The Things That Keep Us Here

by Carla Buckley

  Ann pushed open the glass door. “Hey, stranger.”

  Rachel straightened. Tall, her blond hair clipped into a perfect pageboy, she had a confident way of holding herself that made her stand out in a crowd. Ann had noticed that Hannah had inherited the same trait.

  “Well, if it isn’t the school hero.” Rachel cocked a sculpted eyebrow. “Hannah told me you ran into a burning building and rescued one of her classmates.”

  “Some hero. The only things burning were my ears after the fire chief chewed me out.”

  “And what would he have done if you’d just left her there?” Rachel waved at the secretary, who had the telephone pressed to her ear and was listening to whoever was speaking on the other end. She didn’t respond. Rachel shrugged. She turned to Ann. “You coming in or going out?”

  “Out. I’m squeezing in a quick trip to the post office before I sic the fifth-graders on Georgia O’Keeffe. You?”

  “I’m on my way home. I’m done volunteering for the day.”

  They used to volunteer together, coordinating their schedules so they could squeeze in a quick lunch afterward or a trip to the mall before they had to race back to pick up their kids. But that had all changed this year. Now Ann was the one phoning around for parent volunteers and Rachel was the one answering. Or not.

  The secretary stood. She knocked on the principal’s door and went in without waiting for a response.

  “I’m glad I ran into you.” Out in the hall, Ann leaned on the front door and held it open for Rachel. They stepped into a swirl of leaves and cold air. “I called you last night.”

  Rachel nodded, fastening the buttons on her black coat. “I got your message. Sorry I didn’t call back. It’s been crazy with Rich out of town. You know, just me and the kids.” Rachel made a face. “I guess you’d know how that is.”

  Ann supposed she did. She didn’t like to think of herself as a single parent, but of course she was. Peter was there in a big-picture way, but it was up to Ann to shepherd their daughters through the day and oversee all the small events that made up their lives. “I hear Hannah started piano yesterday.”

  “Yes. A space opened up and I nabbed it.” Rachel tugged on her gloves. “I know we talked about the girls taking lessons together, but that was before you went back to work.”

  “I know. My schedule’s been awful. Maybe Hannah could play after school.”

  “Today? I’m sorry, but she’s already got plans.”

  Right. Maddie had said Hannah had karate this afternoon. “What does your weekend look like?”

  “Pretty packed, I’m afraid. Cheerleading practice, haircuts. And Rich is still stuck in Belgium. His plane’s delayed for some reason, so he’s no help. I’ll let you know.”

  Rachel had said pretty much the same thing last week, a vague response about checking her calendar and promising to get back to her. And she never had. “How about after we come back from Thanksgiving break? Aren’t Mondays your yoga night? Hannah can come home with us after school.”

  “I don’t think that’s going to work.”

  Ann stopped on the sidewalk. “Rachel, is everything okay? We used to have Hannah over all the time, and now—”

  “Oh, it’s no big deal. I just think the girls need to make some other friends.”

  Rachel said it so lightly. What had happened to make her feel this way? The two girls got along so well. They’d been inseparable since preschool. Ann looked at Rachel, but Rachel wouldn’t meet her eyes. She knew Maddie didn’t have any other friends. She knew that Maddie was the kind of person who made one true friend, and that friend was Hannah. Maddie wasn’t like Kate, who had lots of friends, the better to hide among.

  “I see,” Ann said, although she didn’t.

  Rachel slid her hands into the pockets of her coat. “It’s just that Hannah doesn’t understand why Maddie can’t come over to play. She thinks it’s something she did.”

  Ann frowned. “Of course it isn’t. She must know that.”

  “Hannah’s only eight. It doesn’t matter how much we reassure her. All she knows is that her best friend can’t come and play at her house anymore.”

  “Maddie misses playing at your house, too.” It was such a small thing, couldn’t they move past it?

  “You know she’s welcome anytime.”

  Ann couldn’t believe it. Rachel knew as well as anyone that Maddie could never come over, not as long as Hannah still had her kitten.

  Rachel had phoned her in the middle of the night, waking her from a deep sleep. “Is Maddie allergic to anything?” she’d demanded without preamble.

  “No,” Ann had replied, already pulling on her clothes, instantly frantic at the urgency in Rachel’s voice. “At least not that I know of.”

  “Her lung collapsed,” Ann reminded Rachel now. “She spent two nights in the hospital.”

  “I know,” Rachel said. “It was awful. But you told me the doctor said medication would help.”

  “He said it might help.”

  “You won’t know unless you try.”

  Rachel couldn’t possibly be serious. She’d been there. She’d raced Maddie to the emergency room that night, begging her to hold on. “You know I can’t do that.”

  The wind lifted Rachel’s hair from her face and pressed the collar of her coat against her throat. “Ann, don’t you think you’re being a little overprotective?”

  Was she? Maybe. But the memory of her child, eyes swollen shut, panting for breath, was enough to make Ann feel her own throat close up.

  Rachel sighed. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I guess I’d feel the same way if I were you.”

  If I were you. Something about the questioning way Rachel said that warned Ann they were on the precipice of something new. “What do you mean?”

  The words were out before Ann could stop herself. She didn’t want to know. She didn’t want to go there.

  Rachel looked away. “You never said anything. I kept waiting for you to tell me.”

  Ann had the dizzying sensation of standing on the edge of a cliff and looking down at the jagged rocks. She needed to step back. She needed them both to move to safer ground. “Rachel—” she began, but Rachel pushed on.

  “I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t say anything. But if we were really friends, you would have told me. You would have at least mentioned it to me.”

  Her tone was accusing. Suddenly they weren’t talking about Hannah and Maddie anymore. How had this happened? How did Rachel know?

  Rachel crossed her arms. “The last time Maddie was over, she told Hannah. When Hannah told me later, I thought at first Maddie had been making it up. Because if it were true, you would have told me. When I had that miscarriage five years ago, you would have told me then.”

  “It wasn’t the same thing,” Ann whispered.

  “Are you sure?” Rachel shot back.

  They stood there on the sidewalk, the brick school building beside them, the flag whipping above them on its metal pole. Cars drove past, a thumping burst of music. Children called to one another on the nearby playground.

  “What did Maddie tell Hannah?”

  Rachel slid her hands into her coat pockets. “She said there was a baby brother who never woke up from his nap.” So simple.

  “Is it true?” Rachel said.

  Maddie, her sweet, uncomplicated child, painting rainbows. Maddie, whom Ann had thought was safe, whom Ann had wanted so much to believe was untouched by all the sadness around her that she’d refused to see the truth for what it was. Something inside her daughter had at last spoken up, some tiny little questioning voice yearning to be heard, yearning to be answered. How do you help a child when you can’t even help yourself?

  THE POST OFFICE WAS CLOSED WHEN SHE ARRIVED. ANN shifted the bulky envelope under one arm and tried both doors, but they were securely locked. The times posted on the window said it should be open for another four hours. She rapped on the glass. Wasn’t that someone moving around inside? She rattled t
he door handle and waved, but no one came. She glanced at her watch. Drat. No time to try another branch. She’d have to wait until after school let out. A few more hours wouldn’t make any difference.

  The front office was empty when she entered the building. Ann walked down the hall, her footsteps ringing in the quiet. No one was in the nurse’s office. The cafeteria was empty. So was the library. Where was everyone? A voice echoed down the hall, a man speaking into a microphone. She pushed open the gymnasium door and saw the room filled with children sitting cross-legged on the floor. The faculty and staff lined the walls. Maddie was toward the front, hunched beside Hannah, the two of them sitting closely together, one blond head and one brown, engrossed in some covert clapping game, completely unaware that the clock had already started ticking on their friendship.

  The principal stood at the podium in the front of the room.

  “… by the Ohio Department of Health that school will be closing.” He lifted his hand to hush the cheer that went up from the children.

  School was closing? Some horrible infection must have gotten loose, like hepatitis or bacterial meningitis. But no one was coughing. No one looked sick. Maybe it was an environmental contaminant, like lead in the water or asbestos coming loose from around the pipes. With a pinch of fear, Ann wondered how many times Maddie drank from the water fountain.

  “Your teachers will be handing out a note for you to take home to your parents. When you go back to your classrooms, you’ll need to empty your desks and cubbies. If you need a plastic bag to carry items, let your teacher know. The announcement’s being made on the radio and television, so car riders, your parents should start arriving soon. They’ll have to sign you out first. Listen for your name over the loudspeaker. Bus riders will wait in their classrooms until their buses arrive. For those whose parents are delayed, we’ll be setting up tables in the cafeteria. Now, I want everyone to stand up and, in a quiet, orderly fashion, return to your classrooms. We’ll start with kindergarten first.”

  The noise level soared as everyone stirred into motion. Ann looked for Maddie and spotted her in the stream of chattering, laughing children flowing toward the doors. Ann waved.

  Maddie pushed closer. She looked excited. “Did you hear, Mom? We don’t have to go to school anymore.”

  “I heard.” Ann kept her voice light. What on earth had happened that would prompt the Department of Health to shut down the school?

  Hannah pushed Maddie along. “Go.”

  Maddie turned and called back to Ann. “You’re coming to get me, right, Mom?”

  “I’ll be right there, honey.”

  Maddie’s teacher brought up the rear of the line, her face grim. She had Heyjin by one hand and held a sheaf of blue papers in the other. “If you’re not doing anything, Mrs. Brooks, I could use your help getting the children ready.”

  “Of course.” It wouldn’t take long to seal up the art room. Ann had already begun putting things away in preparation for the upcoming Thanksgiving holiday. “What’s going on? Why are they closing the school?”

  “Not just this one. All of the schools.”

  “What?”

  The woman peeled off the top page from the stack she held.

  “Here.”

  Ann read the sheet and slowed. Sudden coldness flooded her body. Kids swarmed around her, but she didn’t feel them bumping into her. The words on the page swam before her. She saw them clearly printed there, but she had to read them twice before the meaning sank in. “We’re in Phase Five now?”

  “That’s right.”

  Ann stared at her. So the clusters of flu cases had multiplied to the extent that they were threatening to sweep across entire communities. That meant H5N1 had mutated again, cleverly adapting itself to jump more easily from human to human. She had the sensation of standing on a cliff again, looking down into an eternal unknown. “When did this happen?”

  “An hour ago.” She clasped Heyjin’s hand again, looked down at her, and shook her head. “Ironic, isn’t it? She traveled all that way to get here, but in the end, it didn’t matter a damn.”

  Heyjin glanced up at her teacher and then looked to Ann. The triumph in the child’s eyes was unmistakable.

  TEXT OF SPEECH GIVEN BY

  DR. NIGEL ATWANA,

  WHO DIRECTOR-GENERAL,

  WHO HEADQUARTERS,

  GENEVA, SWITZERLAND

  —————

  Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.

  For several years, the world has been in Phase Three of alertness with regard to avian influenza. Phase Three means that there have been few human cases of avian influenza. In September, clusters appeared in several Asian countries and we moved into Phase Four, a situation in which the virus can be more easily transmitted among humans.

  Today, in response to reports of large, multiple outbreaks in Europe and Africa, we announce an entry into Phase Five of alertness. We caution the public not to panic. Phase Five just means increased protective measures in the affected countries, appropriate to the situation. These measures are:

  People with confirmed or suspected cases will be quarantined.

  All schools and universities will be closed until further notice.

  All indoor concerts and public events will be canceled. This includes gatherings for religious purposes. International and domestic travel will be curtailed.

  Please be reassured that a pandemic is by no means inevitable. If we work together, we can contain and halt the spread of the influenza virus.

  SEVEN

  PETER STOOD IN THE DOORWAY OF HIS LAB, CELL PHONE pressed to his ear. Ann still wasn’t answering her phone.

  People rushed past in the corridor carrying folders, books, boxes. They nodded at one another, barely stopping. He wondered how many of them would be alive next month, next year. The air was filled with abbreviated conversations.

  “Did you get …?”

  “They’re in there….”

  Behind him, Shazia was wiping surfaces and turning off equipment. She’d managed to get through the neuraminidase testing. She’d greeted him with the news—the teal influenza had been H5N1. He’d greeted her with his own announcement. She’d been sequestered all afternoon behind the hood and hadn’t heard. Somehow the bird and human variations had simultaneously picked up speed. Both viruses were busy tearing through their respective host populations.

  Peter tried the home number, but the answering machine picked up. He hung up without leaving a message. He’d call again shortly. Ann would have heard the news. She’d be out getting the girls. “You put everything in the freezer?”

  Shazia shut the cabinet. “Yes.” Her navy wool coat was folded over the back of a chair. Her briefcase leaned against the rungs. Black-bound manuals sat stacked on the desk. She saw him looking. “I hope it’s okay that I borrow those.”

  “It’s a good idea.” He eyed them, crossed to the shelf, and pulled down several more. “You’ll need these, too.”

  In his office, he began fitting books into one box, papers into another. He’d take his laptop, of course. And his tape recorder.

  “You get the rough draft I sent you?”

  He looked up and saw Lewis leaning in. His curly blond hair was more vertical than usual, giving him an alarmed look. “I’ll work on it at home and email it back to you.”

  “Fair enough. We can submit it online.”

  A voice boomed from down the hall. “Let’s go, people.”

  Lewis swore softly and pushed himself away from the door-jamb. “See you, Peter.”

  Now a series of knocks, getting louder. “Locking up in five minutes.”

  Peter slid his laptop into the case and zipped it up. Where was the folder with Liederman’s notes in it? “You too, Dr. Brooks.”

  Peter looked over. Hank filled the doorway, a tank of a man. “Sure,” Pete said. “Just give me a minute. I need to find something.”

  “No can do. I was supposed to have secured the building fifteen minutes ago.”


  “All right, all right.” He shuffled through the papers on his desk. Here were the minutes from last week’s preparedness meeting. How ironic. Here was an invitation to the division holiday party. His secretary was always despairing of the condition of his office, always warning him that she was going to sneak in one day and clear everything out. Now Peter wished she’d gotten to the mess before she’d gone on maternity leave.

  “Dr. Brooks.” Hank had his jacket open now, showing the gun holstered at his hip. A subconscious move on Hank’s part, or was he making a point? Peter looked into the security guard’s small eyes. The man was afraid. Fear could make people do stupid things.

  “Fine.” Peter picked up the entire pile and shoved it into his briefcase. The weathered leather bulged with the effort of containing it all.

  Hank moved aside to let him out, reached back and drew the door shut. A jangle of keys and the door was firmly locked.

  Struggling under the weight of two boxes and the overstuffed briefcase on top, he made his way down the corridor. Shazia stood waiting for him, under the weight of her own box and papers. They came to a stop by the elevator. She frowned at the numbers above them, watching them glow in sequence.

  “You should call your family as soon as you get settled.”

  “Yes.” She shifted the box in her arms. “Do you think the H5 we’ve been working with made the jump to human form?”

  “Unlikely. But even if it had, I wouldn’t be concerned. We took precautions.”

  “Right.”

  There was something in her tone. “Shazia.”

  She looked at him.

  “You were careful, weren’t you?”

  The elevator door wheezed open, and she stepped inside. “Yes,” she said. “Of course.”

  “Can you tell our listeners why the scientific community is particularly worried about what’s going on?”

  “Certainly. What I think has everyone concerned is the apparent emergence of a virus that seems to have made the genetic leap from avian to human form. Of course, this may be a short-lived phenomenon. H5N1 is constantly mutating, and this may be one brief stage in its life span. It could change once again and evolve into a virus that is no longer as harmful to humans.”