Centenary Separation, page 19
Then she took a deep breath to gather her energy for what came next—she maneuvered the sodden bedspread out from under him bit by bit. Wringing it out took a lot of her strength, and even more dirty water washed down the drain. She folded the damp duvet and laid it across the far side of the tub. Her next job was getting Matt out of his clothes.
Half-averting her eyes, she slowly stripped the water-logged garments off. She wrung those out as well and tossed them on top of the folded bedspread before reaching to take one of the large, clean, plush towels from the cupboard by the tub and draping it over him for decency. Then she turned the tap, and clean, cold water flowed into the tub again.
Page took a washcloth and soaked it in cold water and laid it across Matt’s forehead before leaning back to watch the water level rise. Finally she shut the tap off and left the bathroom. She’d done everything she could for him for the time being—now she needed to take care of herself.
Checking her watch, she was amazed at how little time had actually passed. It should still be early enough that she need not worry about running into Riggleston. She looked out into the hallway and saw the coast was clear. Leaving the door to Matt’s suite unlocked and the ‘do not disturb’ sign in place, Page scurried down the corridor to her own rooms.
Seeing no one had been in, she entered her own suite with a sigh of relief. She refreshed herself and grabbed everything she thought she might need and left again, not forgetting to reset her little alarm. A bare half hour had passed by the time she returned to Matt’s room and found nothing had changed.
After she’d checked on Matt’s condition, she sat down in one of the comfortably stuffed armchairs in the sitting room and took the telephone receiver off the hook and asked the hotel operator to connect to the store she’d shopped at only yesterday—it felt as if it had been a week. She told them she needed her new clothes, the ones she’d ordered yesterday, to be delivered to a different room—Matt’s room, though she didn’t mention that aspect. She wouldn’t leave him on his own until he was well again.
Page didn’t know where Matt’s clothes might be —she had looked around his rooms but hadn’t been able to find any besides what he’d been wearing. He had worn a different suit when she’d seen him at the parade, so he must’ve gone shopping since, whether she’d Traveled him forward from nineteen fifteen to yesterday or he’d taken three years going down the slow path. But if he’d been here that long he should have a few outfits. Either way, he’d need something to put on once he was feeling better—more than that complementary robe hanging in the bathroom.
Page wouldn’t allow herself to consider the possibility that he wouldn’t improve. But she would let him shop for his own clothes then—all she would do was have the suit he had been wearing cleaned so he had something decent to put on.
Page pulled one of the comfortable chairs from the sitting room into the bathroom, then sat next to Matt. She managed to force him to sip down some more water, but his fever still raged. At some point her delivery arrived, and after that another delivery, of clothes Matt had apparently ordered for himself. Once she’d dealt with all that, she ordered room service.
Page had never been able to get out and get supplies, and now she was hungry. Because the request came from Matt’s room, hopefully Riggleston would not hear of it, but of course the hotel staff must have suspected something, so he might. If he discovered she was sharing a suite with another man, maybe he would lose interest in her. Another thing she hadn’t had time for was thinking of a way to deal with him.
Now, washed and fed and wearing new clothes, she had a break to consider it, but she couldn’t with Matt lying there in the bathtub—and possibly dying. He seemed to have gotten worse as the day had progressed. Despite her efforts, his fever had not gone down, and his breathing had become horribly shallow. He wasn’t moaning anymore.
Page left his side and went to stare out the bedroom window in frustration. The sun had started to set, and the eastern exposure was already dark—she could see her reflection in the glass, a ghostly image across the city’s skyline. A ghastly vision actually, as her appearance was suffering under the strain. But as she gazed out, she stopped seeing that and turned her eyes inward to inspect her memory. There must be something there that will help.
Her mind sped back across the lectures and orientations, the instructions, discussions, and preparations—surely Anya had dropped some snatches of medical wisdom along the way, something applicable to Page’s present predicament. But what finally came unbidden to her brain were some words from the professor as he’d strayed off onto one of his tangents.
Page had trained her memory, learned to discipline her thoughts and focus her attention. And she used that to recall every scrap she’d heard.
Research Leader Harold had asked some stupid question about catching diseases from the natives—the professor had glared hard at both him and Page but not Anya, who must’ve escaped because she already knew what he was about to say. Then he went on and on about how humans of the past had quite inferior immune systems. He’d reviewed a vast host of diseases that had plagued people in the past—in a way that had not reassured Harold in the slightest.
The professor had specifically referred to the influenza pandemic of the early twentieth century, because of how it had hit the young and healthiest the hardest. “Viruses can be clever devils,” he’d said.
The pressure of her emotions began to interfere with her focus, so Page stopped and took a few deep breaths, letting her mind grow calm and rested before she allowed the memory to return.
The professor had shaken his head, presumably at the viruses. “Even back then, the immune system was a marvelous thing. But it often didn’t work the way it was supposed to. That strain of influenza got itself a fighting chance by triggering a massive over-response from that incredible immune system. The healthy young human body would release a flood of antibodies that had not been properly programmed to target the virus and would target the very tissues damaged by the flu. Giving the virus a chance to get lost in the crowd, as it were.
“So the deadly danger was not the flu itself, but those very antibodies meant to protect the individual. In their frenzied attack, they would trigger a cytokine storm that perpetuated the body’s assault on itself. Various organs, particularly the lungs, would begin to shut down, and a lot of people died. But not many of those with weakened immune systems who only had to fight the flu. Rest and fluids and maybe ice to bring down the fever were usually enough.”
So Matt had two serious problems—the influenza virus and his body itself—with his own antibodies being the greater threat. If only he had Page’s superior system, with lymphocytes that would not be deceived. Her B-cells and T-cells could handle the flu virus with one protein chain tied behind their backs —but Matt’s stupid cells were fighting the wrong enemy. If only there were something Page could do to fix that. But her own immune system was an inheritance, and she couldn’t give it to him.
What she might be able to do, though, was give him the antibodies that could properly target the flu virus. Once the virus had entered her body—and it might have done so already—she knew her superior immune system would immediately identify the intruder and start pumping out the correctly calibrated antibodies to eliminate it. Those proteins would be perfectly matched to the same antigens along the surface of the virus’ molecules in Matt’s body. So all she had to do was make sure she was infected to get her super-lymphocytes into action and find a way to transfer her immunoglobulin into his blood.
It would at least take care of the virus. But there was nothing she could do to stop the cytokine storm ravaging Matt’s body. While her own immune system would recognize malfunctioning antibodies belonging to her own body, and destroy them just the same as it would take care of an alien invader, there would be no way it could know whether Matt’s cells were acting properly or not. But she had hope—that if the virus was eliminated from his body, maybe his immune system would realize it could stop fighting —that it would cease killing him by waging a war on the wrong front.
Whether it would work or not, that was the only thing she could do now. She went back to sit at the tub where she could look down into his fevered face and think about the easiest way to make certain she was infected with the virus. This wasn’t exactly how she had imagined their first kiss.
Page leaned over and gently pressed her lips to his. His eyelids fluttered and his lips pressed back, but that wasn’t enough to be sure. So she eased his mouth open and slid her tongue against his all the way to the back of his throat. He was far too out of it to be aware, and far too sick for it to be anything but unpleasant for her. But she had to give the flu plenty of time to try attacking her.
She held his head and continued the contact as long as she could, because not only did she need the virus to attack her, but in sufficient strength for her immune system to really start pumping out the immunoglobulin. At last she pulled away and allowed herself to relax and catch her breath. That had been the easy part.
It shouldn’t take long for her body to begin the process of churning out millions of little killers prepared to go after the influenza virus like trained assassins. Then the problem would be to get as many of them onto the battlefield in Matt’s body as possible, and as quickly. That would be the hard part, because she didn’t have the training or the equipment for a blood transfusion, or to try isolating the immunoglobulin from her blood and injecting it into him.
So after gathering her energy, she had to gather her courage. This would not only be unpleasant—it would probably make her sick. She deliberately bit down hard on her tongue, felt the blood running in her mouth, and kissed him again, her stomach turning over as she did so. Once again she also swapped fluids with him for as long as she was able to. That reminded her of a fad from the fifties, or maybe the sixties—kissing marathons.
She had intended to have Matt help her experiment with one of those, as part of her research, but now she was having second thoughts.
Her strength waning, Page pulled away again to rest. By now, the antibodies she’d generated would be doing their best to destroy all the influenza they could find, and she’d done what she could for Matt. Next was the hardest part of all—waiting.
Chapter 22
Unscheduled Appointments
October 25th, 1918 Midtown Manhattan
MATT woke with a crick in his neck and a beating in his head. He pried his eyes open and found himself lying in a damp bathtub and covered with a wet towel. He thought he’d been too delirious to get out of bed even, but apparently he’d managed to make it into the bathroom, undress, and soak himself. And now his fever had broken.
Climbing over the edge of the tub, he groaned as his muscles protested trying to stand upright. Then he looked around. He saw his watch lying on top of the chest against the wall and was relieved that he’d thought to take it off before immersing himself. He couldn’t see his clothes anywhere around though.
Matt must have shed his clothes in the bedroom before staggering in here. He took a clean, dry towel and wrapped it around his waist before going to see in what state he’d left the rest of the suite. The outfit he’d been wearing wasn’t there, but a whole new set of suits hung in the closet—the hotel staff must have let in the delivery of the new garments he’d ordered and hung everything up for him. They had probably taken his old clothes to be laundered. Now that was service.
The pounding came again, louder, and he realized it wasn’t in his head but at the door. He hadn’t checked the time on his watch, but the sun was shining through the window so it must’ve been morning. He didn’t know how long he had been out of it. Nor could he recall how long he’d paid for when he had checked in. Maybe they’d come to chuck him out.
The knocking came again, more insistent. Matt yelled out, “I’m coming.” But first he had to dress, and he didn’t have time to put on a suit. Despite his aching body, he stumbled back to the bathroom and grabbed the fuzzy robe that hung there and hurried back to the sitting room. But someone was already inserting a key and opening the door.
A man who must’ve been the manager pushed it all the way to the wall and then stepped back, allowing two other men to enter—or try to.
Matt stood in the way. “What’s this about?”
The bigger of the men swiftly brought a mask to his mouth and stepped forward into Matt’s personal space. “I’m with the New York City Health Department. Are you aware that if you’re sick you are required to be checked out to see if you have the Spanish flu? But you haven’t reported your illness.” The bureaucrat turned his head to look at the small man standing behind him and carrying a black bag. “He looks red and flushed, doesn’t he?”
Matt bristled. “That would be because I just got out of the bathtub and ran in here to get the door—because someone was pounding on it. I’m not sick.” At least, he was pretty sure he wasn’t ill anymore.
“The doctor will still have to examine you. We had a report.” That must’ve been whoever brought those new clothes to his room. “If he certifies you as not contagious, fine. Otherwise we may have to isolate the entire hotel.”
Standing behind the two men, the hotel manager blanched. Even the doctor looked uncomfortable about it. And then into that sudden silence, a familiar voice rang out. “If he’s looking flushed, it must be because he’s running late.”
Page appeared in the corridor behind the three men, looking amazing in a vivid blue dress that only highlighted her glorious red hair. Which made Matt remember a fever dream he’d had—of Page kissing him, at length. He blushed, but you couldn’t hold a man responsible for his dreams—especially if they’d been fever-induced delusions. She ignored the others and squinted at his bathrobe. No doubt she disapproved.
Matt grinned. “Talk about a sight for sore eyes.” But the rest of him was still sore.
“And you promised to take me to tea, but look at you. You’re not even dressed yet.”
“Give me ten minutes, and I’ll be downstairs in the dining room, looking sharp.” He glanced at the men standing between them and sighed dramatically. “Actually, you’d better make it twenty. I have to satisfy the doc I’m not sick first.”
Page glared at him. “I’ll give you five minutes.” Then she swept her glare over the other three men. “You gentlemen had better not cause him to be one minute late.” With a nod to herself, she turned and disappeared down the hall.
With a sigh, Matt backed up to allow the doctor and the bureaucrat into his rooms. The hotel manager, meanwhile, had discreetly faded away—to placate Page if he was smart. The doctor, now donning his own mask, maneuvered Matt down into a sitting room chair and began taking his temperature—this he followed with listening to Matt’s heart and lungs, staring down his throat, and peering under his eyelids. The examination took more than five minutes, and Page would blame Matt.
The doctor turned to the bureaucrat, who stood behind him and had been looking over his shoulder. “He might’ve been up all night, partying. He’s worn out, but he’s not sick. He certainly doesn’t have the flu.”
The health department official clenched his jaw. “You’re sure about that? If you make a mistake with a thing like this...”
Now it was the doctor who turned beet red, but with anger, not embarrassment. “Are you questioning my evaluation? You’re the one who dragged me here on a wild goose chase.” The doctor proceeded to bundle his stethoscope and other equipment into his black bag and walk out, without another word to the other man. The bureaucrat followed him out, in similar silence.
Neither of them had bothered to even glance at Matt again, much less apologize, but he didn’t care. He just sprang into action and dressed as fast as his aching muscles could move. Hurrying back into the bedroom, he selected a lightweight blue pin-striped suit and put on the loafers he’d managed to take off before he’d fallen into bed last night. He forsook the tie, but darted into the bathroom to grab his watch. And when he looked at the time, he realized that it had not been the previous night he’d fallen sick, but the night before. Page must’ve visited the bank yesterday and found out where Matt was staying.
It was a good thing Page hadn’t gotten herself in some kind of trouble while he’d been sick. But the important thing was that they’d found each other—no more frantic, frustrated searching. If they landed into any more adventures now, they’d at least be in them together.
Matt ran down the stairs to the lobby, enduring the pain, because it was faster and he was late. But when he trotted into the hotel dining room and saw her sitting at a table by herself, when she looked up and scowled at him, what he felt was relief. A part of him must’ve been worried she’d disappeared again, and he was delighted to lock eyes on her. Their eyes met, and he grinned.
He walked over to the table, shaking his head as he looked at the delicate china tea set and the silver tray and the multi-level platter with its vast assortment of cookies and cake slices. She hadn’t waited for him to order.
As he took his seat across from her, she gave up glaring and started pouring him a cup of tea. He’d have preferred a mug of coffee, but he didn’t think it was a good time to make an issue of that. He’d just enjoy the tea, watered down as it was with milk.
He looked her in the eye again as she passed the saucer and cup over. “You would not believe what I went through looking for you.” Why hadn’t she just waited for him in San Francisco?
Page gave him a blank look. “You’ll have to tell me all about it. Some other time.” And she took one of the slices of cake onto a little plate and cut it with her fork. “Right now we’re supposed to be enjoying morning tea.” And she stuffed that bite of cake into her mouth.
Matt shook his head. “Looks more like dessert to me, but I suppose you got them to do all this anyway.” She had her fixed ideas about history, how it should be—like being courted by gentlemen in fancy dress who swept women off their feet with ballroom dancing. It might have been like that, but Matt preferred the more casual and real present that he was used to.
