Final Call, page 11
These were the worst moments of a medical career. The thought of those children in such a critical state was sickening. He couldn’t imagine what it was like for the parents; he didn’t like to try. It only made it worse, made the pressure to find a way to solve it even greater.
Perhaps Dr. Hall could help. He was due any minute from Portland. He was a liver specialist, so hopefully would be able to shed some light on the situation. If he couldn’t, then all they could do was wait.
There was a cough and he looked up from the notes. Roland was standing by the desk.
‘There’s a call for you,’ he said. ‘From the school. Where the kids were. I spoke to the principal earlier and asked for it to be closed until further notice.’
Dr. Williams reached for the phone on the desk. Roland shook his head, and held out an iPhone. ‘I gave my number. So they could definitely get through.’
‘I’m not sure you’re supposed to do that.’
‘Maybe. But I wanted to make sure they could reach us.’ He pressed the screen and handed the phone over. ‘It’s off mute.’
Williams put it to his ear. ‘Dr. Williams.’
‘This is Carol Smalling. I’m the principal at Paul Tyler Elementary.’
‘You’ve had an interesting day.’
‘You could say that.’
‘I understand you closed?’
‘Yes. Do you think it’s something at the school?’
‘I don’t know. I can’t think of what it would be, but it’s possible.’
‘How are they? The nurse who called mentioned liver damage? I just don’t understand how that could have happened.’
‘It could be a virus, or bacterial, but the most likely culprit – at this stage – is a toxin.’
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know. A fungus? Something they found in a store cupboard? Hard to say.’
‘This is crazy,’ the principal said. ‘I’ve been teaching for over thirty years and I’ve never known anything like this.’
‘Me neither,’ Williams said. ‘But we’ll get to the bottom of it.’
‘Are the children OK? Are you allowed to say?’
‘I can’t give details,’ he said. ‘But it’s still a serious situation.’
She started to say something but the words caught in her throat. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s very difficult. I just think of their parents and siblings – it’s upsetting.’
‘I can imagine.’
On the line he heard the sound of a door opening and a voice in the background.
‘Excuse me one moment,’ she said. ‘I have a visitor.’
He waited for a moment, listening to the sounds of her conversation, until she returned.
‘Dr. Williams,’ she said, her voice breathless. ‘There’s another. That’s four, now.’
Stacy Evanston
The nurse pressed a button and the head of the bed raised up with a mechanical whirr, lifting Cherry into a sitting position.
‘We need one of those at home,’ Dan said. ‘Very comfy.’
‘You can get them,’ the nurse said. ‘But I think they’re quite expensive.’ She took a glass of water from the table. It had a lid and a paper straw, and she held it up to Cherry’s lips.
‘Thirsty?’ she said.
Cherry nodded and began to drink. ‘Do you have any juice?’ she said.
‘Just this for now,’ the nurse replied. ‘This water has some things in it to help you get better.’
‘Like medicine?’
‘Exactly.’ She waited for Cherry to stop drinking. ‘How do you feel?’
‘Sleepy.’
‘Good sleepy, like bedtime? But if someone read you a story you could stay awake? Or sleepy like you have to go to sleep?’
‘Good sleepy. Are you going to read me a story?’
‘Maybe later. But for now I have work to do.’
‘Will you read me a story, Mom?’
‘I didn’t bring a book,’ Stacy said.
‘Maybe I can find something,’ the nurse said. ‘I’m sure I can. I’ll be right back.’
‘Thank you,’ Stacy said. ‘But there’s no hurry.’
‘Not a problem.’ The nurse smiled. ‘See you in a bit.’
‘I wonder what book they have,’ Cherry said. ‘I hope I like it.’
‘If Mom reads it you will,’ Dan said. ‘She can do her funny voices.’
‘It’s not me who does funny voices,’ Stacy said. ‘That’s a dad thing.’
‘Sorry,’ Dan said. ‘I thought you did. You mean to say that’s just your voice?’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Very funny. I can tell you’re feeling much more like your normal self.’ She looked at her phone. ‘I haven’t heard from Nicole. I’ll try and call.’
‘I hope everything’s OK.’
‘Nicole?’ Cherry said. ‘Ella’s mom?’
It was amazing how much she picked up, even at five. They were going to have to be careful what they said in front of her.
‘Yes. I need to talk to her.’ She glanced up at Dan. ‘Nothing serious.’
Dan sat on the bed. ‘Let me tell you about Bangor,’ he said. ‘I was just there. There’s a big airport.’
Stacy went over to the window and called Nicole. The phone rang three times, and then went to voicemail.
It had not rung out, then gone to voicemail.
It had rung three times, which meant Nicole – or someone else, maybe her husband, Jonah – had cut the call instead of answering it.
Which meant they didn’t want to talk.
Stacy’s scalp prickled. That wasn’t good. It could be nothing. It could be that they were talking to the doctor and didn’t want to be interrupted.
But it could be that she didn’t want to talk to anyone at all. Well, if it was the former, she’d call back when she was done with whatever it was. If not – Stacy pushed the thought away. She didn’t even want to imagine it.
Steve Murdoch
Steve Murdoch knew who was responsible for this. It was his bitch of an ex-girlfriend. She had left her gear lying around and the kid had got hold of it somehow.
He should never have let her pick him up from school. He didn’t normally; she wasn’t really supposed to see him on her own, for this very fucking reason, but the school had shut and Bren had needed someone to go and get him, and Kris – she was called Christina but when she shortened her name she spelled it with a K – had said she would. He was at work and he couldn’t get away and Kris had texted to say she’d heard the school was closing and she could get Bren and keep him for a few hours if that helped.
Stupidly – and he had the idea he would regret this for the rest of his life – he had agreed. It got him out of a short-term problem and how much damage could she do in one afternoon?
Well, there was a reason why for the first year after they split she had to have a court-appointed social worker monitor her visits with Bren, and he had just been reminded of it. She was incapable of looking after herself, never mind a child.
He should have seen the signs when they met. They were there, for sure: once she started she was incapable of stopping herself drinking. On one of their first dates they had gone to dinner and he had watched her drink two cocktails, most of a bottle of wine, and then a large vodka and soda at a bar. Afterwards she had invited him back to her house, a small cape in Barrow, and he had been amazed to see her open the freezer when they got in and pour a large glass of vodka on ice; he had consumed half of what she had and couldn’t face another drop, but her appetite was undimmed.
She was the same with everything: food, exercise, socializing, sex. She always wanted more. She was forever being invited to parties and gatherings and he went with her. It was intoxicating, especially for someone like him, who was naturally quite reticent. He had always found it hard to meet people, but with Kris he was pitched into a whirl of fun and good times.
And then there was the sex. It was constant. First thing in the morning before work, Quick, she would say, we have time. First thing when they got back from work. One memorable occasion at work. His office was in a 1970s office block in Portland where everyone had their own cubicle and there was a warren of meeting rooms. Kris had dragged him into one, pushed a chair against the door, and, that had been that.
And then they would go out in the evening and who knew what would happen? Sex in a bathroom, a park, the car.
He wondered, often, what she saw in him. He assumed others did too, but he just figured that, while it lasted, why not enjoy it?
And that was the problem. He assumed it would end at some point, so he didn’t pay attention to the things he should have paid attention to. Sure, she drank too much, but at least she worked out every day and she functioned well enough, so why should he care? Yes, in the long term it would have to be sorted out, but he’d be history by then.
Except they didn’t break up. And she didn’t sort out her drinking. It got worse, and then the accident happened.
Driving home – drunk, of course – she ran off the road and into the side of a bridge. Thankfully no one else was involved, but she shattered her right femur. The surgery was a success, in that it would leave her able to walk again, but she would have a limp, and her days of serious exercise were over. Before she could even worry about that, though, she first had to spend a month immobile, some more months on crutches, then many more doing PT.
The pain was awful; the remedy was a prescription for narcotic painkillers.
She loved them, and by the time she didn’t need them for the pain it was far too late. She needed them for everything else, but the doctor, when she was good and properly hooked, decided it was time to cancel the prescription.
Opiates are expensive, so she did what all the other addicts did: went for the cheap option. Heroin. There was a flood of it in Maine, and she took full advantage of the torrent.
Steve, incredibly, didn’t realize. She was back at work, on her feet, and he assumed her state in the evenings was down to the amount she was drinking. He was seriously concerned by this stage, and he told her so, but she laughed it off with the addict’s mantra: I can stop anytime I want. I’m just having fun.
He didn’t believe that for a second, and he was getting ready to give her an ultimatum: me or the booze, when the next accident happened.
She told him she was pregnant.
She was supposed to be on the pill. He suspected she had been so drunk she had missed one or more days, but she swore blind she hadn’t: the pills just hadn’t worked.
It was OK, though. She could get an abortion. He told her it was sad, but they weren’t ready for a child, so they should schedule it as soon as possible to minimize the emotional impact.
Her response was categorical.
No fucking way.
Those were her exact words. No fucking way.
Then: I can’t believe you think I would do that. This is my child. There’s no chance whatsoever I’ll kill it. No way. I love it already.
He tried to change her mind but nothing he said made any difference. She was having the baby.
For most of her pregnancy, and for the first few months of Bren’s life, she stayed clean. See, she said. Told you I could stop.
Except she couldn’t. By the time he was three she was worse than she had ever been. The booze was gone: she had lost her job and it was too expensive. Steve refused to buy it for her, so she turned to meth and heroin, which – he learned in horror, from an ashen-faced friend – she paid for by selling sex. It was when she admitted to this that he ended it once and for all.
He got custody of Bren; there was no question of that, and her visits with him were supervised.
After that she spiraled into an even deeper hole. Every time his phone rang he wondered whether it was the police calling to tell him she had died, maybe of an overdose, or by freezing to death on a winter night, or at the hands of some deranged punter.
Recently she had claimed to be clean and on the last occasion he had seen her – when he was dropping Bren for his visit – she had seemed better. Her skin was less waxy, and there was a light in her eyes. Some human warmth: not just the vacant stare of the last few years.
Which was maybe why he had agreed to let her pick Bren up from school.
What a fool he was. Once a junkie, always a junkie. He should have known better. And now he was paying the price.
She had called to say his son was in an ambulance; she was following in her car. She had gone to make him some macaroni and cheese and heard what sounded like cries of pain; when she went into the living room he was passed out on the couch. Unable to revive him, she had called an ambulance.
What did you leave out for him to find? he shouted. Meth? Vodka? Heroin?
Nothing. I’m clean. There’s none in the house, I promise.
Yeah, right. You fucking did this, Kris. You’re not fit to be a mom. And this is the proof. You prefer that shit to your kid’s welfare. It’s fucking disgusting.
Steve, I promise. I’m clean. And I love him. I’d never hurt him. You know that.
What I know is you’ll never see him again.
Now, though – even after all this – he felt guilty. He shouldn’t have said all that. He’d seen a therapist after they had broken up and she had made him understand that addiction was an illness, and Kris needed treatment, not criticism or harsh judgment.
He believed that to be true, and he wanted to help her, but believing the theory was one thing. Watching someone destroy their life was another, especially when they were a parent. Bren loved his mom, and, knowing that, how could she do what she was doing?
But he kept reminding himself it was an illness. She needed help and support.
Now, though, as he drove to a hospital to see his son, he found it was hard to muster anything other than hatred and regret.
Dr. Williams
Another one. Another boy, same age, same school. He was at home when it happened; the ambulance drivers reported there could be drug or alcohol-related causes, but Dr. Williams didn’t think so.
This was identical.
He closed the door to the office and sat opposite Dr. Hall.
‘One more, a boy,’ he said. ‘There could be others.’
Dr. Hall nodded. ‘Very possible. Likely, even.’
‘What do you think?’
‘Near impossible to say.’ He read the notes. ‘The bloodwork from the first girl is back. There’s no suggestion of a virus. I suppose it’s possible there was a bacterial cause that doesn’t show up – something in the water supply, fecal contamination, maybe – but that seems unlikely. And if it was in the water, we’d be seeing more cases. It could be contained to the school’s water supply, but even then presumably many more people would be exposed.’
‘Which leaves?’
‘A toxin.’
‘Like alcohol? Or another drug?’
‘Yes, but there’s no indication of that in the bloodwork.’
‘Then what?’
Hall shrugged. ‘Don’t know. Something they found and ingested? A fungus, possibly. We should find a mycologist and see if there are any fungi that cause this kind of thing. It would make sense. Some of them have psychotropic effects, which would explain the unconsciousness.’
‘If it is that, what do we do?’
‘What we’re doing now.’
‘We have to get to the bottom of this. To stop it happening again.’
‘Neal,’ Dr. Hall said, ‘I agree. But it’s possible we might never know.’
Dr. Williams opened the door to Cherry’s room. He smiled; she was sitting up, the remote control for the television mounted in the corner grasped in her hand.
It boded well for the others.
‘Hello, Cherry,’ he said. ‘How are you?’
‘Good. I’m watching Peppa Pig.’
‘One of my favorites.’
‘Is it?’
‘It certainly is.’
A look of surprise – and faint disbelief – passed over her face before she turned back to the television.
He sat on the edge of the bed. Her mom was sitting to her left; her dad was by the door. ‘She seems a lot better,’ he said.
‘Can she go home?’ her dad asked.
‘Not yet. We’ll want to monitor her, and also do some more bloodwork to see if we can determine the cause, and also how she is. We’ll also ultrasound her liver to check on the inflammation.’
‘Do you think it’s still there?’
‘Yes, but I imagine from how she’s doing that it’s less severe than before. We gave her some pretty powerful antiinflammatories, which work quickly on someone her age. It could leave scarring, but the liver has an amazing capacity to regenerate. We’ll keep an eye on her, though.’
Her dad folded his arms. ‘Is it over? At least the worst of it?’
‘She’s not out of the woods yet, but she’s moving in the right direction. I just want to know what happened, so we can prevent it in the future.’
Cherry’s mom looked at him.
‘I know,’ she said. ‘We all do.’
Steve Murdoch
Steve Murdoch paced the waiting room. He’d been there an hour and the light was fading outside. A nurse had told him Bren was with the medical team and he would get news as soon as it was available.
He couldn’t believe he was here, and he could forget blaming Kris for it. This was his fault. She was an addict; she should never have been left with a child. Yes, technically she was the one who was there, but it was the person who put a kid in that position who was at fault, and that person was him.
There was no way around it. This was all his fault.
He let out a sharp, involuntary cry. An elderly woman turned to look at him, then looked away when she saw him notice.
He sank to his haunches, his face in his hands. He felt like a different person, hollowed out and empty.
‘Mr. Murdoch?’
