Final Call, page 8
Which gave him an idea. His sister had a friend who was a wedding planner. Maybe she could help.
It turned out she could, for a small fee, if by small you meant small fortune. Fortunately he had the venue – they had a large backyard – but his sister’s friend felt they needed a tent. A marquee tent, she called it, like they have at Royal Ascot, whatever that was.
A tent, a party planner, catering for one hundred and fifty guests, a band, babysitters and drinks: it added up to a grand total of – no, he stopped himself before he did the math. If he knew officially what it cost – even though he kind of did really – he would not be able to enjoy it.
‘Mindy,’ he said. ‘I’m at work. There’s a patient I need—’
‘One more thing. Do you want oysters?’
Oysters? That was hardly going to help with the bill.
‘I – I haven’t—’
‘Dr. Williams?’
It was Roland, a nurse who had just started working at the hospital.
‘One second,’ he said. He gestured to his phone. ‘Be right with you.’
‘Oysters are available,’ Mindy said, ‘but we have to order today. It’s eighteen dollars a dozen, but if you get ten dozen it’s sixteen per dozen. I’d say maybe half the guests will want them, and they’ll want two or three each, so maybe eighteen dozen?’
What the fuck was she talking about? Eighteen, sixteen, dozen this, dozen that? He was lost, and his attention was needed elsewhere.
‘Dr. Williams,’ Roland said, his voice more urgent now. ‘There’s another one.’
‘Hold on, Mindy,’ Williams said, and addressed himself to Roland. ‘Another what?’
‘Child with liver failure. Just arrived in the ER.’
‘Neal,’ Mindy said. ‘We really need to—’
‘Sorry, Mindy,’ he said. ‘I have to go. Just do what you think is best regarding the oysters. OK?’
He put down the phone. Roland looked at him, eyes narrowed.
‘Oysters?’
‘Party. I’ll explain later. You can come. You said there’s another one? With the same symptoms?’
Roland nodded.
‘Unconscious?’
‘Yes. Exactly the same.’
‘Boy or girl?’
‘Girl. From the same school.’
‘OK. Talk to the hospital admin – Diane is the best bet – and get them to talk to the principal and have that school closed for the day.’
‘Will do.’
‘Where’s the patient?’
Roland beckoned to him. ‘Follow me.’
Stacy Evanston
Stacy put her hand on her stomach. She was momentarily taken aback; it was a protective gesture she remembered from her first pregnancy.
It’s real, she thought. I’m actually pregnant. My body knows. Now, of all times, I’m pregnant.
She watched Dan. He was smiling at Cherry, stroking her forehead. She had had boyfriends before him – some better looking, some more athletic, some with better grades – but she loved him in a way she had never thought was possible. What surprised her most was that she admired him. She wanted to be like him. She wanted the calm self-assurance, the confidence that he was doing the right thing, living his best life.
He wasn’t jealous of others. He didn’t want a faster car or a newer truck – OK, maybe a newer truck – or a bigger house. He didn’t crave more money. He didn’t want what others had. He had the gift of enjoying what he had, right there in that moment.
Once, early in their relationship, he had gone out to get breakfast and come back with bagels, cream cheese and some fruit.
Look at that orange, he said. It grew on some tree in Florida and now here it is. And we get to eat it. Sweet, juicy, delicious. Is there anything better than that? Really? You could go to the ends of the earth looking for something better, but this orange is as good as it gets.
And he’d meant it. That was how he lived his life. And even when – like before, in the waiting room – his calmness deserted him, she loved him even more, because it was proof it wasn’t an act.
And when they got through this, she’d give him the news he wanted.
Another child.
‘She’s beautiful,’ she said. ‘And she’s lucky to have a dad like you.’
‘Nah,’ he said. ‘It’s me who’s lucky. She’s the best. You’re the best.’ He stroked her cheek. ‘When she’s better we’ll do something special. Disney. Something like that.’
‘Disney in California, or Disney in Florida?’
‘Florida, of course. We can go to—’ he stopped and stared at their daughter ‘—Cherry?’
Stacy jumped to her feet. ‘What is it? Is she OK?’
He didn’t reply, his attention focused on Cherry.
‘Dan? What is it?’
‘She’s waking up,’ he said, and grinned at her. ‘She’s back! She heard Disney, and now she’s back!’
Dr. Williams
Dr. Williams read the chart. The girl’s liver was failing; the bloodwork was unequivocal, but he didn’t need it to know what was happening. The problem was visible in the yellow tint in her skin and around her pupils, and he had a recent similar experience.
They had stabilized the first girl – Cherry – and she seemed to be getting better, so they were following the same course of treatment. Without knowing what was causing this, it was all they could do.
And he had no idea what was causing it. Sudden onset of liver failure was rare and normally associated with prolonged lifestyle choices that damaged the organ. He doubted very much that these two five-year-olds were hard-core drinkers and drug-takers. It could be the result of fetal alcohol syndrome – just about – but the chances of that in two kids in the same school on the same day were minimal. More than minimal. Virtually impossible.
And it was the fact there were two of them that bothered him most. If it was one, he might have accepted they would never know what was behind it. A girl got sick; a girl recovered. Sometimes things just happened and there was no explanation.
But two of them suggested a common cause, possibly linked to the school. Maybe they had been somewhere else together, in which case it could be that. Either way, whatever had caused one to fall sick had more than likely triggered the other.
He could only think of two causes: a hepatitis virus which was not vaccinated against – and those were pretty rare in the US – or a toxin of some type. For them to get hepatitis they would have needed to come into contact with the blood or fecal matter of an infected person, which did not seem likely in Barrow, Maine. As for a toxin: well, he had no idea what could cause something like this.
He’d called a doctor friend, Peter Hall, who worked as a liver specialist in Portland. Pete had no immediate suggestions; he requested the charts and said he’d take a look, but to really determine what was going on they’d need to do more tests.
He put down the chart and walked around the bed to look at the girl. Ella Farmer. Long, thick brown hair, a pink T-shirt with sequins in the shape of a whale that reversed if you brushed them to reveal a new picture.
Her breathing was shallow. He felt her pulse. It was weak, weaker than he remembered. He checked the screen.
Her oxygen level was low. Not critical, but low; lower than when she came in.
That was not a good sign.
He pressed a button to call a nurse. It was Roland who arrived.
‘What do you think?’ he said. In his experience, nurses were often able to assess whether there was a problem equally as reliably as the doctors. They saw this stuff every day.
Roland pressed his index and forefinger to the girl’s neck. He looked at the screen.
‘Hmm,’ he said. ‘I think we need to do something.’
‘Intubate? Get her on oxygen?’
Roland nodded. He looked worried, and there was a sense of foreboding in his voice. ‘Exactly. I’ll get on it.’
2
Ella’s parents were in the waiting room. Her dad was sitting upright in a chair, staring at his phone. He was wearing smart gray pants and a jacket; he looked like a professor from the local college. Her mom was looking out of the window.
He held the door open. They walked quickly across the waiting room.
‘Come through,’ he said. He led them to a consulting room.
‘How is she?’ her father said, before he sat down.
He hated this part of his job. No parent wanted to hear what he was about to say.
‘She’s still in intensive care,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid we had to put her on a ventilator. She was having difficulty breathing.’
Ella’s mom sat down heavily. The blood drained from her face.
‘What’s happening?’ she said in a whisper. ‘What’s doing this to her?’
‘We can’t be sure,’ Dr. Williams said. ‘It’s …’ he paused ‘… it’s highly unusual.’
‘You said it was a liver problem, when we arrived?’ Ella’s dad said. He was fighting to keep his composure, to project an air of professionalism.
‘That’s right. Her liver is inflamed, and it’s not working well.’
‘How can that be?’ he said. ‘She’s five.’
‘I know,’ Dr. Williams said. ‘I have the same question. It’s possible it’s something environmental.’
‘Like what?’
‘Again, I don’t have an answer. I wish I did, but I don’t.’
‘So what can you do?’
‘We’ll keep monitoring her. If she continues to need assistance breathing, we’ll provide that. I’ve consulted with a liver specialist, who is looking at her case as well. He’ll be coming up from Portland later today.’
What he didn’t say was that it didn’t add up to much. Their options were limited. Ella was, to all intents and purposes, on her own.
Her dad nodded. ‘Thank you. And if there’s anything we can do, please, just ask. If you need authorization for a treatment – covered by insurance or not – you have it. Don’t hesitate, Doctor Williams. She’s our little girl.’
He could feel their anguish; it was palpable. As parents they would do whatever they could to help their daughter; he had no doubt that if he had said the only treatment was for one of them to give up their liver, they would have offered it up in a heartbeat.
‘We will,’ he said. ‘We’ll do everything we can.’
He opened the door and stepped into the corridor. Nurse Miranda Chan looked up from the nurse’s station.
‘I’m glad you’re out,’ she said. ‘I didn’t want to disturb you, but I was going to have to come in if you didn’t get done in the next few minutes.’
He had a horrible feeling that he knew what was coming.
‘What is it?’ he said.
‘There’s another. A boy this time. Six years old.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘No. It’s not possible.’
‘Yes it is,’ Miranda replied, her expression grim. ‘It’s more than possible. It’s happening.’
December 23rd, 2022
Jill Stearns
Jill looked around the plane.
One of you is a murderer, and we’re going to find out who.
Static came through the intercom and the pilot spoke again.
‘Here’s my question: Who is it?’
‘This is Jill Stearns,’ she said. ‘I’m the CEO of—’
‘I know who you are,’ the pilot said.
‘Then you’ll know that this is preposterous,’ she said. ‘No one on this plane has killed anyone. There’s been a mistake.’
‘No,’ the pilot said. ‘There’s been no mistake.’
‘I think there has. It’s inconceivable that anyone here has committed murder.’
‘One of you has,’ the pilot said. ‘And I want to know who.’
‘Why do you think this?’ Jill said. ‘Who has been killed?’
‘One of you knows,’ the pilot said. ‘And I’m going to give you a chance to come clean. You have twenty minutes to confess. If you do, this is over. We land, you go to the police and tell them what you’ve done, and your colleagues go home.’ She paused. ‘If you don’t, then I’ll take steps to make you.’
‘Listen,’ Jill said. ‘We can work this out. But you need to tell us what’s going on here. You need to tell us what it is that you think has happened. Then we can explain, and move on.’
‘There is no explanation,’ the pilot said. ‘You have twenty minutes.’
The buzz faded as the intercom switched off.
Jill shook her head. ‘Please,’ she said. ‘Give us a chance. At least give us the opportunity to try and explain. Then if there has been a mistake we can move on. I’m not saying there has, but it’s at least possible. Give us a chance. That’s all I’m asking.’
There was a long silence, broken by Marcia coughing. ‘I think she’s gone,’ she said. ‘Now what?’
Chip Markham
This had rapidly spiraled out of control. He didn’t know what was going on – the most likely explanation at this point was that the pilot was deranged, but that didn’t help the situation. It made it worse, as there would be no way to reason with her.
So he was stuck on a plane with a crazy pilot, headed east over the Atlantic Ocean.
He wouldn’t have minded, this time last year. Or the year before. Anytime, really, in the five years since Sandra, his wife of nearly thirty years, had died. He’d had a good life, and the prospect of it ending didn’t bother him at all. He’d come close on two occasions to killing himself – his preferred method was to drink a bottle of Scotch, close the garage door, climb into his Land Rover and turn the engine on – and there were times he still considered it.
The truth was, with Sandra gone, he’d had nothing to live for. They had a son, Matthew, but he didn’t speak to Chip: their relationship had fallen apart when he was a teenager, and Chip had not known how to repair it. Matthew lived in San Diego; he’d spoken to Sandra most weeks, but refused to talk to his father, and Chip had convinced himself he didn’t care. Matthew was the past, a lost cause.
And he did not chase lost causes, even if part of him would have liked to.
He’d considered rekindling things with Marcia – she would have resisted out of pride, though that wouldn’t have lasted – but he had decided not to. The companionship – and sex – would have been welcome, but he didn’t want to invite her neediness back into his life.
So, most days he got by, but there were times – Christmas and Thanksgiving were two of the worst – when, without Sandra, he saw all too clearly how empty his life was, and he couldn’t face the question that rattled around his brain: Why bother? Why bother with this for ten, twenty, thirty more years? Why bother for ten, twenty, thirty more days?
He was lonely, and sad, and bored, and he’d had enough.
And then the pandemic had arrived, and the office had closed. His world had collapsed into nothing: just the four walls of his house and endless video calls. The most serious suicide attempt had come a month into the first lockdown; he had drunk the Scotch, climbed into his car, and turned the key.
A carbon monoxide detector had gone off, the alarm penetrating – as it was designed to – his drunken stupor. He had woken slumped over in the front seat, his head throbbing and his pants stained with urine. His first feeling was gratitude, followed swiftly by a burning shame that he had lacked the courage to put an end to this farce that was his life.
The second attempt had come three days later. This time he had disabled the alarm and drunk more whiskey.
It had made him vomit, and he had woken again, ending up crouched over on his garage floor, sputum dripping from his mouth. As the exhaust fumes gathered around him, he had realized, however faintly, that he didn’t want to die, and that he was done committing suicide.
But he reserved the right for the future.
So the prospect of being trapped in a plane with a crazy pilot would not have concerned him at all. He would have met his fate with equanimity.
Until a month ago, that was.
It was a Friday night and he was in the office – he put the weekend off as long as he could these days – reading an email from Jill about a potential acquisition that she had decided was not a fit for the company. It was irritating; he’d been working on it for some time and now it seemed the effort had been wasted.
He closed his computer and felt the bite of anxiety in his chest at the thought of the two days ahead of him. What would he do with the weekend? Wake up, go for a walk? Watch some sport, read the papers?
He’d eat alone, that much he knew. Open an expensive bottle of red wine – perhaps one of the ones he and Sandra had bought on one of their trips to the West Coast – and drink it, pretending to himself that it was delicious, when, without her it could as well have been from a fifteen-dollar box.
Everything was like that. That was the problem: the world was colorless. His life had been work and Sandra: that was enough for him. He hated golf and tennis, and he had let his friendships slide years ago. It was just his job and his wife.
But she was gone, and his life was cut in half. Getting through Saturday would be hard enough.
And then there was Sunday. Another day to endure before the work week started.
It was pathetic. He was pathetic. If his colleagues had known he was like this they would have lost all respect for him. At work he was a composed, urbane, wise presence; they would never have guessed he was a nervous wreck at the thought of a weekend alone.
But then, that Friday, it had all changed. He was about to pour a Macallan – his third of the evening – when the doorbell rang.
He paused, the bottle in his hand. He wasn’t expecting anyone, and he never had visitors. The house was at the end of a long private drive, invisible from the main road, and if any political canvassers seeking signatures or salesmen did consider venturing down it there was a sign on the main gates telling them not to bother.
