کتاب 01-03

JULY

3

There was a fireman causing trouble.

“Sir,” said Nurse Lean. “Sir, you can’t cut the line. You’ll have your free examination when it’s your turn.”

The Fireman glanced over his shoulder at the line that stretched down the hall and around the corner. Then he looked back. His face was filthy and he wore the same yellow rubber jacket all the firemen wore and he had a child in his arms, a boy, hugging him around the neck.

“I’m not checking in. I’m dropping off,” he said, and his accent made people look. You didn’t expect a New Hampshire fireman to sound like he was from London. “And it’s not about what they’re here for. This isn’t about the mold. My boy needs to see a doctor. He needs him now, not in two hours. This is an emergency. I don’t see why I can’t make anyone here in this so-called emergency room understand that.”

Harper was passing along the line, handing out lollipops and paper cups of apple juice to the little kids. She also had a radish in one pocket and a potato in the other, for the most seriously unhappy children.

The sound of an English accent distracted her and lifted her spirits. She associated English accents with singing teapots, schools for witchcraft, and the science of deduction. This wasn’t, she knew, terribly sophisticated of her, but she had no real guilt about it. She felt the English were themselves to blame for her feelings. They had spent a century relentlessly marketing their detectives and wizards and nannies, and they had to live with the results.

Her spirits needed lifting. She had spent the morning stowing charred corpses in body bags, their blackened, shriveled tissues still warm to the touch, still fuming. Because the hospital was running out of bags, she had to pack a pair of dead children into a sack together, which wasn’t so hard. They had burned to death with their arms around one another, had fused into a single creature, a tangled cat’s cradle of charred bones. It looked like death metal sculpture.

She hadn’t been home since the last week in June and spent eighteen hours out of twenty-four in a full-body rubber suit that had been designed to repel Ebola. The gloves were so tight she had to lube her hands up with petroleum jelly to get them on. She stank like a prophylactic. Every time she inhaled her own fragrance of rubber and K-Y she thought of awkward college encounters in the dorms.

Harper made her way toward the head of the line, approaching the Fireman from behind. It was her job to keep the people who were waiting content, not Nurse Lean’s, and Harper didn’t want to wind up on Nurse Lean’s bad side. Harper had only been working under her, at Portsmouth Hospital, for three weeks, and was a little afraid of her. All the volunteer nurses were.

“Sir,” Nurse Lean said now, in a voice thin with impatience. “Everyone in this line is having an emergency. It’s emergencies all the way back to the lobby. We take ’em in the order they come.”

The Fireman peered over his shoulder at the line. A hundred and thirty-one of them (Harper had counted), weary and stained with Dragonscale and staring back at him with hollow-eyed resentment.

“Their emergencies can wait. This boy’s cannot.” He snapped back around to face Nurse Lean. “Let me try this another way.”

His right arm hung at his side. He held a tool close against it, between his arm and body, a rusty iron bar, with hooks and prongs and hatchet blades bristling from either end. He opened his hand and let the bar slide down into full view, so that one end was almost touching the dirty linoleum. He waggled it but did not raise it.

“Either you let me through that door or I take this halligan and begin smashing things. I will start with a window and work my way up to a computer. Get a doctor, or let me by, but do not imagine I am going to wait in line while this nine-year-old boy dies in my arms.”

Albert Holmes made his lazy way down the hall, coming from the double doors that led into the pre-quarantine exam rooms. He wore an Ebola suit, too. The only thing that marked Al out as different from the medical staff was that instead of a rubber hood, he had on a black riot helmet, the glass faceplate pulled down. He also wore his belt on the outside of his suit, his security badge and his walkie-talkie on one hip, his Teflon nightstick on the other.

Harper and Al closed in at the same time, from opposite directions.

“Let’s settle down here,” Al said. “Listen, bud, we can’t have you in here with that—what’d you call it? The hooligan thing. Fire personnel have to leave their equipment outside.”

“Sir? If you’ll come with me, I’d be glad to talk to you about your son’s complaint,” Harper said.

“He’s not my son,” said the Fireman, “and I’m not his hysterical father. What I am is a man with a dangerously ill child and a heavy iron bar. If someone doesn’t take the one, they’re going to get the other. You want to talk to me? Talk where? Through those doors where the doctors are, or at the end of the line?”

She held his gaze, willing him to be good, promising him with her eyes that she would be good to him in return, she would listen and deal with him and his boy with warmth, humor, and patience. Telling him that she was trying to protect him, because if he didn’t chill out he was going to wind up facedown on the floor with pepper spray in his eyes and a boot on his neck. Harper had been on staff for less than a month, but that was long enough to become accustomed to the sight of security drubbing unruly patients into better behavior.

“Come with me. I’ll get him a lemon ice and you can tell me about whatever’s wrong with him—”

“—at the end of the line. What I thought.” He turned away from her and took a step toward the double doors.

Nurse Lean was still in his way. If anything, she looked more imposing than Albert Holmes. She was bigger, an immensity of breasts and gut, as formidable as any defensive tackle.

“SIR,” she said. “If you take one more step, we’ll be treating you this afternoon for a variety of bruises and contusions.” She swept her pale-eyed stare of death down the line. Her next statement was addressed to all of them. “We will have order in this queue. We will have it the easy way or we will have it the hard way, but we will have it. Does everyone understand me?”

There were low, embarrassed murmurs of assent up and down the line.

“I’m sorry.” Sweat crawled at the Fireman’s temples. “You don’t understand. This boy—”

“What’s wrong with him? Besides the same thing that is wrong with everyone else?” Nurse Lean said.

The boy was more or less the most beautiful child Harper had ever seen. His dark, curly hair was a delightful tangle above eyes the lucid pale green of an empty Coke bottle. He had on shorts and everyone could see the marks on the back of his calves: black, curving stripes, tattoolike, delicate and almost ornate.

Without any trace of concern in her voice, Nurse Lean added, “If you aren’t infected, you shouldn’t be holding him. Are you infected?”

“I’m not here about me,” said the Fireman. It only came to Harper much later that this was a neat way of not answering. “He’s not touching me.”

It was true. The boy in his arms had his head turned and his cheek plumped against the Fireman’s turnout jacket. Still: if the Fireman wasn’t sick, he was either idiotically fearless or just idiotic.

“What’s wrong with him?”

“His stomach,” the Fireman said. “There’s something wrong with his stomach. He can barely stand—”

“It’s very hot in here,” Nurse Lean said. “I’m sure he’s not the only child with a stomachache. Go to the end of the line and—”

“No. No. Please. This child recently lost his mother. She was in a building collapse a few days ago.”

Nurse Lean’s shoulders slumped and for a moment a kind of glum sympathy was visible on her features. For the first and only time she seemed to look not at the Fireman but at the boy curled in his arms.

“Ah. That’s rotten. Listen, sweetheart, that’s just rotten.” If the boy was listening, though, he gave no sign. Nurse Lean lifted her gaze to the Fireman and was abruptly glaring again. “Something like that, who wouldn’t have a stomachache?”

“Hang on, now. Let me finish. A building fell and killed her and he was there, he was right there—”

“There are trained counselors who can talk to this boy about what happened to him and maybe even get him something fizzy and sweet for his dyspepsia.”

“Dyspepsia? Are you listening to me? He doesn’t need a Coke and a smile, he needs a doctor.”

“And he’ll get one, when it’s his turn.”

“I picked him up an hour ago and he screamed. Does that sound like dyspepsia to you, you incurious twat?”

“Hey,” said Albert Holmes. “No one needs that mouth—”

Nurse Lean’s face darkened to a scalding shade of red. She spread her arms out to either side, like a small child playing airplane.

“YOU AND THAT BOY WILL GO TO THE BACK OF THE LINE, OR YOU WILL BE ADMITTED TO THE EMERGENCY ROOM WITH THAT STEEL ROD OF YOURS JAMMED UP YOUR NARROW LIMEY ASS! DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?”

If Nurse Lean had shouted this way at Harper, she would’ve burst into tears. It was staggering—like walking into a gale. Children in line covered their ears, hid their faces against their mothers’ legs.

The Englishman didn’t so much as buckle. He glared. Harper was only faintly conscious of the fact that the boy didn’t flinch either. In fact, he was staring at Harper, his eyes dreamy and damp, a little adrift. She assumed he was just faint from the heat, but it turned out there was more to it than that.

Harper tried again. “Sir? I’m sure I can help you. We can discuss the boy’s symptoms at the back of the line and if he needs immediate attention, I’ll bring a doctor right to him. If his stomach is bothering him, we don’t want to upset him with a lot of yelling. Let’s take this down the hall. Please. You and me . . . how ’bout it?”

All the anger went out of his face in an instant and he looked at her with the flicker of a weary smile. The boy might have lost his mother, but Harper saw then, for the first time, that the Fireman was in grief himself. She could see it in his eyes, a kind of exhausted glaze that she associated with loss.

“Do you fancy the Dire Straits too? A kid like you? You must’ve been chewing your blocks the last time they had a hit.”

“I don’t follow,” she said.

“You and me . . . how ’bout it? Dire Straits?” he said, cocking his head and giving her an inquisitive look.

She didn’t know what to say, wasn’t sure what he was talking about. He stared for a half instant longer, then gave up. The Fireman squeezed the boy gently, then set him on his feet with great care, as if he were handling a fragile vase filled to the brim with water. “His name is Nick. Do you want to walk Nick to the back of the line?” he asked Harper. “And then I can carry on my conversation with this lot?”

“I think you should both come with me,” she said to the Fireman, but she took the boy’s hand. Her rubber glove squeaked softly.

She could see the child wasn’t well. His face was waxy beneath his freckles and he swayed on his feet. Also she could feel a troubling heat in his soft, child-chubby fingers. But then a lot of people with the spore ran fevers, and the spore itself was often two to three degrees above body temperature. No sooner, though, had the Fireman set him down than the child bent at the waist with a pained grimace.

The Fireman crouched before the child and leaned his halligan against his shoulder. He did an odd thing then: he closed his hands into fists, showed them to the boy, then made an odd patting gesture, as if he were imitating a dog pawing at the air. The boy made the grimacing face and a funny teakettle sound, unlike anything Harper had ever heard from a child in distress; it sounded more like a squeak toy.

The Fireman craned his head to look back at Harper, but before he had a chance to speak, Albert Holmes moved, closed a hand around one end of the halligan.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” the Fireman said.

“Sir? Let go of the weapon.”

The Fireman tugged on it. Al tugged back, harder, pulling him off balance, and then he had an arm around his throat. The Fireman’s bootheels squealed on the tiles as he kicked for purchase, tried to get his feet under him.

Harper observed their wrestling match the way she might’ve glimpsed the passing scenery on an accelerating carousel. She was playing back what she had just seen—not only the odd way the Fireman had swatted at the air, but the way it looked as if the boy were straining to lift a weight beyond the limits of his strength.

“You’re deaf,” she said to the child, but of course she was really only talking to herself. Because he was deaf.

She had, at some point in nursing school, had a single day of instruction in American Sign Language, of which she remembered nothing. Or at least, she didn’t think she remembered anything of what they had taught her. But then she found herself pointing her fingers at her ribs and twisting them, as if she were hand-screwing something into her own sides. She patted low on her abdomen. Does it hurt here?

Nick nodded uncertainly. But when she reached to feel beneath the hands cupped over his abdomen, he stumbled back a step, shaking his head frantically.

“It’s all right,” she said, enunciating slowly and with great care, on the off chance he could read lips. She had picked up, somewhere—maybe in that one-day class on ASL—that the very best lip-readers could only understand about 70 percent of what they saw, and the majority of deaf fell far short of that. “I’ll be careful.”

She reached once more, to probe his midsection, and he covered up again, backing away, a fresh sweat glowing on his upper lip. He keened softly. And then she knew. Then she was sure.

Al tightened his arm across the Fireman’s windpipe, cutting off the air, choking him out. The same move had killed Eric Garner in New York City only a few years before, but it had never gone out of style. His other hand had pulled the halligan down and in, trapping it against the Fireman’s chest.

If Harper had been able to focus, she might’ve found the Fireman’s reaction peculiar. He didn’t let go of the halligan, but he wasn’t struggling to free himself from Albert’s choke hold, either. Instead, he was biting the fingers of the black glove on his left hand. He was pulling the glove off with his teeth when Harper spoke, in a clear, ringing voice that caused them both to go still.

“Nurse Lean? We need a gurney to get this child into a CAT scan. We should prep for abdominal surgery. Maybe there’s someone in pediatrics who can handle it?”

Nurse Lean looked past the Fireman, her face stony, her gaze distant and distracted. “What’s your name? You’re one of the new girls.”

“Yes, ma’am. I was brought in three weeks ago. When they put out the call for volunteers. Harper. Harper Grayson.”

“Nurse Grayson, this isn’t the time or place—”

“It is. It has to be. He has either a burst appendix or one that is about to burst. Also, do we have a nurse who knows sign language? This child can’t hear.”

The Fireman was staring at her. Al was staring, too, gaping at her over the Fireman’s shoulder. By then Al had relaxed his arm, letting the other man breathe. The Fireman rubbed his throat with his left hand—he had quit trying to pull his glove off—and beamed at her with a mix of appreciation and relief.

Nurse Lean’s face had darkened again, but she seemed flustered. “You can’t make that diagnosis without a CAT scan.”

“I can’t make that diagnosis at all,” Harper said. “But I’m just—I’m sure. I used to be a school nurse and I had a boy with this last year. Look, do you see the way he’s covering up?” She glanced at the Fireman, frowned, locked into something else he had been trying to tell them. “Building collapse—you said he was ‘right there.’ Did you mean he was in the building, with his mother, when it fell?”

“Yes. That is exactly what I was trying to explain. She was killed. He was struck by some debris. We pulled him out and at the time he seemed physically, well, a little battered, but nothing serious. And when he stopped eating and responding to people, we put that down to the shock. Then, this morning, he came up with sweats and couldn’t sit up without pain.”

“If he took a blow to the abdomen it could’ve damaged his appendix. When was his last bowel movement?”

“I can’t say I keep track of when the kids go poo. I reckon I can ask, though, if this gentleman wanted to let me go.”

Harper shifted her gaze to Albert, who stood there baffled, mouth hanging slightly open.

“Well,” she said, and for the first time her voice was cross. “Let him go. Spit spot.” Spit spot was a favorite of Mary Poppins, and Harper had, since childhood, liked to substitute Julie Andrews–isms for profanity whenever possible. It gave her a steely feeling of control and reminded her of her best self at the same time.

“Sorry, ma’am,” Al mumbled, and not only removed his arm from the area of the Fireman’s throat but carefully helped to steady him before stepping back.

“Lucky for me you let go when you did,” the Fireman said to him, no anger or dislike in his voice at all. “Another minute and instead of dropping off a patient, I would’ve been one myself.” The Fireman crouched down next to the boy, but paused to offer Harper another smile. “You’re good. I like you. Spit spot!” He said it as if the words really meant well done!

He turned to face Nick, who was brushing tears away with his thumb. The Fireman moved his hands in a series of brisk gestures: closed fists, a pointed finger, a hand squeezed shut and another hand flying open from it. Harper thought of a man playing with a butterfly knife, or running through scales on some fantastic but invisible musical instrument.

Nick held out three fingers and pinched them together, as if he were grabbing for a fly in the air. Harper knew that one. Most people knew it. No. There was a little more after that she couldn’t catch, his hands, arms, and face all in motion.

“He says he can’t go to the bathroom. That he tried and it hurts. He hasn’t gone to the bathroom since the accident.”

Nurse Lean blew a hard puff of air, as if to remind everyone who was in charge. “Right. We’ll have your son looked at . . . spit spot. Albert, will you radio for a gurney?”

“I told you already—he’s not my son,” the Fireman said. “I auditioned for the part, but the play was canceled.”

“You aren’t family, then,” Nurse Lean said.

“No.”

“That means I won’t be able to let you go with him while he’s examined. I’m—I’m very sorry,” Nurse Lean said, sounding, for the first time all day, not just uncertain but also exhausted. “Family only.”

“He’ll be afraid. He can’t understand you. He understands me. He can talk to me.”

“We’ll find someone who can communicate with him,” Nurse Lean said. “Besides. Once he goes through these doors he’s in quarantine. The only people who go in there have Dragonscale or work for me. I can’t make any exceptions on that, sir. You told us about the mother. Does he have any other family?”

“He has—” the Fireman began, paused, frowned, and shook his head. “No. There isn’t anyone left. No one who could come and be with him.”

“All right. Thanks—thank you for bringing him to our attention. We’ll take care of him from here. We’ll get him all sorted out.”

“Give me a moment?” he asked her, and looked back at Nick, who was blinking at fresh tears. The Fireman seemed to salute him, then to milk an imaginary cow, and finished by pointing at the boy’s chest. Nick’s response required no translation. He leaned into the Fireman and let himself be hugged: gently, gently.

“I wish you wouldn’t do that, sir,” Nurse Lean said. “You don’t want to get what he has.”

The Fireman didn’t reply—and he didn’t let go until the double doors batted open and a nurse pushed a gurney into the hall.

“I’ll be back to check on him.” The Fireman lifted the boy in both arms and set him on the rolling cot.

Nurse Lean said, “You won’t be able to see him anymore. Not once he’s in quarantine.”

“Just to inquire about his welfare at the front desk,” the Fireman said. He offered Albert and Nurse Lean a sardonic but not ill-humored nod of appreciation and turned back to Harper. “I am in your debt. I take that very seriously. The next time you need someone to put out a fire, I hope I’m lucky enough to get the call.”

Forty minutes later, the kid was under the gas, and Dr. Knab, the pediatric surgeon, was cutting him open to remove an inflamed appendix the size of an apricot. The boy was in recovery for three days. On the fourth day he was gone.

The nurses in recovery were sure he had not walked out of his room. The window was wide open and a theory made the rounds that he had jumped. But that was crazy—the recovery room was on the third floor. He would’ve shattered both legs in the fall.

“Maybe someone brought a ladder,” Albert Holmes said, when the subject was being batted around over bowls of American chop suey in the staff room.

“There’s no ladder that can reach to the third floor,” Nurse Lean said in a huffy, aggrieved voice.

“There is on a fire truck,” Al said around a mouthful of French roll.