Amsterdam 2012 (27 page)

“Well,” Mother said, after a moment of uncomfortable silence, “I have something I’d like to ask the family.”
 
More silence.
 
“What do you all think about inviting the
Goldmans
to stay with us?
 
Out back in my studio.
 
I don’t use it anymore, and it’s large enough for a nice little home.
 
We could put a hotplate and refrigerator out there.
 
I had it wired for the kiln, so I’m sure it could take appliances.”
 
Patty Goldman had worked for Dad.
 
She and her husband Daniel had come to dinner several times, so we all had met them.
 
Nice people.
 
First Daniel got laid off,
then
my father had to let Patty go.
 
They lost their house.
 
Both of my parents felt guilty about it.

“The
Goldmans
are Jewish,” said Alex.

“Yes, dear, I know,” Mother said.
 
“Lots of people are taking in families.
 
We all have these big houses, and so many people have lost their homes in foreclosures.
 
There’s been almost no rental construction for years, so there’s no place for these people to live.
 
The
Goldmans
would pay us a little something, and the money would help us out.
 
We’re doing all right, but our mortgage hasn’t gotten any smaller.”

“I’ll help,” Alex and I said simultaneously.

“No, no.
 
I want whatever you two make to go for college.”

Alex made a face like he thought Mom was crazy.
 
“I don’t mind,” he said, getting up from the table.
 
“I’m not living here any more.
 
You can even have my room if you want it.”

Mother looked at me.
 
I didn’t much like the idea of sharing our house—I could only think of Anne Frank’s scathing descriptions of the non-family inhabitants of the secret annex: Albert
Dussel
, who made “suspicious noises from the lavatory,” and Mrs. Van
Daan
, whom she called selfish, cunning, and calculating.
 
But I also remembered what Anne’s father said to her: “If we can save someone, then everything else is of secondary importance.”
 

“What do you think, Cynthia?” I asked.

“I don’t mind,” she mumbled, without looking up.
 

She most certainly did mind.
 
I would have a talk with her later.
 
“Well,” I said, “if Cynthia doesn’t care, then I guess it’s all right by me.”

“Good,” my mother said.
 
“It seems the least we can do.”
 
She jumped up from the table,
then
gripped the back of her chair, her lip trembling.
 
“I’m so happy the family is all here together.
 
I can’t tell you how much it means to me.
 
I can’t tell you....”
 
She spun and quickly left to get the dessert.

#

I found my sister up at 2:30 AM fully dressed, sitting cross-legged at the edge of the pool, ripping up leaves and tossing them into the water.

“Hi, Legs,” I said.
 
Since Cynthia started wearing shorts instead of harem pants, I noticed her legs seemed to grow longer every day, gawky giraffe legs sprouting out of her skinny butt.
 
She was almost as tall as I was.
 
“How come you’re up?”

“Just thinking,” she said.
 
I sat beside her.
 
The water lapped gently against the sides of the pool.
 
A cat yowled nearby.
 
An animal rustled the oleander bush.
 
We whispered in the dark as we had when she was younger and crawled into my bed unable to sleep, wanting to be held.

“Thinking about what?”

 
“Are we going to lose the house?”

“No.
 
Why do you ask?”

“Well, Mom’s out of a job.
 
Dad hardly works anymore.
 
Now we’re taking in houseguests.”

 
“I wouldn’t worry about it.
 
Dad is smart with money.
 
That’s what he does for a living. ”

“But it’s not going back to the way it was, will it?”
 

“Maybe not,” then I added, feeling I should be honest, “no.”

“What’s going to happen with school?”

“You already worried about going back to school?
 
I thought you liked having a vacation.
 
You’ve got a great tan, and you get to read all day if you want.”

“Is President Mullet going to put Muslims in internment camps?”

“I wouldn’t worry about that.
 
Mullet can’t get anything through Congress.”

“What is going to happen to Sara
Jiluwis
?
 
She doesn’t have a job anymore.
 
She has a little girl.
 
No one is going to hire a Muslim woman.
 
Even Mom can’t get a job.”

“She might get a job in a Muslim school.
 
They’re springing up all over the place.”

“Did you ever find it strange when you were dating Peter that he was half Arab?”

“We never talked about it.”

“But if you got back together, you’d talk about it a lot, wouldn’t you.
 
I mean it would be an issue between you.
 
But before it wasn’t.
 
It’s going to be like that for all of us, isn’t it?
 
It’s not fair.
 
I mean what’s going on in Europe doesn’t have anything to do with us.”

“Are you still dating Seth?”

“We’re not dating.
 
He’s my friend.”
  

“Are you worried about his being Jewish?”

“We’re Jewish, aren’t we?”

“What do you mean?”

“Mom’s mother was Jewish.
 
It’s passed down on the mother’s side of the family.
 
That makes us Jewish, doesn’t it?”

“We have a Jewish ancestor.
 
That hardly makes us Jewish.
 
Mother never learned the faith, and neither have we.”

“Someone still might think we’re Jewish.”

“Who?”

“Someone in power.
 
Like if someone can put Muslims in internment camps, someone might do the same to Jews.”

“You’re over thinking things, Cynthia.
 
No one is going to put Muslims in internment camps.
 
You can stop worrying.
 
Nothing like that will happen in the United States.”

Cynthia looked doubtful.
  

#

 
“Ann, wake up!
 
Come quickly.”

“What time is it?”

“Nine-thirty.
 
Please, get up.”

I groaned.
 
I had gotten home from work at three.
 
I felt as if I had been asleep for five minutes.
 
My mother shook my shoulder again.
 
“What?
 
Leave me alone,” I pleaded.

“Get dressed and come with me.
 
Now!”
 
She whipped off my covers, her figure looming above, arms crossed.
 
She wasn’t going away.
 
I rolled out of bed, pulled on my jeans, and splashed water on my face.
 
“Here,” she said, handing me a small navy-blue gym bag.

“What’s this?”
 
I looked inside—a stethoscope, thermometer, bandages, rubbing alcohol, tongue depressors, bottles of prescription drugs.

“Come on, Ann.
 
Hurry.”
 
She took my hand and led me out of the house, rebuffing my attempts to find out where we were going.
 
We walked three blocks, and turned up the driveway of one of the older stucco haciendas.
 
She entered a side door without knocking.
 

The living room and kitchen were neat and clean, but I could smell something was wrong.
 
We went upstairs.

The door to the master bedroom was open.
 
I peeked inside and saw someone lying in bed.
 
I gagged and backed up.
 
“Who’s that?” I asked.

“Myra Applegate.
 
She’s a young businesswoman.
 
I deliver produce to her twice a week.
 
She gave me a key so I could put her vegetables in the refrigerator when she wasn’t home.
 
She always tells me if she’s going away.
 
This morning when I came in, nothing had been touched since last time I was here.
 
I smelled something awful.
 
Then I searched the house and found her like this.”

“Is there a surgical mask in this bag?”

“No.”

“You stay here,” I said pushing her back in the hallway.

“I need to tell her who you are.”

“Mother, would you stay where you are?
 
Please?”

When I walked into the bedroom, I could feel the heat coming off the woman’s body.
 
Her hands were cyanotic, turning blue from lack of oxygen.
 
Her breathing was labored, her skin was pasty white.
 
Sweat dripped down her face.
 
Her hair was wet, plastered against her forehead.
 
Her eyes were rimmed with bright red.
 
She coughed violently and rolled to her side.
 
Pink liquid seeped from her mouth.
 
Beside her bed was a wastebasket full of used tissue.
 
On her nightstand sat half a glass of orange juice, Nighttime Nyquil, Tylenol, and a box of tissue.
 
Apparently she thought she could take care of herself.
 
It didn’t look that way.

“Mother, call an ambulance.
 
Then wash your hands, and get me all the ice she has and a cool damp washcloth.
 
Then I want you to go home, use disinfectant on all door handles and places where the family puts their hands.
 
Stay home and don’t go within fifteen feet of anyone.
 
Put a sign on our door that reads, ‘Wash Hands
Upon
Entering.
 
Possible Contagion.’
 
Call everyone you know and tell them to stay home and to avoid people.”

“What’s wrong with her?”

“For chrissake, Mother, I don’t know.
 
Call an ambulance now.”

Chapter Eleven

Monday, September 15, 2013

The hallways of St. John’s are lined with beds.
 
Six or eight beds per room.
 
So many sick people.
 
And they keep coming.
 
All of the nurses and doctors are working overtime.
 

It’s the flu.
 
Not just any influenza, but a highly pathogenic airborne virus.
 
We sent cultures from Myra Applegate to the Center for Disease Control.
 
They first feared the
Avian
flu virus H5N1 which had shown up again in Indonesia earlier in the year, decimating the chicken population and killing 94 people.
 
But it’s more complicated than that.
 
The CDC’s best guess is H5N1 was passed on to the pig population, where the virus
reassorted
with a human virus that commonly infects pigs, creating a new virus which is highly contagious to people.
 
It is now as deadly as the 1918 Spanish Flu.
 

There is no vaccine for this new virus.
 
The hospital staff got flu shots in August, but it was for flu strains the CDC thought would be most active this year, H1N2 and H3N2.
 
Everyone on staff is taking the antiviral
oseltamivir
which is supposed to work as a prophylactic.
 
Our hospital
administrator, Lorna Peterson, stockpiled
oseltamivir
in the early fall
.
 
A lot of other hospitals are already out of it.
 
It is so precious we take it at the hospital.
 
They’re afraid if we take it at home, we’ll give away pills to our family.
 
The CDC says it could take months to develop a vaccine, and many months more before a vaccine can be made in adequate quantities.