by Jodi McIsaac
CHAPTER EIGHT
I spent the next hour roaming around the house, visiting each empty room and wallowing in the memories they offered up like gruesome sacrifices. A poem I had written as a child was taped on my mother’s mirror.
I love you, Mommy
I love you a lot.
If I had money,
I’d buy you a yacht.
Why had she kept such a thing? Beside the poem was a sketch of one of our old cats that Wes had drawn, back when he had a steady hand. Such small mementos of a simpler time.
I headed toward the basement but stopped at the top of the stairs. As a little girl I had refused to go down there alone, convinced that ghosts would come out of the fake wood paneling and murder me. That had been years ago, but now the house seemed truly haunted. I chided myself for entertaining such infantile fears and forced myself down the stairs, flicking the light switch on the wall. The basement was dark and chilly, so I grabbed an afghan my grandmother had made from the back of the sofa and wrapped it around my shoulders.
I ducked into the crawl space to see if my dad’s guns were still hidden there under a blanket. They weren’t, which was a relief. It would be best for everyone if Wes came back to a gun-free home.
My dad’s office and workshop were in the back, filled with relics from careers as a salesman, a woodworking shop owner, a trucker, and the manager of a small shipping company. Everything was covered in a thin coat of wood dust; apparently he had been using it more as a shop than as an office lately. A framed picture of my brother and me at Disney World hung on the wall. I looked about thirteen years old, and Mickey Mouse had each of us wrapped in one of his arms in a group hug. I didn’t remember the moment, but in the picture I looked like I was enjoying it. Even Wes appeared to be happy.
The safe sat in the corner of the office. I squatted next to it and tried to remember the combination. It took me three tries to get it right, but eventually the handle snapped down and I yanked the heavy door open. I pulled things out one by one: a roll of gold coins, some strange-looking silver coins, and a stack of hockey cards. Whoa. Three Wayne Gretzky rookie cards in mint condition. How much would they be worth now?
Then I found the will. I opened it up and started to read before setting it down again. There were decisions to be made that were more pressing than the contents of my parents’ will.
Rob answered on the first ring. “Morning, Clare. Did you get a flight?”
“It’s not until tonight,” I said. “Wes had to go back in for more tests this morning.”
“Really? Why?”
“I’ll explain later. What should we do about the wake? The governor said no public gatherings . . .”
“Bah. I don’t care what they say, and neither will half the town. They can wear masks if they’d like, but I still think we should give people a chance to pay their respects. Besides, it’s been advertised in the paper, so some folks are going to show up. Would be a shame if we canceled it—especially if you’re still here. We can always see how the wake goes and then make a decision about the funeral.”
Wes will be mad he missed the viewing. He wanted to say good-bye . . .
I groaned. As much as I hated small talk, the thought of being trapped alone with the ghosts in my parents’ house was even worse. “Okay. I’ll meet you there in an hour.”
Rob and I were alone at the funeral home for the first hour of the viewing. Well, alone with the two urns containing my parents’ ashes. Rob had blown up a picture of the two of them sitting on his deck last summer. My mom’s head was leaning in to meet my dad’s, and they both wore peaceful, satisfied smiles. It was a good picture; it was how they should be remembered.
Rob asked about Wes, and I told him about the visit from Dr. Hansen. I left out the part about them dragging Wes out of the backyard by force, but my face burned at the memory.
He whistled softly, the sound slightly muffled by the mask I’d insisted he wear. “I wonder what other tests they’re doing.”
I shrugged, ignoring the queasiness in my stomach. “He said the procedures would be simple. If it helps them find a cure for Gaspereau . . .”
“I guess. But I can’t see Wes being too happy about it.”
“Well, I’m sure he’ll understand eventually, if it works. The greater good and all that.”
I was saved by the arrival of my parents’ young replacement pastor and his wife. They were wearing masks, and they made an awkward kind of bow instead of shaking our hands. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” Pastor Steve said. “Your parents were wonderful people.”
“I’ve been crying nonstop since it happened,” Pastor Steve’s wife added. “I’m sure you have been, too.” She looked about twenty, with waist-length blonde hair and so much foundation it was rubbing off on the edges of her mask. She went to hug me but then checked herself. “I’m sorry. I wish I could.” I, for one, was glad she couldn’t. “Is your brother here? The one who is . . . different?” She looked around the room, as though hoping he might pop out from behind the curtains.
“He doesn’t really like crowds,” I said, and she nodded sympathetically. This was not a woman with whom I would willingly share my secrets.
“You know, the Lord works in mysterious ways,” she said, leaning in to whisper, as though we were co-conspirators in the Lord’s plan. “Everything happens for a reason. We just won’t know what it is until eternity.”
I wondered if social isolation protocols precluded me from punching her in the face.
Rob must have read my intent, because he quickly intervened. “How are you liking the new church, Sylvia?” he asked, and she turned her tear-filled eyes on him.
A soft touch on my arm made me jump. It was Kenneth. Beside him was a little girl with deep brown eyes and shoulder-length black hair. A streak of hot pink peeked out from underneath the black strands. She wore a pink medical mask around her mouth and nose, but her eyes were dancing.
“Hey!” I exclaimed, too brightly. This was the only good surprise to land on me in a long time. “You came.”
“Hi,” he said. “We shouldn’t be here, but I wanted to see you after . . . everything. How are you doing?”
“Thank you for coming. And you must be Maisie.” I squatted down to her level.
“Hi,” she said. “I’m sorry about your parents.”
“That’s so sweet. Thank you. Your dad’s told me lots about you.”
“He’s told me lots about you, too,” she said. I raised an eyebrow at Kenneth, who looked flustered.
“So how’s it going?” he said, indicating the rest of the mostly empty room.
“So far? Torture.”
“I thought you might feel that way, which is why I brought you this.” He presented me with a travel mug emblazoned with the logo of Reid’s Coffee Shop.
“Coffee?”
“With whiskey,” he whispered, winking as he handed it to me.
“My favorite drink,” I said, lifting my mask enough to take a big gulp. I winced as it burned a path down my throat. “You’re the best,” I croaked.
“Small crowd,” he observed, looking around. Pastor Steve and Sylvia were standing with my uncle over by the urns, admiring the wreaths and bouquets of flowers that my parents’ friends and family had sent in lieu of their presence. We sat down in the blue padded chairs that lined the room. Maisie pulled an iPad mini out of her backpack and settled back into her chair.
“She’s adorable,” I whispered.
“Thanks. I made her myself.”
“I’ve been worried about you. How is it going at the hospital?”
“Insane—quite literally. They wanted me to pull a double shift, but I’ve got this little monkey to think of.” He ruffled Maisie’s hair. She smiled up at him, then returned to her game.
“What are they doing? How are they handling this?”
“The CDC is in charge, and they’ve sent in extra supplies—protective gear and sanitation units. Everyone’s getting retrained on pandemic proce
dures.”
“What about the people who are sick?”
He looked away. “They’re trying . . . different things. How’s your brother?”
“Fine, I think.” I told him the same story I’d told Rob, again making it sound as if Wes had gone willingly.
Kenneth wasn’t so easily convinced. “You do know you have a choice, right?” he said. “He doesn’t have to undergo any medical procedures without your consent, if you’re his legal guardian.”
“I know,” I said, staring at my coffee mug.
“Did the doctor say what kind of tests they’re doing?”
“No. He just said it might help them find a treatment.”
He was quiet for a moment, then asked, “So you leave tonight?”
“Yeah.”
“Isn’t the funeral tomorrow?”
“I don’t think we’ll still have it, to be honest. I mean, if people are afraid to come to the wake, no one’s going to risk going to a funeral. We can always have a memorial service . . . later.”
His gaze was intense, and my pulse quickened. He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it. After another moment, he said, “Well, I brought you this.” He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper, then handed it to me.
It was a note declaring me Gaspereau-free. His signature sprawled across the bottom of the page.
I carefully refolded it and placed it in my purse. “Thank you.”
He nodded. “I should go. I have to take Maisie to my mom’s before I head back to the hospital.” His eyes lingered on my face.
“Of course.” I pushed down a twinge of disappointment. I wanted him to stay, to help me make sense of all this. But I was the one with a plane to catch.
He stood. “Time to go, Maisie.”
The little girl jumped off her seat. “Bye, Clare!” she said brightly.
“Bye, Maisie. I’m so glad I got to meet you.”
“Me too.”
Kenneth took his daughter’s hand. “It was good to see you, Clare. Have a good flight. And enjoy the coffee.”
“Thanks again,” I said. “Maybe . . . stay in touch?”
His eyes crinkled. “I’d like that.”
I watched him go, resisting the urge to call after him. Then I saw, in horror, that Sylvia was coming back toward me, a sparkling glint in her eye. “So who was that young man?” she asked, though he was probably ten years her senior.
“An old friend,” I said icily.
“Well, that’s nice. We need friends to support us in times like these.”
“Yes, we do,” I said. “Excuse me. I have to go to the bathroom.”
I took my time. When I returned, Pastor Steve and Sylvia had left and a few others had arrived.
“It was kind of them to come,” Rob said, reading the expression in my eyes.
“It was,” I admitted. We waited, mostly in silence, and made small talk with my parents’ friends. A few of them shared fond memories of Mom and Dad, but the talk inevitably turned to Gaspereau.
I stood in a circle with three ladies from my mom’s women’s group from church. After they gave condolences, one of them said, “I went to refill my prescription this morning, just in case they run out. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“I heard that the army is going to completely quarantine the town,” another whispered.
“But what if we run out of food?” the third asked, looking anxious.
“I thought the governor said they would deliver food and supplies if you just called the hotline.”
One of the women snorted. “Who would do the delivering? I can’t imagine them sending Meals on Wheels to people’s homes. What if someone in the house was infected?”
“I’m sure it won’t get that bad,” I interjected. “The government knows what it’s doing. And they’re working hard to develop a treatment. Maybe it will all be over soon.”
The oldest of the ladies shook her head. “It’s a different world now, Clare. Some of us lived through the war. We know how to go without, how to make things stretch. My mother had to feed a family of six on half a dozen eggs and a pound of cheese a week. These days, everyone wants to get as much as they can for as little as they can. They want the government to give them everything.”
The other ladies nodded in agreement, then started comparing stories of how their own parents and grandparents had coped during World War II. I politely excused myself to greet some newcomers.
There were never more than five or six people in the room at a time, and no one stayed for long—it was hardly the wake my parents would have wanted, or deserved.
Between thanking people for their condolences and controlling my tongue in response to their ill-expressed platitudes, I thought of Wes and how he was doing, whether they’d had to keep him sedated, and what kind of information they might be able to gather from their tests. What if it didn’t work? What if they were hurting him? Was he scared? In pain? Maybe it will be over soon. And Wes will be a hero. If they really did find a cure, he’d have no choice but to forgive me.
Finally, the last visitors left, and Rob came over to me. I’d been staring through a small stained-glass window in the outer wall, seeing nothing. He pulled his mask down. “Well, kid, I think we’re done for the day.” I nodded. “When I talked to Pastor Steve earlier, he agreed that we should postpone the funeral until this is all over.” I nodded again. “Why don’t you come home with me, and I’ll order in some early dinner? Your flight doesn’t leave for a few hours, right?”
I turned away from the window. “Sure. Thanks for looking after all this, and for everything else. Still won’t come with me?”
“Nah. I’m good here.”
“I know this is a lot to ask, but can you check in on Wes?” I gave him Dr. Hansen’s number and told him where the apartment key was. “I don’t know how long they’ll need him, but . . .”
“I’ll look out for him, don’t worry. Ready to go?”
“Almost. I just . . . want to say good-bye to them alone for a minute.”
“Take your time,” he said. “I’ll head home; come on over when you’re ready.”
It was strange, standing there between the remains of my parents. The words of Emily Dickinson came to me: “After great pain, a formal feeling comes.” Perhaps that was why my eyes were dry, why there was no great outpouring of sorrow. In that moment I didn’t feel anger, sadness, or even loss. There was only numbness, a strange acceptance that this was the way things were.
There was a polite cough from behind me, and I turned to see two latecomers. I recognized the couple as friends of my parents. They, too, wore masks. How odd that only a day had passed since the announcement and I was already used to the sight. They joined me in front of the urns.
“We’re so sorry for your loss,” the woman said.
“Thank you . . . Carol and Alvin,” I said, glad to have remembered their names. “You played cribbage with them, right?”
“That’s right,” Carol said. She shook her head. “Such a tragedy. We’re just praying this doesn’t happen to anyone else. All those infected people, it’s dreadful . . .”
“Do you know anyone else who’s been infected?” I asked.
“Oh, yes. Donna Ray from the Missions Society, and one of my daughter’s old high school teachers—Mr. Sweeney. He got sick just a day or two ago. He was probably one of your teachers. Do you know him?”
CHAPTER NINE
All the air was sucked out of the room. “Mr. . . . Sweeney?” I gasped.
Carol nodded, mistaking my shock for sorrow. “Yes. Tragic, isn’t it? Such a lovely man. His wife is sick now, too. She was traveling. Came back at the worst possible time. Must have caught it from him.”
“Excuse me,” I said, and bolted for the bathroom. I locked myself in a stall and leaned against the door.
Oh my God oh my God oh my God. Mr. Sweeney has Gaspereau. I remembered his strange behavior at the airport, how he’d coughed into that beige ha
ndkerchief, specks of spittle flying everywhere . . . including on my face. I’d thought nothing of it at the time. When was that? The man on TV had said that the incubation period was twenty-four to seventy-two hours. I pressed my head between my hands and forced myself to calm down enough to think. I’d arrived on Sunday night, and it was now Wednesday afternoon . . . almost seventy-two hours later. I didn’t think I had any symptoms—but if I did, would I know? Did people with Gaspereau know they were thinking and acting bizarrely? What if I had it and had given it to Wes or Rob or Kenneth? I ripped off my mask and heaved over the toilet.
I wiped my mouth with a handful of toilet paper. Hands still shaking, I called Kenneth on my cell.
“I wasn’t expecting to hear from you this quickly,” he said, but he sounded pleased.
“Kenneth, I think I might have Gaspereau,” I blurted out.
“What? How? I just saw you. You said you haven’t been exposed.”
“I know, but I just found out that someone who coughed on me has it.” I told him about meeting Mr. Sweeney at the airport. “His wife has it, too, which means he must have been contagious. Kenneth, I’m freaking out here.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m still at the funeral home. What do I do?”
“Listen, I know you’re probably worried about spreading it—if you have it, that is. But remember, it’s not airborne. Just keep your mask on and try to avoid touching things for now. Come on up to the hospital and we’ll test you.”
“Kenneth . . . I can’t. I can’t go into one of those little isolation rooms. It’ll make me crazy.”
“If you test positive, you might have no choice, but between you and me, we’re running out of isolation units already. I shouldn’t do this . . . but if you come over now, I’ll do the test myself. A year ago we’d have been screwed, but the British recently developed a blood test for prions, and thank God. I have a buddy in the lab who can run it through for me quickly. Then at least we’ll know.”
