“I’m glad you mentioned survival, as I wanted to highlight that it isn’t necessarily unethical to look after yourself in a plague situation.” He paused before continuing with greater emphasis. “Selflessly caring for a loved one while neglecting your own safety might feel like a moral decision, but preserving your own health is also a public good that helps prevent the further infection of others. We should all be doing our best to take care of ourselves. Designate a sick room or area in your home if caring for ill family members. Be responsible and prepare accordingly. Stock up on N95 masks and enough food and supplies to shelter at home for a few weeks.”
They spoke for an hour, and Sarah spent the rest of the evening transcribing and condensing her notes until she had nine hundred words ready to post at seven a.m. The Q&A with Owen became one of the most shared articles that day across all social media platforms. Sarah’s inbox was flooded with new interview requests from NPR, the New York Times, the Washington Post, and four different television news outlets.
KEEP IT UP, read a rare encouraging email from Dory.
Sarah got Owen on the phone again and read out all the inquiries that had come in. “You see how easy it can be?” she said. “Everything on your terms.”
“That’s quite the list.”
“I’ll be your filter,” she said. “Your gatekeeper. All you have to do is answer the phone every once in a while from the comfort of your living room. And maybe write the odd blog post. I’ll supplement.”
For the next three weeks, they spoke twice a day, once mid-morning and then again in the evening, after Noah was in bed. Sarah was getting used to the low, grave sound of Owen’s voice; how the flattened vowels of his Midwestern accent emerged when he was flirting; how empathy shaded his voice when he spoke of the ARAMIS victims and the bewildering hysteria around ARAMIS Girl. And how when he sounded annoyed he was usually just excited and in a hurry to move on to his next big idea. Sarah continued the series of Q&As and acted as an intermediary for various print and online magazines. She set up phone calls for radio interviews, and talked Owen through setting up Skype on his laptop, since he wouldn’t visit television studios.
Occasionally, their conversation meandered off-topic to Sarah’s favourite authors (Virginia Woolf and André Gide), her hometown, her shelf full of sailing trophies from when she was a teenager and still had dreams of winning the America’s Cup. Though she was the interviewer, Owen had an innate curiosity and in certain moods would ask her nearly as many questions as she posed to him.
One night, he said, “Does Noah spend any time with his father?”
Sarah’s hands froze above her keyboard. “His father isn’t in the picture, never was.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, seeming to hear the sudden wariness in her voice. “I didn’t mean to pry. I only wondered if you ever got a break.”
“My brother helps,” said Sarah. “I couldn’t do it without him.”
“My ex-wife is a single mother, too,” said Owen. Then added, “Not by me. But I’ve been thinking of setting up a fund for her boy just the same. Henry is right around Noah’s age. Do you think you can help me do that? Look into how to get the process started?”
“Okay,” said Sarah, slightly bewildered. It would be bizarre for Owen to have suggested the idea merely as a way to gain her trust, but she couldn’t help thinking it all the same. “I’ll do my best.”
Another part of her job was to moderate the interactions on Owen’s newly minted blog, and respond or forward as necessary. Half were scams hawking so-called ARAMIS cures or protection spells being offered by sketchy online pharmacies or Haitian witch bloggers, and the other half were messages from female fans looking to strike up a correspondence.
Dear Mr. Grant,
Your book is the #1 most-requested book in our city library system. I’ve just put in an order for thirty more copies. I’ve been recommending it to everyone, and I wanted to personally tell you how much your work has meant to me over the years. We’d love to host a reading at our local branch the next time you visit the West Coast.
Sincerely, Laura C.
Hi Owen. I saw you on television and remembered our night at Jiminy Peak all those years ago. Nice to see all the success you’ve had. Let me know if you’re ever in D.C.
xo Angelica
These messages Sarah forwarded without comment, though they embarrassed her and she was relieved she hadn’t reminded Owen of their previous flirtation. But she became uneasy when Owen asked her to start deleting them. She sent a quick note to Dory seeking advice, but Julia’s due date was only a week away and all she received back was a terse message that read Don’t respond or erase. Don’t do his dirty work for him. Just do your job. D.
Later that morning, Sarah called Owen, and after the usual hellos she launched right into the day’s questions, typing his answers directly into an HTML editor. “Is the virus progressing the way you imagined Xi-RV-5 in your novel?”
“No,” said Owen. “And thank God. Xi-RV-5 was designed to be an efficient and straightforward killer, suitable for mass fatalities and extreme drama. Its mortality rate among those under twelve was over ninety per cent, unrealistically high for any known type of coronavirus.”
“Much worse than ARAMIS, then? And especially for kids, right?”
“So far, yes. Children are more vulnerable to ARAMIS, but by and large these pediatric infections are resulting in comas, not death. We’ll have to wait and see what the long-term prognosis might be, but I think there’s reason to be hopeful these kids will pull through. ARAMIS is fulfilling the expectations of experts who predicted a pandemic, but you’ll notice, if you compare it city by city, its progression seems highly dependent on response and preparedness. Voluntary quarantining in the five boroughs seems to be slowing the spread here in New York City, where you might imagine infection levels could quickly become catastrophic. Yes, thousands of people are sick, but just think of the population here.”
“You support that initiative then?”
“Absolutely. But I will say this: I don’t think voluntary quarantining is enough. I think it should be mandatory and endorsed from the highest levels, so that nobody risks losing their job for doing the right thing. But if people follow the recommendations, if they are really scrupulous about staying home if they’ve been exposed, the strategy should help. We need to keep it from going exponential.”
“You might get your wish,” said Sarah. “From what I’ve heard.”
“Is that what Elliot said?” asked Owen, interested. “He would probably be on the front lines, enforcing it. I don’t envy him that particular assignment.”
Ever since she’d mentioned her brother was a cop, Owen had been asking about him. In a way it was nice, but it usually had the effect of making Sarah more nervous for Elliot’s safety. Over the years, she had mostly inured herself to the usual dangers he faced in the line of duty, but a virus was different from a bullet. Plus, the outbreak had changed things. She’d seen on the news that there had been a surge in petty crime, as well as an increase in anti-police sentiment: through their relief and containment efforts, the force was becoming associated with the virus and its spread, though the worst and most irrational contempt was still reserved for ARAMIS Girl.
As Sarah finished typing, her phone flashed with a call from Noah’s daycare. “Sorry, Owen, just a sec.”
It was Iona, one of the educators, who began by reassuring her. “He’s fine, Sarah, just a bit of a fever. But it’s the new policies. We can’t be too careful. Just come and pick him up, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s better by tomorrow.”
Sarah had already slipped her feet back into her shoes and grabbed her keys when her cellphone buzzed inside her purse. She seized it, expecting a follow-up from the daycare. A turn for the worse. Her imagination was spinning out that fast.
It was Owen again. “We got cut off,” he was sayi
ng. “And I actually wanted to ask you a favour.”
“I’d love to help. Really.” She had already moved through the office and was jabbing the button to summon the elevator. “But I have to call you back.”
* * *
—
At the daycare, Sarah repented for every mean thought she’d ever had about the trio in charge. They’d reprimanded her in the mornings when she dropped Noah off late, and they’d scolded her at the end of the day when she was the very last parent to arrive for pickup. They’d pressured him to clean his plate at lunchtime, against her explicit instructions that Noah never be forced to eat something if he didn’t like it, and she had maligned them so often in conversation with her friends Corinna and Hilary that a series of cruel nicknames had evolved: Wages (short for “Wages of Destruction,” aka Waverly), No-Neck (Nellie), and Pigeon Pie (Iona). She was fuzzy on the exact etymologies, but even though the aliases were not solely her invention, Sarah felt a wave of guilt when Pigeon Pie hugged Noah tightly in the vestibule, as if to show she really wasn’t afraid that he had It. They’d bundled him up in his naptime blanket with the trains printed on it, since he’d said he was cold.
“Don’t worry, Sarah,” said Iona. Her calm was genuine, and Sarah felt comforted. “He’s not doing too badly at all.” Sarah took Noah’s hand and he looked up at her with a smile that spoke of his delight at being wrapped up in the train blanket. He had been asking if he could bring it home ever since Elliot bought it for him when he’d started daycare.
“Thanks,” said Sarah. “I’ll give you guys a call in the morning.”
* * *
—
When they got home, Sarah let Noah change into his airplane PJS, then took his temperature. “How are you feeling, baby?” She sat on the closed lid of the toilet and contemplated her son. He seemed 100 per cent normal.
“I’m fine, Mommy,” he said. Then he threw up.
She cleaned up the sour-smelling mess in a distracted panic, trying to remember exactly how the virus presented in children. Persistent high fever, headache, muscle pain. Vomiting was only a symptom in the disease Owen had invented. The more time she spent immersed in the world of his novel, the less she was able to distinguish between the real facts and the invented ones.
“I’m better now,” Noah said, even though he was still crying. “Nellie made me eat tomatoes at snack even though I told her I don’t like them.”
So that was it. The last time he had been made to eat tomatoes, Noah had thrown up when he got home, too. She wouldn’t be surprised if the fever had broken now that they were out of his stomach.
“Did you tell her I didn’t want them to force you to eat anything?”
Noah nodded. “They said the rules were for everybody.” He wiped his eyes with his sleeve. “I’m sorry, Mommy.”
She held him, feeling her usual rage against No-Neck welling up. The woman must be psychologically damaged to be engaging in an ongoing power struggle with a three-year-old. “It’s okay, baby. I’m not upset with you.” She rubbed his back and shoulders. “Next time you have to tell her you’re allergic.”
She put him to bed despite his protests, holding his hand until he fell asleep. It took less than five minutes.
With her other hand, she called Owen back. “I’m ready to help.” She kept her voice to a whisper. “What do you need?”
“I’m going to the marina this afternoon to look at a boat, and I’d like you to come with me. From what you’ve told me, you’re a top-notch sailor.”
“The marina,” repeated Sarah. “To look at a boat.” She eased herself off Noah’s bed, smoothing the comforter with its gridlock pattern of cars and buses. Why put a traffic jam on a child’s sheet set? But then, she was the one who had bought them.
“I’m in the market for a big purchase,” said Owen. “And honestly, I could use an advisor.”
Sarah paused as she pulled Noah’s door halfway closed. “You’re buying a yacht?” She felt stupid asking again, but then he had said the word advisor. She kept her footsteps quiet as she padded down the hallway to her bedroom.
“I’d like to just call it a boat.”
“Wait, isn’t that what happens at the end of your book?” In the last third of Owen’s novel, after his love interest dies, David Gellar buys a boat and takes to sea with his students and their parents, to escape the disease ravaging everyone on land.
“Yes,” Owen said. “I’m following my own advice.”
When Sarah heard him chuckle, she allowed herself to laugh, too. “For real?”
“Yes, for real.”
“Does this mean you’re going outside?” Ever since the great apartment stakeout, she had avoided mentioning Owen’s agoraphobia. She had never revealed that she’d witnessed him descending to retrieve the coffee like a bloodless vampire terrified of the sun.
“Yes,” he said. “I do still go outside from time to time, for things that matter.”
“I haven’t been sailing in years,” she said. “And I’ve never been yacht shopping.”
“So we’ll be in the same boat, so to speak.”
“I’m sorry, but my son is home with me.”
“Oh,” said Owen. His tone changed. “Is he sick?”
“He—” She heard a small sound behind her in the hall. “One sec,” she said, covering the phone. When she turned around, Noah was standing in the doorway, holding out the digital thermometer, which flashed green behind its numeric display. A normal temperature.
“Please, Mommy. Let’s go see the boat.”
* * *
—
Sarah and Noah caught a taxi and met Owen in the parking lot behind his building. He was dressed normally this time, no giant raincoat, but like her and Noah, he wore gloves and had a face mask slung around his neck. She’d forgotten just how tall he was, but standing in his presence she was reminded of his loping walk and a particular gesture of ruffling his own hair while he was thinking. His hairline had receded, but only slightly, and his jawline was more pronounced. She didn’t think she’d changed much in the past sixteen years, at least not on the outside, but still he gave no sign of recognition. She noticed that he stood back while she strapped in first Noah’s car seat and then Noah himself. Before Owen got in the driver’s seat of the Jeep, he lowered the windows and put on his face mask.
They pulled out into the street, and Noah fell asleep in his car seat almost immediately. There was something about moving vehicles that relaxed him. Planes, trains, and automobiles. Even if he wasn’t in la-la land, he was sure to be docile and happy.
“You know, we’ve actually met before,” said Sarah. “In Lansdowne, when I was at college. You were the visiting writer that year.” She watched as Owen’s head inclined sharply, though his eyes stayed focused on the road. “And my parents taught there. Well, they still do. Gretchen Howe and Frank Bailey.”
He shifted into second gear as traffic slowed. “I remember your parents,” he said, his voice somewhat muffled by the face mask, “but not you.” Sarah wanted to laugh at how little an impression she must have made on him, even though back then their brief interactions had felt loaded with import. When she told him truthfully that she’d loved his second novel, Blue Virginia, his eyes looked a little haunted.
“Thanks,” he said, glancing over at her for the first time since they’d exchanged greetings in the parking lot. “You and all my closest friends.”
Sarah couldn’t think of anything to say to that. No wonder Shillelagh Press had wanted to fire her.
“There’s a lot of traffic,” she remarked, raising her voice to be heard over the street sounds. The open windows were making things loud. She wished she could find a way to tap into the effortlessness of their phone conversations.
“People are avoiding the subway,” said Owen. “You should, too, as I keep telling you.”
�
��I would,” said Sarah, “but it would take me four hours to walk to work.”
They fell silent as they entered the Lincoln Tunnel. Her hair whipped around, strands of it blowing in her eyes. She tried to roll up the window, but the child lock was on. “Do you mind putting the window up?”
“Sorry,” said Owen, raising his voice over the echoing sounds of the other cars. “It’s better to keep them rolled down. Less chance of infection.”
“From me?” She was used to thinking of other people as the threat.
“I don’t know where you’ve been.”
“I guess you’re right.” Then she glanced back at Noah, who was still sleeping. It was true she couldn’t confirm what either of them might have been exposed to in a given day. The WHO had recently issued a travel advisory deterring tourists from visiting the city, but there were still millions of New Yorkers carrying on with their regular lives. Only now they could buy personal protective gear from every newsstand and vending machine.
“God,” said Owen. “It feels good to be on the move.” They had entered New Jersey, and he navigated along a road parallel to the river.
After Owen parked the Jeep, he took long swift strides across the gravelly parking lot, pausing every few seconds to let Sarah and Noah catch up. “Sorry,” he said, after his fifth stop-and-wait. “I can’t seem to make myself go any slower. It used to drive my ex-wife crazy.”
“It’s okay,” said Sarah. She remembered Rachel and how petite she was: a slim sprite who’d easily commanded the class’s attention with a magnetic intelligence. At length, Sarah said, “I meant it when I said I don’t know much about yachts.”
“That’s okay. I know more than I let on. I pretty much know what I want.”
“You think it’s getting worse, don’t you?” said Sarah. She came to a stop and looked over at Noah, who immediately crouched down to examine some ants on the ground. “So bad that you need to leave?” She paused. “Maybe I should be working from home. And keeping Noah home with me.” There was no reason she couldn’t. It was stupid to risk their lives out of convention, or because she was too nervous to ask for what she needed. “I wish I could be sure.”
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