by David Walton
“You just leave your phone in a bin?” I said.
“They’re not allowed in the building, and nobody’s going to leave them in their car in this weather,” she said.
“Aren’t you afraid it’ll get stolen?”
She raised an eyebrow, and her mouth quirked slightly in an amused smile. She held out the phone.
I took it, noticing that the pink skin had a cute cat design on it. I thumbed it on and dialed the new number my brother had given me. Apparently his phone had ended up in the river, and he’d been forced to buy a temporary replacement. “Paul,” I said when he answered. “It’s Neil.”
“I was wondering,” he said. His voice sounded scratchy, like he had a cold. “Where are you calling from? This isn’t your number.”
“My car broke down,” I said. “I’m still at the . . .” I trailed off and glanced at the implacable face of one of the MPs, not sure if I was supposed to say where I was. “I’m going to have to call a tow truck and a taxi, and I’ll have the taxi pull around and get you, too. It might just be a little while.” Actually, I was pretty sure I didn’t have enough money for a taxi, and I wasn’t sure they would let one through the gate anyway.
“Look, forget about that,” Shaunessy said. “I’ll give you a ride.”
“What?” I put my hand over the phone. “You don’t have to do that. My brother’s at the airport, and I have to—”
“He’s at BWI? And where are you going after that?”
“My father’s house in Glen Burnie.”
She waved her hand. “That’s a ten minute drive. Tell your brother we’ll pick him up, and I’ll drop you both off.”
“You’re sure?”
“Don’t worry about it. I can spare half an hour.”
Paul had been talking at the same time, but I’d missed most of it. “Stay where you are,” I said. “We’ll be there in five minutes.”
Shaunessy drove a black Infiniti, only a few years old and still looking factory new on the inside. I thought of the landfill of fast food wrappers that was the back of my Nissan, and I was glad it wasn’t me giving her a ride.
“So, no family, then?” I said.
She didn’t wear a ring, and I assumed her willingness to give a ride to a near stranger meant she wasn’t in a hurry to get home to anyone.
“A father, three brothers,” she said. “No husband or kids, if that’s what you mean.”
“My sister just had a baby girl,” I said. “They named her Ash.”
“Ash?”
“Yeah. Not Ashley or Ashlynn or anything. Just Ash.”
“That’s pretty,” Shaunessy said.
“I think it’s a little weird,” I said. “But I’m pretty pleased at being an uncle.”
She didn’t respond. We rode in silence for a bit. A sign read “Baltimore/Washington International Thurgood Marshall Airport” and pointed the way toward Arrivals. Shaunessy turned into the right lane and followed the arrow.
“How about your name?” I said. “I’ve never heard it before.”
She angled her head away from the road long enough to raise an eyebrow at me. I was beginning to recognize that as one of her favorite facial expressions.
“Seriously,” I said. “Where’s it come from? Your mother’s maiden name?”
“The bottle of stout my parents were drinking at the time,” she said, her voice flat.
I barked a laugh. “You’re kidding.”
She shook her head. “Wish I were. That’s the whole story. Though the name of the stout is spelled with an extra ‘gh’ in the middle.”
“Well, I think it’s really beautiful.”
She grunted noncommittally.
“Are you really Irish?”
“Sort of,” she said. “Both of my parents were born and raised there, but they moved to Virginia when I was five.”
She turned again, following another sign toward Arrivals.
“Thanks for doing this,” I said. “My brother had a harrowing time in Brazil, and I’m glad not to keep him waiting.”
That caught her attention more than anything else I’d said so far. “He was in Brazil?”
“Yeah. Did you see the news about the group of tourists that were gunned down on a boat? That was my brother. He was there. He was one of the survivors.”
“Did he get a good look at his attackers?”
She was oddly engaged now, and her question took me aback. “I don’t think so,” I said. “He hasn’t said a lot, though I know he talked to the police down there.”
“I’d like to talk to him.”
Her interest seemed strange to me, but I just shrugged. “You’ll get your chance.”
She pulled into the pick-up zone. “Which airline?”
“American. There he is; I see him.”
She stopped the car, and I climbed out and waved until Paul saw me and headed in our direction. Shaunessy got out and opened the trunk for his suitcases.
I thought my brother might look tanned from his Amazon jungle expedition, or at least a bit more rugged, but he looked as pale as if he had spent the month in an office under fluorescent lights. I supposed not all that much light filtered down to the rainforest floor, so maybe it wasn’t all that surprising. He studied mushrooms, after all. They weren’t known for growing in places with a lot of sunlight.
I gave him a brief embrace. “Back from the wilds of the Amazon,” I said. “Welcome to the frigid North.”
He started to respond but was prevented by a coughing fit that took him a few moments to clear. “It’s good to be back,” he finally managed.
“Whoa,” I said. “What tropical disease did you pick up?”
“It’s nothing. A cold.”
I introduced him to Shaunessy. “Shaunessy, this is my brother, Paul. Paul, this is . . .” I hesitated, wondering what to call her. My friend? My interviewer? “. . . Shaunessy,” I finished lamely. “She was kind enough to give me a ride.”
Paul didn’t respond. He seemed frozen in the moment of shaking her hand, holding on for longer than was polite. Did he recognize her? Shaunessy’s expression was alarmed. Paul’s face was pale, paler even than I had realized at first. “Paul, are you okay?” I asked.
He coughed again, and blood erupted from his mouth, spraying Shaunessy and spattering the pavement. His eyes unfocused, and he started to tip. Shaunessy gave a little shriek as his hand pulled out of her grasp. “Paul!” I shouted. I tried to catch him, but he was too big, and he was sliding away from me. Making no move to protect himself, Paul collapsed, falling backward over his suitcase and knocking his head against the street with an audible crack.
CHAPTER 4
I sat in the waiting room of the Baltimore Washington Medical Center, wondering how long it would take before they would tell me anything. The hospital vending machines accepted my credit card, and I loaded up on peanuts, barbeque-flavored potato chips, and Snickers bars, the first food I’d eaten all day. Outside, it started to snow.
As soon as Paul collapsed, Shaunessy had dialed 911, and an ambulance appeared in an impressive five minutes. Paul had regained consciousness by then, and complained loudly that he was fine while the EMTs strapped him to a stretcher and loaded him into the back of the ambulance. Another EMT asked me questions. I told him everything I knew about where Paul had been and what he might have come into contact with, but it wasn’t much.
Shaunessy drove me and followed the ambulance to the hospital. She offered to stay, but I insisted that she leave, after I borrowed her phone again to call my parents and sister. I had already milked her kindness far more than seemed reasonable, and I didn’t know whether Paul’s blood was going to wash out of her blouse. An hour and a half had passed since then, and all my inquiries at the front desk had been met with the patient response that I would be told as soon as they knew anything.
Finally, they called my name, and I was introduced to a Dr. Mei-lin Chu. She looked nearly as young as me, but I assumed she must have graduated from medical sch
ool and been through a residency. Her long hair was slipping out of the clip that held it out of her face, and she looked tired.
“Is he conscious?” I asked.
“He is,” she said. “He’s lucid and responds appropriately to questions, though he seems vague about the details of his trip. I’m concerned he doesn’t remember more.”
“What happened to him? Do you know?”
“Your brother has fungal pneumonia. At some point while he was in South America, he breathed in some spores, and they lodged in his lung tissue and started to grow. We’ve taken a biopsy from his lungs to determine just what type of fungus is involved. Do you know what he might have come into contact with while he was down there?”
I laughed, and she looked at me quizzically. “Didn’t he tell you?” I said. “He’s a mycologist. He probably touched, sniffed, and sampled a thousand of the rarest fungi he could find.”
“We’ll know more once the labs come back. Fungal infections can be quite serious if untreated, but in most cases, we have good results. I’ll tell you more as soon as I know it.”
And with that, she was gone, leaving me to wait again. Two hours later, after I’d eaten enough candy and chips to feel pretty sick myself, Dr. Chu returned.
“It’s called paracoccidioidomycosis,” she said, the word flowing off of her tongue as easily as breathing. “The good news is, it’s fairly common in that part of the world, so we know how to treat it. However, this a serious illness, one with some pretty serious side effects if it’s not addressed.”
Her small hands gestured in quick motions as she spoke. “The fungus takes root in the lung tissue and starts sending out microscopic tendrils, called mycelia, between the cells of the lungs. The immune system attacks it, but this releases fluid and blood from the surrounding vessels, which can inhibit the alveoli—the structures that exchange oxygen for carbon dioxide—from functioning properly.”
“But he’s going to be okay,” I said.
She nodded. “The worst of it is past. We’ll have to keep him here for a few more days, though. We’re giving him an antifungal drug called amphotericin B intravenously, and we need to monitor him. Even after we release him, he’ll need to stay in bed, and he’ll continue to have a fever and a nasty cough for at least a week. I’m prescribing him voriconazole, another antifungal drug that he can take orally. But—this is important—he’s going to have to keep taking it for at least three years.”
“Wait—years?”
“Years. I told him, but I’m telling you, too, because it’s important. Fungus is hard to eradicate. It can come back, and if it does, it’s usually a lot worse than the first time around. You can end up with a chronic lung infection, or it can spread into joints or into the lining of the brain. You don’t want to mess around with it. He needs to take the medication.”
She shook my hand and walked away before I could even thank her. She spoke so quickly, the whole exchange had taken less than a minute. Eventually, they told me I could see him. I wandered back through halls that smelled like latex and cleaning agents and found him propped up in bed, as pale as the walls, a gently beeping IV in his arm.
“Hey,” I said. “You gave us a scare there. How do you feel?”
He coughed wetly. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. You dropped like a rock in the middle of the airport pick-up zone and you’ve got fungus growing out of your lungs. Not to mention almost getting yourself killed down there.”
“The hazards of international travel.” He shrugged. “Really. I feel fine.”
“More like the hazards of extreme mycology,” I said. “I told you to stay away from the magic mushrooms.”
“Yeah, yeah. So just how are you getting out of here without a car?”
“I’ll have to call a taxi.”
“That’s what I get for trusting my little brother to get me home.”
“Oh, so now you’re blaming this on me?”
Paul grinned. “You’ve got to get yourself a real job one of these days, so you can afford a real car.”
That reminded me that my Nissan was still in the NSA parking lot, gathering a layer of snow. I was going to have to figure out how to get a tow truck in there to pull it out, and I feared that the cost to fix it would be more than I could afford, and probably more than the car was worth.
“So, what happened down there?” I said.
“What do you mean?”
“Come on, Paul. I know more about your ordeal from watching the news than I do from you. Who attacked you? Why? How did you escape?”
Paul related what little he knew, about military-looking men in a Brazilian Navy patrol boat who had attacked for no obvious reason. How he and a girl had made it to shore and walked for miles through trackless jungle to civilization. He was vague about that part of the journey, saying only that they had survived on mushrooms and gotten lucky.
“To tell you the truth, that part of it is a blur,” he said. “I remember getting to shore, but I don’t remember a whole lot after that. I guess I must be blocking it out.”
It seemed odd to me that he would block out a trek through the jungle, but not the violent murder of a dozen people, but I didn’t say anything. “How’s the girl you escaped with?” I asked instead.
Paul looked pained. “Maisie!” he said. “She’s probably sick, too.”
“Did you travel back with her?”
He shook his head. “She left the same day, but she lives in California. Wine-growing country. We took different flights.”
I stood at the window. The sun was just starting to rise, reflecting brightly off the snow and giving the room a pinkish hue. “Doctor Chu was concerned that you couldn’t remember everything that happened to you in Brazil,” I said.
“I remember fine,” Paul said. “I just don’t want to think about it. She wanted a list of the biological agents I’d come into contact with, and I told her those numbered in the millions. I have no idea what actual species of fungus it is.”
“How does a fungus in your lungs mess with your brain badly enough to knock you unconscious?”
He shrugged. “Interfered with my oxygen supply, I guess. The changing air pressures from the flight probably didn’t help.”
“Breathing isn’t exactly optional, you know.”
He nodded gravely. “I’ll try to keep that in mind.”
Paul reached a hand over to his jeans, which were folded beside his bed. He fumbled with them, trying to get his fingers into the pocket.
“What are you looking for?”
“My phone. I want to give Maisie a call, make sure she’s all right. Any spores I breathed, she probably did, too.”
“They don’t want you to use cell phones anyway. Here,” I said. I took the handset from the phone on the wall and stretched it over to him, the cord just barely reaching.
“Can you dial it for me?” he asked.
He pulled a torn piece of paper out of his wallet, and I dialed the number that had been written on it in a rounded, feminine hand. I heard the phone ringing on the other end.
“Yes, I was hoping to reach Maisie Berquist,” Paul said. I slipped out into the hallway to give him some privacy. With nothing else to do, I visited the bathroom. When I returned, I was surprised to see that he was already off the phone.
“Your girlfriend doesn’t want to talk to you anymore?” I said. I was going to add a jab about the challenges of long-distance relationships, but I stopped when I saw his face.
I couldn’t really say he had gone pale, since he was already as pale as a living human being could be. But his expression had the kind of shock in it that made me think the blood would have drained from his face even if he hadn’t been sick. “Are you okay?” I asked. “Should I call a nurse?”
He opened his mouth and paused, as if his lips and tongue wouldn’t obey his instruction to speak. He bit his lip and swallowed. Finally, he said, “She’s dead.”
I stared at him. “Maisie? What happened?”
I put my hand on his arm, too shocked to know how to respond. “I’m so sorry,” I said.
“I barely knew her. We met five days ago.”
“Still,” I said. “You went through an ordeal together.”
“She was so strong. She ran triathlons. She was healthier than I was.”
I shrugged. “Sometimes that doesn’t tell the whole picture. Maybe she had some other medical problem, something that made her susceptible.”
“I can’t believe it,” Paul said. “She lived through a terrorist attack and a fifty-mile trek through thick jungle, only to die at home of a lung infection.”
His breathing was faster, more labored. “Take it easy,” I said.
“It should have been me. I was the one picking up mushrooms all the time. If somebody was going to die of a fungal infection, it should have been me.”
I stood by his bedside, impotent. “Do you know when the funeral will be?” I asked, falling back on practicalities.
“It doesn’t matter. Even if I’m out of the hospital by then, I wouldn’t go. It’s too far, and nobody there knows me. I’m not even a friend, not really.”
“Maybe not. But you survived together.”
Paul’s voice drifted, as if he were somewhere other than the Baltimore Washington Medical Center. “Only she didn’t,” he said.
CHAPTER 5
I could always tell which of my parents had cooked any dish. My mom was an Iowa farm girl who grew up in a town of five hundred people, most of whom still lived there. She learned to cook from her mother and favored beef and potatoes and everything-in-a-pot casseroles. My father didn’t learn to cook until he was stationed in Brazil and had a more adventurous bent. The dishes he made were all Brazilian, a mix of indigenous and Portuguese flavors, which almost always featured rice and beans. There was even a Brazilian expression, arroz com feijão—rice and beans—that meant commonplace, everyday. For me, it was comfort food, and eating it felt like home.