“What’s happening, Uncle Tim?” she asked. That’s what they’d always called him. They only had one real uncle, a priest who lived in Rome. They called him Father Ted, not Uncle.
“The patients in the surgery ICU need your mother.”
“Oh, my God!” Natalie tried to pull into a sitting position, tugging on her IV line, almost jerking it out. “Trey’s in the ICU. Has something happened to Trey? Could that be why they wanted her up there?”
“I don’t think so, Natalie,” Tim said.
She’d told Uncle Tim all about Trey, the lawsuit, why she had kept the secret from her mother. But not that she and Trey were having sex, and not that Mom blamed Nicole for the birth control pills that she was about to start taking.
Don’t think so. But, then it could be about Trey.
A nurse came to take her temperature, and Natalie shut up. She glared at Tim. Would he tell her the truth?
“Hundred and two. How do you feel, Natalie?”
Truth is, she hadn’t even felt a twinge of abdominal pain, but she did have a headache, a throb in her head that seemed to keep pace with her heartbeat.
“The pain in my stomach is gone,” Natalie said, “but could I have a Tylenol for my headache?”
“You have an NPO order,” the nurse said.
“Nothing by mouth.” Tim translated. “If you do need surgery, you can’t eat or drink.”
Natalie knew that perfectly well, having heard her mother give that order over the phone about a million times.
After the nurse left, Tim winked at her, “But you and I know—you don’t need surgery. Right?”
“I need to tell Mom about Trey and how I lied to her about being sick. But she left before I could and now if she’s up there with Trey. Uncle Tim, let me get dressed and go up there.”
“Natalie—” Tim already was shaking his head.
How many times had she practiced telling her mother about her boyfriend? Mom, meet Trey Standish. It’s his dad that you’re going to testify against. Or, Mom, those birth control pills that fell out of Nicole’s purse—they were for me. I love Trey Standish. There’s nothing you can do about it.
“There are some terribly sick patients in the ICU. That’s why they need your mother.”
“Trey?”
“I don’t know. Let’s wait until your mother gets back.”
She started to protest when a dark-haired, skinny woman about as old as her mother came into the room. She wore a blue smock and carried a plastic basket of tubes and needles.
“Need to do another blood test,” she said. “Orders are a blood culture if your white count is high.” The woman was already swabbing the crook of Natalie’s arm with alcohol.
Natalie grimaced as the needle went in, accepting her punishment for faking stomach pain. But she would not leave this hospital until she saw Trey. Tim would help get her up there. Once the tube was full of blood and the needle out of her arm, she looked to him to repeat her appeal, but hesitated when her mother walked in the door. What was wrong? Natalie had never seen her mother look so awful, like she was scared to death.
Just after midnight, Laura returned to the E.R. She’d pick up Natalie’s chart before going into the exam cubicle. A lab tech was packing up her kit after a blood draw. And Laura knew why. The decision as to whether to keep Natalie or let her go home depended on her white blood count, which was high. Blood cultures would be done and her daughter would have to be admitted for observation.
Thank God for Tim who’d been with her the whole time. What a great Thanksgiving for him. It’s not as if he didn’t have enough of hospitals.
“Mom,” Natalie said, “you’re back! Can you tell me about Trey?”
“Trey?” Could Natalie mean the boy in the ICU? The one Ed Plant was so worried about?
Before Natalie could respond, Laura said, “Honey, it looks like we’re going to have to admit you to the hospital.” Laura started to sit on the gurney next to Natalie then thought better of it. She’d just been in an ultracontaminated space. As much as she wanted to hold Natalie close, better to maintain a distance.
Natalie started to cry. Not an unexpected reaction to being stuck in the hospital, maybe facing surgery. Then she started to cough. Not good for a surgical candidate.
“That cough.” Laura said as she moved in to kiss Natalie on the top of her head. “How long have you had that?” She turned to Tim, “Negative chest x-ray. But maybe we should get a repeat.”
Tim walked over and took her daughter’s chart out of Laura’s hands. “Natalie has something to tell you,” he said. “I need some coffee. See you in a bit.”
“Okay. Good,” Laura said, sitting in the chair that Tim had vacated. “Natalie, sweetie, I am so sorry that I had to go upstairs. We have an emergency in the hospital.” Laura stopped. “But that’s not the important thing. You are.” She took Natalie’s free hand, dismissing her concerns about having been in close proximity to the infection raging in the ICU. She’d protected herself with a gown and mask and gloves and rigorous hand washing.
Tears filled Natalie’s red, puffy eyes and spilled over. She must have been so scared. “You’re going to be okay,” Laura reassured, moving in close to brush strands of hair off her forehead. It felt warm, but not hot. A hundred and two, she guessed. NPO, so they couldn’t give her Tylenol.
“Stop. Mom, this is not about me!”
Laura almost bristled at the demanding tone.
Natalie’s voice sounded raspy. “This is about my boyfriend.”
With the surgery ICU erupting in some mysterious contagious nightmare, this might not be the time for a heart-to-heart mother-daughter talk about boyfriend stuff.
“Trey,” Natalie continued, “he was in a real bad accident and he’s here in the hospital. In the ICU. I know that’s where you were. Now tell me about him. Take me to see him.” Natalie’s tears flowed down her cheeks. Stunned, Laura reached to grab the tissue box from the bedside table
“Mom, please—is Trey going be okay? I have to know. I’m sorry I never told you about him, but we were afraid that because of his father’s business and you and the lawsuit—”
“Oh, no!” Laura’s mouth had a mind of its own. “Trey Standish is your boyfriend, Natalie?” The young boy in the ICU struggling for his next breath, about to go on a ventilator until the antibiotics they were pumping into him could take effect.
Natalie reached for Laura’s hand, gripping it, tugging on it. “I have to see him. Can you take me there now? Right now?”
Laura let Natalie pull her closer.
“I’m okay. Just put me in a wheelchair and take me there. I need to see him, Mom.”
“Let’s talk about this for a minute,” Laura said. “I didn’t know you had a boyfriend, sweetie.”
“I just couldn’t tell you because you’re going against his father in court. And I know you’re going to think this is not serious, but I love Trey and he loves me, too. He really does. And I need to see him.” Natalie struggled to sit up, stretching her IV line, almost pulling it out. “Just help me get to the ICU.”
“So you never told me because I’m testifying against his father’s company?” Laura wasn’t sure exactly how she’d have reacted had Natalie been upfront. What else don’t I know about my daughter? What else does either of my daughters feel but think she can’t tell me? The birth control pills came to mind.
How old was I when I fell in love with Steve? Eighteen?
“And I wasn’t sick this morning. I lied to you because I wanted to stay home—so I could see Trey. I tried Wednesday night, but they wouldn’t let me into the ICU. Today I did get in and I talked to his dad. Trey was in a terrible accident, Mom. On his motorcycle. He looked awful. He was unconscious.”
The news echoed in Laura’s brain. “You got in?” she asked. “Natalie, what do you mean?”
“When you left, I went to see Trey in the ICU. Mom, he’s hurt really bad. Can you help him? Can I go see him? You know everybody here. Can we go no
w?”
Laura had to figure out exactly what happened and when. That boy Natalie was talking about was critically ill with whatever bacteria or virus was rampant in the ICU. Had her daughter had contact with him? Physical contact?
“Natalie, I am not mad at you, okay? But I need to know about you coming to the hospital to see—Trey. What time, exactly? I need to know what you did there. Who saw you? And—” Did you touch him? Laura did not ask. Sounded too harsh.
As she struggled to formulate her questions, Tim stepped back into the room. With his help, they reconstructed Natalie’s day, hour by hour. When they had it all on paper, she explained as gently as she could to Natalie that Trey was gravely ill, that because of the infection, absolutely no visitors, not even his family, could see him. Then she explained to her inconsolable daughter that she would have to be admitted to the hospital, too.
Tim left them, volunteering to work out arrangements for a private isolation room. Natalie shook with sobs, and Laura held her close, her own anguish accentuated by her daughter’s proximity to whatever organism had invaded the ICU.
Natalie had kissed Trey Standish.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 29
Stacy Jones had booked a 7:15 a.m. flight out of Detroit, layover in Atlanta, then on to Tampa. She awoke to her travel alarm at 4:00 a.m. She thought she’d convinced her mother not to get up, but when she crossed the hall to the bathroom she heard Lucy moving around in the kitchen. Despite yesterday’s gluttony, the idea of sausage, eggs, and biscuits made her ravenous. She already could smell her mom’s coffee laced with cinnamon.
A quick shower, a hint of makeup, a hasty packing job, and Stacy descended the stairs, dragging her suitcase step by step. “Mom, I told you—” she started.
“Stacy, stop. I’m making all your favorites including that special spicy link sausage that you liked ever since you were a little girl.”
Stacy felt a pang of guilt. No doubt, Mom had all of her favorite foods lined up for the weekend, not to mention the Thanksgiving extravaganza leftovers.
“I wish I didn’t have to leave, but I couldn’t turn Laura down after all she’s done to help me.”
“It’s you doctors. Katie has to leave early, too. She’s on her psychiatry rotation.” Lucy turned from the stove. “I was hoping you’d have more time to spend with her.”
“She’s doing great, Mom. U. of M. was the right choice for her.”
“Academically, she’s fine. It’s her boyfriend, Keith Franklin. Something’s not right.”
“They’ve been together since high school. Eight years. She ought to know him pretty well by now.”
“Still—” Lucy said.
“Speaking of problems,” Stacy wanted to segue out of relationship talk. At age thirty-two, she was not in one. “I haven’t even officially started my new job yet, and I expect I’m going to have some—problems, that is.” Stacy poured herself a cup of coffee as Lucy pulled a tray of biscuits out of the oven.
“Got your favorite jam, too. Cherry, from Traverse City. Sorry, honey, you were saying?”
“Personnel trouble. My coworker, Charles Scarlett. Until recently he was my peer. Now he’s going to report to me. He’s from one of those old Southern lily-white families.”
“Things have changed, people, too.”
“Not this guy, Mom, I don’t think. I wouldn’t be surprised to find out his family has roots in the Klan.”
“Well, you just show him who’s boss, honey. It’s 1985. Detroit and Atlanta have black mayors. I know it’s different in the South, but everything Dr. King did, bless his soul, is paying off for us. Look at you and this promotion. Look at Sharon, hired right out of college by Detroit’s biggest law firm. Rachel, a master’s degree from Harvard, and little Katie almost finished with medical school. Who’d have thought that possible? If only Dad were here. He’s the one that stressed education. And your—”
Stacy gulped down another sausage and checked her watch, “Mom, I really have to run.” No time now to listen to her mother reminisce about the heartbreaking losses in their lives: Dad and Stacy’s two older brothers.
Stacy had changed her departure date, so she had to stop at the ticket counter, but the lines were short. She’d arrived at the airport in plenty of time. Once on the plane she found it half empty, no Thanksgiving rush on Friday.
In Atlanta she had to change planes for another Delta flight to Tampa; she had enough time to call her lab. Someone should be there to assure her that all was under control, that she had no worries other than chasing off to Tampa to see what was going on at Laura’s hospital. She looked forward to seeing Laura and wondered what was wrong with her daughter—which one of the twins? Stacy could never tell them apart despite their distinctly different personalities.
“CDC. Lab Fifty-Two.” The male voice was familiar: Charles. Stacy wished she had reached one of the technicians. She disliked this man at a visceral level and she sensed that the feeling was mutual. Charles always had been civil, she had to admit; her problem was that he did not communicate with her. At issue was the color of her skin—a major obstacle when dealing with white supremacists, which he was. She’d seen the literature on his desk. Organizations that burned churches, set off bombs, condoned these acts of terrorism, and even assassinations. Targets of these hate crimes? Surprise. Blacks. Yes. And also Jews. Homosexuals, too? She wasn’t sure. The good news: many of these bigots had been arrested across the South last year. Stacy wanted to believe that the white supremacists’ reach had diminished. Or had they just gone underground?
“This is Stacy. Just checking in. How’s everything, Charles?”
“Oh, I’m so glad you called in. Thanks.” Charles normally didn’t bother to thank anybody for anything. She waited for him to continue, reminded of how much she detested his Georgia drawl. “I didn’t know what to do. I’m the only senior scientist on call for the weekend. And I have to go home. I am so sick I can hardly stand. Vomiting and diarrhea. Dehydrated, too. I made myself come in, thinking that maybe I’d feel better, but I’m feeling worse.”
Stacy did think that Charles’s voice sounded weaker than usual. His typical tone was petulant, right in line with his wimpy persona. “Okay,” she said, pausing, as she debated what she should do. As far as she knew, he’d never called in sick. Why now? All these circumstances conspiring against her. This was what management was all about?
“Stacy, I don’t have anybody to cover here. And the cultures need to be replated. I’ll get through them today, but if I’m this sick, I will not be in tomorrow. I have a terrible fever. I don’t know when I’ll be okay to come back.”
“Shoot. I got called into Tampa on a case or I’d come in.” She didn’t say that she was standing at that moment in the Atlanta airport. Priorities filtered through her mind: her job at the CDC laboratories; her promise to go to Tampa; her dedication to Laura.
“I have to go. Bad cramps. I just wanted you to know that I won’t be able to come in at least for the rest of the weekend.”
“Okay.” Stacy repeated, then the phone on the other end went dead.
The CDC would be on skeleton staff, but someone in administration would be there to connect her to the technicians in the lab. Because the bacteria they worked on were so lethal, only a highly trained senior-level scientist was allowed inside the incubator or inside the level three PC labs during active biomatter transfer. But the techs would have access to the computer records. If they could confirm that Charles had actually replated the cultures, the bacteria would be good for another twenty-four hours. So if she flew to Tampa, took care of matters there, she could return tomorrow in time to replate the cultures again on schedule.
As she placed the call to the CDC, she wondered how tough it’d be to get a morning flight from Tampa to Atlanta. Delta ran several a day, but could she fly early enough to get her back in time? Worst-case scenario, if she couldn’t schedule a flight, she could always rent a car for the eight-hour drive, but with
the extra cops on holiday patrols, would have to watch her speed.
Over the airport’s speaker system, she heard her flight being called. The CDC office clerk had picked up quickly, but she still was waiting to speak to one of the technicians.
“I just have a minute, so I’ll be quick,” she said when one of her favorite techs finally picked up. She explained what she needed them to do and asked if Charles had completed the series of replates.
“Yes, I know, he’s sick.” She cut him short. “Tell me about the cultures.”
“Dr. Jones, yes, I have the computer printout. He took care of the cultures.”
“I’ll be in tomorrow to do the next plate transfers,” Stacy said, “but it may be late—sometime between three and seven p.m. Can you make sure that I have a tech to help me get set up?”
“I’ll stay, Dr. Jones,” the tech said. “Me and the wife are expectin’ another baby. I need the overtime.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 29
Charles’s boss—before they promoted Jones—had been influential in the creation of The American Biological Safety Association (ABSA). Out of that came the delineation of biological safety levels—BSL—designated BSL1 through BSL4. All federal agencies and university and private laboratories as well as hospitals and industrial complexes that handled pathological organisms now had a framework by which they could protect their workers and the public, as well. The BSL level assignments designate the most dangerous pathogens as four and the least as one, with two and three being intermediate. This classification correlates to the designations P1 through P4, for pathogen protection level, a shorthand understood by personnel at all levels in the field of microbiology.
The exotic staph organisms that Charles’s lab handled were potentially lethal. All procedures in the BSL3 classified—P3 Lab—were conducted in laminar flow cabinets with containment hoods and HEPA air filters. Personnel wore full-body protective clothing and gas masks, and stringent protocols were in place and monitored vigorously. Ingress and egress through double doors with both human and electronic surveillance prohibited anyone not specifically authorized to be in any given lab. No exceptions.
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