by Jodi McIsaac
“I do,” I said. “It’s the only explanation that makes sense.”
He laughed—a manic, out-of-control laugh I’d always hated. When we were younger, it had usually meant he was either making fun of me or had pulled some kind of prank I had yet to discover.
“What?” I asked sharply.
“It’s just . . . such a tiny thing, right? I bet you can’t even see one of those Gaspereau things without a microscope! Something so little killed our parents!” He rolled onto his back, still laughing, his knees pulled up against his chest.
I scrambled to my feet. My patience was done for the day. “What’s wrong with you? It’s not funny!”
“I know it’s not,” he said, still chuckling. “It’s a fucking tragedy, that’s what it is.”
“Then why are you laughing?”
“Because it’s either that or shoot myself in the head. What would you choose?”
“Jesus, Wes, don’t talk like that.” I checked my watch. I had to keep moving. “I’m going to go to the store. If you’re not coming to Seattle with me, you should at least have a good stock of groceries.”
“Cool. I’ll come with you to get them.”
“I think you should stay here.”
“Whatever. What if everyone’s rioting? I can be your bodyguard.”
“I don’t think they’ll be rioting just yet,” I said, but I wasn’t sure. How would people react to this news? How many people had seen or heard about the press conference? It must be all over the Internet by now. Were they panicking? I was so close to panic myself I could barely contain it. It was simmering inside me, waiting to boil over. Move, I told myself. Just do something.
“Come if you want,” I said, snatching up the keys and my purse. “But don’t touch anything, and don’t get too close to anyone.”
I peered through the window before going outside, as though expecting angry hordes to be stampeding down the street. It looked as sleepy as ever. I should check in on elderly Mrs. Johnston across the street when we got back, assuming she still lived there.
I turned on the radio in the car. Every station was talking about Gaspereau. The closest grocery store was only a few minutes away, but I took a longer route toward the Walmart, thinking they’d be more likely to have boxes of gloves and masks.
It had been less than an hour since the announcement, but the gigantic parking lot was nearly full. I pulled into the first spot I could find and jogged toward the entrance, spotting an abandoned cart on the way. I poured my travel-size bottle of hand sanitizer on the handle before touching it.
“What are we getting?” Wes asked, puffing as he caught up.
“Masks. Water. Lots of food.” I steered the cart inside the store. The greeters at the door weren’t smiling.
“Can you buy me some more smokes?” Wes asked.
I gave him a dirty look. “Fine. Anything else?”
He responded by throwing a huge bag of Twizzlers into the cart.
It was like shopping on Black Friday. Carts jostled against each other, but the people pushing them kept their heads down. A few were already wearing masks, but most weren’t. I headed for the pharmacy section first.
Wes ran on ahead. “This what we need?” he yelled, holding a box of white masks over his head. I nodded, and he tucked it under his arm like a football. We grabbed several loaves of bread, a tub of peanut butter, and a bag of apples. The produce was already pretty picked over, but I threw in a bag of wilted carrots and some onions. I knew Mom and Dad kept a lot of meat in their freezer, so I skipped that section. The cart became harder to navigate as Wes and I loaded more things into it—boxes of cereal, cans of vegetables, jars of pasta sauce, a couple of multipacks of hand sanitizer, and a huge container of hot chocolate. People were streaming into the store in droves now. Several aisles away, someone was shouting, “If you’re sick, get out! We don’t want you here!”
“Let’s go,” I said, struggling to turn the cart toward the checkout. Wes grabbed the front of it and gave it a yank. For once, I was glad he looked the way he did; people gave him a wide berth.
The cashiers were putting people through as fast as they could, but most of them looked as panicked as their customers. A manager was going up and down the aisles, explaining the situation and handing out masks. As we stood in line, two cashiers from other registers grabbed masks and walked out of the store.
“What the hell is going on?” Wes asked.
“People are stocking up—probably planning to hunker down in their homes so they don’t get infected,” I said. “Which is what I highly recommend you do.”
“Fuck it, let’s just go,” he urged me.
“I have to pay, Wes. I’m not a looter.”
A young man ran by us and grabbed the batteries out of the top of my cart.
“What the hell?” I yelled after him, but at this point I didn’t dare abandon my cart. If I left for even a second, everything we’d gathered would be gone. I grabbed onto the back of Wes’s shirt to keep him from chasing after the guy. “Just leave it.”
As the line inched forward, lights flashed outside the store. Two police officers came in and stood inside the entrance. Was the same scenario was playing out all across town? There must have been more than two hundred people in the store; if they decided to go on a looting spree, two cops wouldn’t do much to stop them.
Finally, it was our turn to pay.
“Help me with the cart,” I asked Wes after the last bag had been loaded in.
Someone tried to grab a bag, but Wes bodychecked him and yelled, “Nice try, motherfucker!”
We pushed our way to the doors, jockeying with the other shoppers as though this were a survival game of bumper cars. As soon as we emptied our treasures into the trunk, our cart was whisked away by a heavily pregnant woman. Around us, car horns blared as drivers jockeyed for parking spots. The screech of tires and a grinding crunch made me whip around—two cars had collided. Their drivers got out and started hurling obscenities at each other.
“Move your fucking car!” a man bellowed at me from his SUV. Wes rolled down the window and gave him the finger, and I quickly put the car in reverse before someone brought out a baseball bat—or worse, a gun.
Neither of us said a word until we got home. We sat in the relative calm of our parents’ driveway. I flexed my fingers, which were sore from gripping the wheel too tightly. Finally Wes lit up a smoke and said, “Well, looks like the world has gone to shit.”
I couldn’t argue with him there.
We stayed up late and watched Forrest Gump on the old VHS player. I stayed glued to my phone, tracking the news as it spread across the country. But there were no new developments, no new announcements from the CDC. Finally my phone pinged with a response from Kenneth.
Re: the note. Are you sure you haven’t been exposed?
Yes, I answered.
Let’s touch base tomorrow before your flight.
That was it. I texted a response but got nothing back. He was probably overwhelmed. I couldn’t help but worry. He was on the front lines. Surely they’d all be wearing protective gear by now—but what if it was too late?
Finally, beyond exhausted, I dragged myself to bed. My parents had changed nothing in my old room, except now the closet was full of my mom’s sewing supplies instead of my clothes. The bed was still there, made up with my old bedding. “For guests,” she would have said. But I knew the truth: she’d kept it there for me. I didn’t want to sleep there, but I was too tired to look for an air mattress, and I knew from experience the sofa would kill my back. So I lay in my childhood bed in the midst of all that pink and tried without success to stop the hamster wheel spinning in my mind.
Eventually, exhaustion must have won over, because I was startled awake by the ringing of the doorbell. I sat upright so quickly my head spun. Maybe it was just a dream. The doorbell rang again—it wasn’t. I checked the time: eight o’clock.
I stretched and yawned, thinking it must be Rob. I pulled on som
e jeans under my nightgown and topped it with a hoodie.
The bell rang again.
“Coming!” I tried to yell, but it came out in a squeak. I peered through the peephole, but it wasn’t Rob standing on the front step. It was a man I didn’t recognize, wearing a dark suit. He had a white mask over his mouth and nose.
“What the . . . ?” I muttered as I fumbled with the lock and opened the door a crack, leaving the chain in place. “Yes?” I said, squinting at him.
“Good morning, Ms. Campbell,” he said. “I’m sorry to disturb you at home. My name is Dr. Stuart Hansen. I’m with the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention.” When I didn’t respond, he said, “May I come in?”
I took off the chain opened the door wider, letting him into the foyer.
Dr. Hansen nodded at me. “Thank you. I’ll keep my distance. You understand.”
“Yeah, social distancing. I saw it on the news yesterday.”
“Ah, well then, that makes my job a bit easier,” Dr. Hansen said. “You already understand the seriousness of the situation. I’m in charge of directing operations here in Clarkeston for the CDC. I’m here to speak with you about your brother. You’re his legal guardian, correct?”
“That’s right.”
“I’d like to bring Wes in for some more tests.”
I scowled, suppressing a yawn. “More? He already had an extra round of testing, and the nurse said the results came back fine.”
“I assure you that he is well, and there is nothing for you to worry about,” he said. “I would also like to give you my condolences on the recent loss of your parents.”
How did he know about that? “Thanks. But what does the CDC want with Wes?”
Dr. Hansen cleared his throat. “This is off the record, of course. As part of our investigation into this new, er, phenomenon, we ran some additional tests on your brother while he was in the hospital’s care. It was an ideal time to determine the similarities between the brain of someone with Gaspereau and that of someone with schizophrenia, since the two conditions seem to have similar symptoms.”
I took a step back and crossed my arms. “Okay, that sounds wrong on a whole lot of levels, but keep talking.”
“What we found was . . . intriguing. We’d like to do some follow-up tests as soon as possible. Right away, in fact. He shouldn’t have been released when he was. It was a clerical error in the . . . confusion. We don’t yet have all the information we need.”
“But he’s not infected with Gaspereau, right? Why do you still need him?”
Dr. Hansen pressed his lips together and stared at the floor. “He’s not infected, no. Quite the opposite. It’s all theoretical at this point . . . but I believe your brother may hold the key to helping us develop a treatment for Gaspereau.”
I uncrossed my arms and stared at him. “Are you serious?” I asked. “You might be able to find a cure?” The smell of Emma’s burning hair came back to me. What horror were her children going through? If there was a cure . . .
“It’s far too early to tell,” he said hastily, “which is why I need your brother to come in for some additional tests.”
“Nope. Not gonna happen,” Wes said from the top of the stairs. Shit. How long had he been listening? Dr. Hansen followed me to the bottom of the staircase. Wes was sitting on the top step, his hands gripping his knees. “I told you at the hospital, I’m done. Now fuck off. Get out of our house.”
“Hey, Wes, I didn’t know you were up,” I said. “This is Dr. Hansen.”
“Dr. Frankenstein, you mean.”
“Hello there, Wes,” Dr. Hansen said with a sidelong glance at me.
“Dr. Hansen was saying that they’d like you to go in for a few more tests. It might help them find a cure for Gaspereau,” I said, unsure of how much Wes had overheard.
“And I was saying get the fuck out of my house,” Wes retorted, getting to his feet.
“We just want what’s best for everyone,” Dr. Hansen said in a tone that was probably meant to be soothing but came out wooden and condescending. “Don’t you want to help stop this disease before it spreads to the rest of the country?”
Wes’s footsteps fell heavily on the stairs. “I said”—stomp—“get out.” Stomp. “No more”—stomp—“doctors.”
He reached the bottom. I stepped between him and the doctor, who hadn’t yet retreated. “Wes, maybe we should hear him out,” I said, holding my palms out, facing him. “Remember, the guy who killed Mom and Dad probably had Gaspereau—this might stop that from happening to anyone else!”
“Don’t believe them!” Wes snarled. “I remember these guys—what was supposed to be a simple blood test turned into scans and all other kinds of shit. I told you, I’m just a guinea pig to them! I’m not going anywhere.”
“Can you wait outside?” I said to Dr. Hansen. “Let me just talk to him for a minute.”
The doctor didn’t look thrilled, but he nodded and backed out of the entryway, closing the door behind him. I could still see his shape through the frosted glass.
“Listen, it’s not a big deal,” I told Wes. “He said it’s just a theory at this point. Don’t you want to help? What if they’re able to find a cure?”
He snorted. “You’re so naive.”
“I’m not naive; I’m realistic. Come on. When was the last time you contributed to society? Helped someone?”
“You have no idea. I help people all the time, where it really matters—in the spiritual realm.”
“I’m talking about this realm, where people are really suffering and dying and doing horrible things in spite of themselves because of this disease. What do you even do all day? Just sit around? Maybe this is your chance to give back to the world. Do something for someone else for a change.”
I knew I risked setting him off. But I couldn’t stop, now that I had started. It felt too good to finally say out loud what I had been thinking for years. “Look at all the things people have given up for you—how much Mom and Dad sacrificed. Did you know they had to remortgage the house? Do you have any idea what it’s cost our family? How about showing a little gratitude? You could help a lot of people here. Make your life mean something.”
“Are you saying my life doesn’t mean anything?” he growled. His expression had darkened; his eyes narrowed.
“Of course not. It’s just . . . it could mean more.”
A knock on the door. “I’m sorry, but time really is of the essence,” Dr. Hansen said, stepping back into the foyer.
“He still doesn’t want to go,” I explained, leaving Wes at the bottom of the stairs and meeting Dr. Hansen by the door.
“I’m afraid your brother has no choice,” he said to me in an undertone. “It’s a matter of public safety.”
Wes overheard this. “No choice? You’re gonna drag me there? I’d like to see you try.” He pulled a kitchen knife from his waistband behind his back and brandished it at the doctor.
“Oh my God!” I cried. When had he taken the knife? I should have locked them away. “Put that down!”
“Wes, if you come with us quietly, we’ll just do a few more simple tests and then you can head back home,” Dr. Hansen said. “You don’t want to go back to the psych ward, do you?”
“I’m never going back there,” Wes said, his face turning red and blotchy. “You’ll have to kill me first.”
“Please, just stop,” I begged. “You’re making everything worse. Just . . . give me the knife. Please.” I edged toward him, hoping he wouldn’t slash the blade across my face. I locked eyes with him, conveying as much compassion and understanding as I could muster. “Just give it to me, and we’ll talk, okay?”
There was so much fear in his eyes I almost hesitated before taking the knife he held out to me. I tossed it across the room, out of reach.
“Thank you,” Dr. Hansen said to me. Then he opened the door. “Wes, if you’ll just come with me . . .”
“What the fuck!” Wes shouted. “I told you I’m not going anyw
here with you!” Then he bolted through the living room.
To my surprise, Dr. Hansen sprinted after him, speaking into a small radio in his hand. “He’s going out the back.” Stunned, I followed just in time to see Wes heave the patio door open and vault over the railing to land in the backyard.
“Oh God,” I breathed.
Two men in army fatigues were on him before he could get up. “Stop! Don’t hurt him!” I cried out. I thundered down the patio stairs toward them.
Wes was fighting the men, but they were stronger—and better trained—than he was. They wrestled him toward the front yard.
Lights went on in the homes across the street. An ambulance and a couple of dark cars were parked in front of our house. As though on cue, they flashed red, white, and blue lights, filling the street with color.
“Clare!” Wes yelled. “Help me!”
Before I could say anything, Dr. Hansen reappeared at my side. “I’m sorry for this, Clare. We have to use whatever means necessary to end this. You’re doing the right thing. He’ll be well treated, I assure you.”
I’m sure we all have moments in our lives that we cannot look back on without regret, without physical revulsion, without a burning in our cheeks. My modus operandi has always been to try and pretend these moments never happened, to wall them off with the other unpleasant aspects of my life. But there’s also something powerful about embracing the worst parts of yourself, the parts you hope no one ever finds out about. To admit that you are not all light and hope and bravery, that you are both hero and villain in your life’s story.
Deep down, I was glad they were taking him. If the government was going to be responsible for Wes, that meant I didn’t have to be. I was free to get the hell out of Dodge and start pretending this entire episode had just been a crazy, fucked-up nightmare. I could return to Seattle, where everything was as it should be.
And so I let them take him without putting up a fight . . . even though I knew he was afraid, even though I knew there was something deeply wrong with the whole situation. I watched as they dragged him into the back of an ambulance, as his body sagged after being stabbed with a needle. I nodded blankly at Dr. Hansen’s assurances that he would keep in touch, and took his card. He thanked me again for my cooperation and held out a gloved hand. In a tiny, useless act of rebellion, I didn’t shake it. Instead, I went back inside and closed the door.
