Final Call, page 14
‘Thank you,’ he said, his voice a troubled wheeze.
‘You’re welcome.’
She wiped the sweat from his forehead with the paper towel.
‘How do you feel? OK?’
He shook his head and tapped his chest.
‘Take it easy,’ Mary Jo said. ‘Try to relax. You need to avoid stress. Not easy on this plane.’
Chip gave a weak nod. He seemed to strain to say something, but all he managed was a feeble groan.
‘Want to say something, Chip?’ Jill asked.
He tried again, but a look of pain crossed his face. His eyes slowly closed.
Jill caught Mary Jo’s eye. ‘How is he?’
Mary Jo raised an eyebrow. ‘Not good.’ She looked at the cockpit door, and spoke again, her voice raised. ‘He had a heart attack, God damn you. He had a heart attack and he needs to be in a hospital! Have you no mercy?’
She waited before asking the same question again. The words disappeared into the silence.
‘Have you no mercy?’
Marcia Fournier
This was the perfect opportunity. She had signed up for this in a moment of – what? Drunkenness? Anxiety? It was hard to tell – and now she was committed. If she was honest, she hadn’t fully considered it. I’ll think of something. But what? What would she think of?
And when? Would she just come out with it at some point?
Now, though, it was obvious what she should do. Chip had had a heart attack. The tension in the cabin was high.
What better moment for a confession?
She took a deep breath. ‘I have something to say,’ she said. ‘I want to confess.’
Everyone – except Chip – turned to look at her.
‘It was me,’ she said, her voice growing louder. ‘It was me.’
The intercom buzzed as the channel opened. ‘What’s your name?’ The pilot’s voice was suspicious.
‘Marcia Fournier. I did it. You have what you want now.’
‘Do I?’ the pilot said.
‘Yes. You have your confession. You said one of us has to confess and then we land. Well, it was me.’
‘It was you who did what?’
This was the moment. This was the moment when her I’ll think of something became real. She hesitated, and then it came to her.
‘I don’t want to say.’
‘You’re going to have to.’
‘I don’t want to. I’m not going to.’
The buzz of the open line went dead. The panic started to mount in Marcia’s chest.
‘You said you would land the plane,’ she shouted. ‘You lied!’
The line opened again. ‘I did not lie. Tell me what you confess to, and I’ll land the plane.’
There were many things Marcia could confess to – the affairs – Chip was one of many, all of them short-term, all of them harmless enough, all of them as corrosive of her self-esteem as they were necessary to make her feel good about herself – the secret drinking, the abortion she’d had in college when she’d got pregnant by Anton, her best friend Rayna’s husband, who Marcia had slept with a month after their first child was born. They had been at the wedding of a mutual friend in Atlanta. Rayna stayed at home with the baby; they drank too much and one thing led to another and then, at 3 a.m. she was staggering to her own hotel room where she knelt in front of the toilet and threw up, as much from shame and self-hatred as alcohol.
It was a theme in her life, the inability to resist temptation. It had aways been that way. She didn’t want to have affairs, but if she sensed the opportunity she couldn’t turn away. It was the thrill, the rush, the escape. It was the same with alcohol. She could confess to all that now, tell them about the vodka she’d smuggled aboard and drunk from water bottles. She wanted to. She wanted to put it all out there and beg for absolution.
But there would be no absolution. Her sins would not be washed away. They would still be there, reminding her of who she was, who she really was.
And it wouldn’t help. That wasn’t what the pilot was asking for.
‘I’m not saying,’ she said. ‘Not in front of everyone. These are my colleagues and friends and I’m too ashamed.’
‘Tell me what it is you did.’
‘No! I won’t humiliate myself in front of them. We can talk about it when we land – presumably you want to do something like that – and I’ll tell you everything. But not now.’
It was a good answer. Convincing. She waited for a response.
The line went dead.
The Pilot
Was it her? Was it Fournier? It certainly could be. It could have been anyone on the plane – except maybe the nurse, if she was a nurse – that was why they were there.
But was it her?
She couldn’t be sure. And she had to be sure. None of this would work if she wasn’t.
And this was something she had anticipated. A false confession, rescinded when they landed, which was why she’d asked for confirmation.
She had assumed that if it was a false confession it would be revealed, but Fournier had a reason. Plausible.
Not certain, but plausible.
But it would be certain if she gave details of what she was confessing too. And certainty was required, so that left her with no choice.
She pressed the button and spoke into the microphone.
‘Not good enough.’
The reply was immediate. ‘It’ll have to be. I’m not saying what I did.’
‘Then nothing has changed. Time is running out. Either you tell me what you did, or we all die.’
She cut the connection. There was nothing more to say.
Barrow, Maine 2018
Stacy Evanston
Ella was dead.
Ella: that beautiful, shining, spark of life, hope for the future, was gone. Stacy could barely believe it was possible, much less that it had happened.
The phone call had more dissolved than ended; after Nicole had told her Ella was dead, Stacy had said I’m sorry, I’m so sorry over and over, but Nicole had not been able to reply.
Stacy had listened to the sound of her friend crying and then the line had gone dead.
She had placed her phone face down and put her head in her hands and let the tears come. She had not realized she was wailing until Dan came downstairs, his expression a little disappointed, and sat next to her, his arm around her shoulders.
‘Stace,’ he said. ‘What is it?’
‘Ella,’ she said. ‘She’s—’ She couldn’t face the word. ‘She’s gone.’
It took a moment for him to understand, then the blood drained from his face.
‘What?’ he said. ‘That can’t be right. There must be a mistake.’
She shook her head. ‘That was Nicole. Ella’s dead, Dan.’
He started to shake. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No.’
‘I know,’ she said. ‘It makes me think about Cherry and how it could have been her.’
‘Don’t,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to go there.’
She had been about to say something else, but she stopped herself. Cherry was alive, but what if she wasn’t out of the woods yet? What if the illness – or whatever had caused it – was still in her, still lurking somewhere in her system, ready to flare up again?
She needed to call the doctor. She needed to ask him if Cherry was truly OK.
But first she needed to see her daughter. She got to her feet, her legs unsteady beneath her, and walked to the living room. Cherry was on the couch, the remote control in her hand, her eyes fixed on the television.
Stacy sat next to her and pulled her close to her chest. Cherry wriggled away.
‘I can’t see,’ she said. ‘You’re squishing me.’
‘I love you,’ she said. ‘I love you so much.’
‘I love you too, Mommy,’ Cherry said. ‘But can you let me watch my show?’
Dr. Williams
Dr. Williams sat at the desk, the case notes for all four of the children in front of him.
He was exhausted, mentally and physically. It had been a long shift – technically it was over, though he couldn’t leave yet – but it was what had happened that had drained him.
The girl had died.
This was the worst part of the job. He could take any amount of sleep lost to night shifts or angry patients or incompetent administrators but losing a patient was awful.
And when that patient was a child, it was unthinkable.
Could he have done something else? Had he missed something? Was he at fault, in any way, however small?
He would ask himself those questions for a long time. Maybe forever.
They had discussed this in medical school, talked to experienced doctors about the demands of the job, about not becoming attached to patients, about remaining dispassionate and calm, about the inevitability of death.
About how you had to do that because lives were at stake.
About how even if you did everything right, sometimes it still wasn’t enough.
He’d understood all of that in the abstract, but it wasn’t until you got here – to a hospital, with real, sick patients – that you realized you didn’t understand it at all.
And when it was a child—
He stopped himself and studied the notes.
Ella, unconscious, liver failure, deceased.
Bren, unconscious, liver failure, in intensive care.
Nathan, unconscious, liver failure, also in intensive care.
Cherry, unconscious, liver failure, seemingly recovering.
Why the difference? Why was one of them recovering?
He read the notes again, from the start. Cherry had vomited in class, then gone to the nurse’s office where she lost consciousness. It was the same for Ella and Nathan, a little later than Cherry, but the same basic progression. Bren had made it as far as his mother’s house.
But other than the timing, they were all the same.
Something flitted around at the back of his mind. There was something there, something his subconscious had noticed but he was not seeing. Gloria walked past his door. He called to her.
‘Got a minute?’
‘For you, Dr. Williams? Always.’
He handed her the notes.
‘What am I missing?’ he said. ‘There’s something, I can feel it. But I can’t put my finger on it.’
‘What are you looking for?’ she said.
‘They all had the same symptoms, but one has recovered. The others are either dead, or in critical condition.’ He caught her eye. ‘Why did one recover?’
She smiled. ‘You’re the doctor.’
‘That’s not helping me much right now. Take a look.’
She read through the notes.
‘See?’ he said. ‘Same symptoms, different outcome.’
‘Not quite the same,’ she said. ‘There is one difference.’
He leaned forward. ‘Which is?’
‘In what way?’
‘Cherry vomited.’
‘The others didn’t?’
‘They may have, but it doesn’t say they did.’
He paused. ‘It would make sense,’ he said slowly. ‘If they ate or drank something and one of them vomited, early, then that person would maybe – almost certainly – recover more quickly.’
‘We pumped their stomachs when they arrived,’ Gloria said. ‘But that extra hour? Could it make a difference?’
‘Oh yes. It could make all the difference. You’re a genius, Gloria. But we need to find out if they vomited or not. I’ll call the principal. The boy, Bren, was found by his mother. Is she here?’
‘The father is. She may be too.’
‘If she is, could you ask her? If not, find out some other way.’
Gloria nodded. ‘On my way.’
Steve Murdoch
‘Mr. Murdoch?’
Steve looked up from the chair he was slumped in. A nurse was walking toward him.
‘Yes?’
‘I’m Gloria. The doctor has a question he’d like me to ask you.’
‘Anything. If it’ll help.’
She consulted the notes in her hand. ‘It was your wife who found Bren?’
‘Yeah. She’s not my wife. We—’ he waved it away. ‘Never mind. It was Kris, yes.’
‘Do you happen to know what state he was in when she realized he was in trouble?’
‘He was unconscious.’
‘Had he vomited?’
He couldn’t remember what Kris had said. ‘I don’t know. Why don’t you ask Kris? She’s here.’
‘We haven’t been able to find her. She was waiting in the east wing, but she’s not there.’
Steve let the words sink in. Bren – her son – was in intensive care and she wasn’t where she was supposed to be. He’d been through this before with Kris, every time she’d not come home or not showed up at a birthday party or taken money from his wallet, money he was planning to use to pay rent or buy food or enroll Bren in a summer camp. It was a familiar feeling: disappointment, anger, at her for doing it and himself for being so foolish as to think she’d change, sadness at what she was doing to herself, because he loved her, he really did, in a pitiable, tragic way.
And here it was again.
‘I’ll call her,’ he said. ‘Give me a minute.’ He paused. ‘How’s Bren?’
‘The same, I’m afraid.’
He lost his breath for a moment, then picked up his phone.
She didn’t answer, so he called again. Once more, she didn’t pick up. He typed a message.
Where are you? Medics need some info.
‘Sorry,’ he said, reminded painfully that he was used to apologizing for Kris. ‘She’s not answering, for some reason.’
Then his phone buzzed.
I’m outside. There’s a garden. What do they need?
Fucking typical. Outside, smoking meth or drinking vodka. She couldn’t stop. She really couldn’t stop.
They need to know if Bren had vomited.
Dots scrolled on the bottom of the screen.
No, he hadn’t. I would have seen it.
He looked at the nurse and shook his head.
Dr. Williams
Dr. Williams dialed the school principal. She answered on the second ring, her voice taut and anxious.
‘Carol Smalling.’
‘This is Dr. Williams.’
‘Oh God,’ she said. ‘Has there – has another student—’
‘No,’ he said. ‘Bren and Nathan are still in a serious condition, but they’re alive.’
‘Thank God. I don’t know how I would cope if another – If we lost another child.’
‘That’s why I’m calling,’ he said. ‘I have a question you might be able to help with.’
‘Anything at all.’
‘I’m wondering whether Nathan or Ella vomited before they lost consciousness. I know that Cherry did.’
‘I – I don’t know,’ she said. ‘They were taken to the nurse’s office.’
‘Could you check?’
‘Of course. I’ll call you back immediately.’
He put his phone down. The door opened, and Gloria walked into the office. She shook her head.
‘No vomit, at least according to the mom. I’m not sure how reliable she is, though.’
‘She’d probably know. So if he didn’t say he had vomited, the balance of probabilities suggests not.’
‘I’d say so. The others?’
‘I’m waiting to hear from the school.’
As he spoke, his phone rang. ‘This’ll be them,’ he said, and picked it up.
‘Hi!’ It took him a moment to recognize the voice. ‘It’s Mindy.’
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Right. Yes. How can I help?’
‘I sorted out the oysters. I wanted to check in on one thing. They need to know if you need a shucker?’
‘A what?’ he said.
‘A shucker. Someone to open them.’
His phone buzzed. Someone else – maybe the principal – was calling.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I have to go.’
‘But I need to tell them—’
He cut the call and switched to the incoming one.
‘Dr. Williams.’
‘This is Carol Smalling. I talked to the school nurse.’
‘And?’
‘She said as far as she could remember – and she asked me to emphasize that it was a very stressful situation so she couldn’t be totally sure – but she thinks they did not vomit. She’s pretty sure she would have remembered it, because she remembers that Cherry did throw up.’
‘Thank you,’ Dr. Williams said. ‘That’s very helpful.’
‘Is there anything else I can help with?’
‘Not for now. I’ll call if there is.’
He hung up and looked at Gloria.
‘Three didn’t, one did,’ he said. ‘And those three are either very sick or dead. It’s something they ate or drank. We just have to find out what.’
Stacy Evanston
It felt strange to be telling him good news at a moment like this, but she had to do it. He deserved to know.
Cherry was asleep on the couch, her head in Stacy’s lap. Stacy eased it onto a cushion and walked into the kitchen. On the way she grabbed her bag from the stairs.
Dan was chopping an onion. He was a good, if basic, cook; if they were both home then it was he who made dinner. His repertoire was limited to what he called ‘hearty and wholesome’ – stews, soups, roast chicken or beef or pork, baked fish, maybe a curry or pot pie. If pushed, she would have admitted that she found it a little repetitive; she would have preferred some more salads, some delicate pasta sauces, vegetarian recipes, but she didn’t complain. She could make those herself if she wanted.
‘Starting off with an onion,’ she said. ‘That’s not like you.’
‘Adds flavor,’ he said. ‘The finer you chop it, the more flavor you get.’ He winked conspiratorially. ‘Pro tip.’
‘What are you making?’
‘A soufflé.’
‘Really?’ This was a radical departure, although she didn’t see where the onion fit in.
‘Nah. Spicy parsnip soup and chicken thighs.’ He wagged his head from side to side. ‘Might splash some teriyaki on, if you’re feeling exotic.’
