.”
“You’v
e noticed something was wrong?”
“Well, yeah, I thought something strange was going on, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. Figured it was bad drugs or something. But can you see your old Sunday school teacher Mrs. Ackerman doing drugs? And yet she’s been shuffling around, talking to her herself, saying things that make no sense. Greg took her to the hospital, but they sent her home—said there’s nothing wrong with her physically. And Ronnie Hildebrant locked himself in his bathroom, wouldn’t come out for all the pleading in the world. Stuff like that.”
“Listen, I’m going back to Seattle. I’m sorry, I know I should stay, I just—”
“I get it. Hey, don’t worry about it. Your parents would want you to be safe.”
“I tried to convince Wes to come with me, but he won’t. But you are more than welcome to come—you can stay with me for as long as you want.”
“That’s very generous of you, Clare, but I think I’d better stay here.”
“Why?”
“Well, you said there’s not a treatment, but I’m sure they’ll find one soon enough. And in the meantime, they’ll probably need some extra help. Maybe I’ll volunteer with the Red Cross, like I did during Hurricane Bob.”
“Are you sure? You don’t have to be a hero.”
“This is my home, Clare Bear. I know almost everyone in this town. I gotta help out where I can. But you do what you need to do. People will understand.”
I told him I’d come say good-bye and return his car before I left.
Finding a flight was easier said than done—it appeared I wasn’t the only one who wanted to leave. The fact that there were only two flights out a day didn’t help. The next available flight left the next evening. I booked it. I’d just need to get a doctor’s note. How long would the lineups be for those? I texted Kenneth.
Just saw the press conference. Holy shit. I’m going back to Seattle tomorrow—any chance I can get a doctor’s note from you?
Wes came back into the house, reeking of cigarette smoke. “So I guess you’ll at least be here for the wake,” he said, peering over my shoulder. I closed my computer without answering. He took a piece of pizza out of the fridge and chewed it loudly, sitting cross-legged on the floor. Then he nodded at the television. “You really think that’s what killed Mom and Dad?”
