Of Flesh and Blood (57 page)

—
The Alfredson: The First Hundred Years
by Gerald Fenton Naylor

Evan woke up with his forehead digging into the windowsill and drool stuck to the inside of his mask. He would never have believed he had slept at all, were it not for the dawn’s thin light streaming through the uncovered window.

Evan was gripped by a moment of sheer panic at the thought that his daughter might have died while he slept. He sat up rigid and swiveled his head over to look at his daughter. Liv lay perfectly still in the bed, the oxygen mask beneath her chin sputtering its last weak traces of gas from the nearly empty tank. For one agonizing moment, Evan thought he was too late. But then he realized Liv was staring at him, her eyes alert. The navy tinge had left her features. Though still pale, she looked vastly improved from earlier in the night.

“Liv?” he said warily, fearing he might still be dreaming.

“Hello, Papa,” she croaked.

“Are you . . . better?”

“I think so.” She coughed, but the sound was drier. “The breathing is easier now, Papa.”

He leaned forward and took her hand in his. It was warm but nowhere near as hot or clammy as it had been. “Oh, Liv!” he cried. “You
are
better!”

She tried to raise her head off the bed, but only made it a few inches before she fell back against the mattress, panting heavily.

Evan’s spirits soared. Nothing else in the world mattered but his daughter’s almost miraculous improvement. “Liv, oh Liv,” he murmured.

“Will I . . . survive, Papa?”

“Yes!” he cried joyously. “Oh, yes.” He had seen enough of the killer flu to know that those patients who did turn the corner seemed to recover as rapidly as they had fallen ill.

Tears flooded down Liv’s cheeks. “I thought it would be all over soon.”

“We had reason to worry.” Evan tasted his own tears before he realized he was crying, too.

She reached out and clasped his hand between both of hers. “Don’t cry, Father. It is going to be okay.”

“Yes it will, Liv.” And despite the tragedy and chaos encircling them, in his mind, his world no longer teetered on the brink of collapse.

“Where is Mother?”

“Still in Everett with your grandmother. The telephone lines have been clogged since this . . . catastrophe. We have not been able to make a connection. I have sent word with one of our interns, but I do not know if she has yet heard.”

“I do not want her worrying needlessly,” Liv murmured.

“Hardly needless, my love.” Evan laughed as he wiped his tears away with the sleeve of his upper arm, careful to keep his potentially virus-contaminated hands away from his face.

Neither of them spoke. After a few minutes, Liv’s eyes closed and she drifted back to sleep. Only then did Evan become conscious of the sounds of anguish and misery around him—harsh coughs and labored respirations intermingled with mournful and delirious cries. Though sympathetic to other victims, Evan was deliriously happy over Liv’s unexpected improvement. And he swelled with pride as he glanced around and saw his tireless nurses moving from person to person, offering what little comfort they could in the form of compresses, ladles of water, or simply kind words. He felt guilty for having ever reprimanded Mrs. Flanders. Her nurses were nothing short of heroic, and Evan resolved to acknowledge them for it.

Evan realized, too, that despite his daughter’s illness and his own imminent dismissal, he was still responsible for leading the Alfredson in this, its darkest hour. After convincing himself Liv was genuinely asleep, he gently freed his hand from hers and stood to his feet. He wove his way through the labyrinth of patients who filled almost every square inch of the ward, some of them now two to a bed. He stopped at the sink to scrub his hands with soap and then, with a final quick glance in Liv’s direction, left the ward.

Out in the hallway as he was pulling the mask from his face, he saw Junior round the corner and come barreling toward him. The boy’s face was taut with worry. At first Evan thought he was going to steam right past him and onto the ward. But Junior stopped abruptly and spun to face him. “How is she?” he demanded without a word of greeting.

“Better.”

“Do you mean that, Dr. McGrath?”

Evan viewed the boy with deeper affection, appreciating that he was the embodiment of his own tryst with Olivia. “I do, Junior. She is much improved.”

The anguish vanished from Junior’s face. He beamed one of his open-mouthed smiles. “That is sensational news, Dr. McGrath! Just sensational.”

Evan nodded. He could not get over Junior’s likeness to George and Nicholas, and wondered how he had ever missed it before.

“I want to see her. Straight away.” Junior’s tone became as entitled as Marshall’s.

“Liv is sleeping, Junior.” Evan tried to discourage him. “She will need a long rest.”

“I
need
to see her!”

“No visitors are permitted on the flu ward,” Evan said. “It is far too risky.”

“I am not afraid. And Liv could only benefit from the sight of a friendly face.”

“Maybe so, but your father instructed you to keep away from the hospital during this calamity.”

Junior thumbed in the direction of the other building. “My father is convalescing from a stroke.” He puffed out his chest. “Until he regains his faculties—
if
he ever does—I am in charge of my family’s affairs. And I will go where I choose.”

Even the boy’s resistance, bordering on arrogance, did not put Evan off. Much as he admired Junior’s show of bravery, Evan had to put an end to the romance. “We must talk, Junior.” He nodded toward the exit. “Alone.”

Evan turned and began heading for the door, but Junior stood his ground.

“It concerns Liv,” Evan said over his shoulder. “Please, Junior.”

After another hesitant moment, Junior followed the doctor out of the building. They walked in silence along the same pathway where Evan had spied Junior kissing his daughter a week or two before. After three days with almost no food or sleep, Evan’s legs felt rubbery. He breathed heavily as he followed the slight incline up and around the side of the building. Rather than show his exhaustion, he stopped halfway, pretending to have reached his chosen spot. “Junior, believe it or not, I am fond of you. I really am.”

Junior eyed him warily. “What is this about, then, Dr. McGrath?”

“You cannot see Liv anymore.”

Junior folded his arms across his chest in defiance. “You sound just like my father! And we will not listen to you any more than we did him!” He turned on his heel and began to march away.

“Do you know much about your mother, Junior?” Evan called after him.

The comment stopped the boy. “I have no memory of her, but I have seen photographs and heard stories.” He sighed. “Father speaks of her often. He told me that she could be a real firebrand.”

Evan chuckled. “Oh, she could be that. But your father loved her dearly.”

Junior cocked his head in surprise. “You knew her, too, then?”

Evan nodded. “She was an amazing woman, Junior. So passionate. So caring.” He swept his hand in the direction of the clinic. “There would have been no clinic without Olivia.”

“No clinic without my mother? What does that mean?”

Evan considered his words. “She had a great deal of influence on your father. All I had was a youthful dream, but your mother recognized what was needed to see it realized.”

Junior eyed him suspiciously. “Sounds as though you knew her quite well.”

Evan looked down and nodded. “We were in love.”

“
What!
You and my mother?” He grimaced.

“Junior, Arthur Grovenor was not your father.”

“Now just hold on a minute—” Junior’s eyes went wide as he backpedaled a few steps. “Are you suggesting . . .”

“I am your father.”

“No!”

Evan brought a hand to his chest. “I only found out days ago myself.”

“
That cannot be!
”

Evan shook his head. “Why do you suppose Marshall is so opposed to your relationship with Liv?”

Though he was desperately flustered, Junior’s face creased with the ghastly realization. “Liv and I are . . .” His jaw fell open.

“I am sorry, Junior, it is true.”

He shook his head wildly. “No, no, no . . .” Suddenly, Junior whirled and raced off up the hill.

Evan started after him but only made it a few strides before the shortness of breath stopped him. His head swam with light-headedness, and he reached a hand out for a nearby tree to prop himself up.

A chill hit him so hard that he shivered on the spot.

And then Evan began to cough.

The rubbery scrambled eggs and cold toast tasted better than anything Jill could remember. Once she finished the last crumb, she shoved the empty plate back onto the tray and then pushed the rolling table away from her bed. “Couple days ago, I would have never believed I’d get my appetite back.”

“Oh, it’s back, baby.” Tyler eyed her with a mischievous grin. “The way you attacked that tray, I was even a little worried about my fingers when they got too close!”

“Give me a break.” She laughed. “This was my first solid food in close to a week. I was ravenous. Besides, I’m eating for two now.”

“You sure it’s only two?” He chuckled. “I’m just so happy to see you eating again.”

“Yeah. When else will I ever be able to get this excited about the prospect of gaining weight?”

Tyler held up two crossed fingers. “So far so good, huh?”

She nodded. Earlier in the morning, Jill—who had cried fewer than a half-dozen times in her adult life—wept again at the sight of her baby’s thumping heart on the ultrasound machine’s screen. They still did not know what the long-term consequences of her antibiotics use would be, but after four days of taking the medication, the risk of a drug-induced miscarriage was steadily decreasing.

“I’m so glad to be coming home today, Ty.”

Jill’s guts had quieted and she had not spiked a fever in more than two days. All the other
C. diff
victims had already been discharged from the surgical ICU, and she was the last known case of the superbug left at the Alfredson. Since she had been free of symptoms for forty-eight hours, her
infectious disease specialist had declared her no longer contagious. And her obstetrician agreed that Jill was well enough to finish her antibiotics at home.

Jill stood up and stepped over to Tyler. She put her arms around him and leaned her head into his shoulder.

He ran his hand through her hair. “I’ve missed you, Jill.”

She realized he was referring to more than just the past few days of quarantine. “Me, too.” She spoke into his shoulder. “We get a do-over now though, right?”

He kissed her ear and whispered, “I like do-overs.”

They stood like that for a few moments, before Jill pulled back. “Hey, how’s Keisha doing?” She felt more invested in the little girl’s outcome than she had in any of Tyler’s previous patients.

“Pretty good,” Tyler said. “She received her last dose of Vintazomab yesterday. No more seizures. Too soon to see any results, but her blood work is no worse. Justified or not, I’m a little more optimistic.”

Jill would have liked to have kissed her husband on the lips but, even though she had been told she was no longer contagious, she did not want to take any chances. Instead, she pecked him on the cheek. “You did good, Ty.”

“We’ll see.” He shrugged. “How about you? Thought any more about your research?”

Jill’s mood deflated at the mention of her lab. “I drafted a letter to my funding agency last night.”

“What did you say?”

“That the preliminary results I submitted were inaccurate, probably fraudulent.”

“Jill, that’s academic suicide!”

“What can I say?”

“That you made a mistake.”

“A mistake?” She groaned. “Tyler, it’s a multimillion-dollar grant application.”

“But you haven’t published anything yet. Nothing is written in stone.”

“Might as well be.”

Tyler reached out and stroked her cheek. “Tell them that the preliminary numbers were encouraging. That you might indeed have found a
successful treatment for multiple sclerosis, but you haven’t enrolled enough patients to know one way or the other yet.”

Jill shook her head. “Tyler, they’re not stupid. They’ve seen the initial numbers. They’re going to know someone cooked the data.”

“But
you
didn’t.”

She had been through this a thousand times in her head. “It’s my lab. That means it’s my responsibility.”

“This affects more than just you.”

“I realize that,” she said, a little more curtly than intended. “I am not going to submit anything until after your father’s board meeting.”

“I wasn’t talking about the impact on the Alfredson.” He sighed. “Jill, while you’re busy falling on your own sword, what about the patients who might actually benefit from your therapy? People like Senator Wilder.”

He was right. If her study created a scandal, not only would it permanently taint her new treatment approach, but it could have a trickle-down effect on all ongoing stem cell research. She felt her resolve weakening. “Maybe I should run my letter past you before I send it to anyone?”

“Good plan,” he agreed. “Why don’t you finish getting ready, and I’ll pull the car around the front?”

“Can you give me an hour, Ty?”

“Why?”

“I want to stop by my lab and pick up a few things to take home.” She pantomimed inserting a key into a door. “The locks might be changed the next time I go back.”

As soon as Tyler left, Jill brushed her hair and packed away the last of her belongings. Despite her recent professional and health crises, her spirit bordered on hopeful. She patted her belly.
We really do get a do-over
.

Jill slung her bag over her shoulder and headed out the door to the central nursing station. Tyler had already dropped off chocolates and flowers for the staff, but Jill stopped to individually thank each of the ICU nurses who had been involved in her care before she left. She slowly made her way toward the neurosciences building. She was surprised by how strong her legs felt after her ordeal and could have walked faster but, after having been shut in for almost a week, she was enjoying the temperate fall breeze and the scent of cut grass in the air.