The boy had shrugged.
Except for the ghostly glare from the alternator, the room was dark, like night deep inside night. Everything around him—the carpet, his scrubs, the telephone on the alternator shelf, the stack of X-ray jackets beside the phone—was the color of a shadow. That’s the way it was in radiology reading rooms. Black-and-white films, gray everything else. And quiet. Dead quiet now that the day crew had gone home.
Suddenly, a muffled thunk bumped into the silence of the reading room. He started at the sound, a minor noise that would have gone unnoticed in the din of the day. The clock’s hour hand had jumped forward, creating the thunk. Jake did the calculations. It looked as if it were 10:10 but was really 9:00 PM.
Shifting in his chair, he stared at the images on the X-ray films. His gaze traced the smooth edges of the chalky bones. He saw no periosteal elevation. The fat lines around the sore knee were distorted, showed swelling in the soft tissues. He figured there were four possibilities—osteomyelitis, septic arthritis, toxic synovitis, fracture.
When his pager sounded, he was studying the trabeculae of the bones, looking for a disruption in their structure. Without removing his eyes from the images of Matt’s knees, he unclipped the pager from his waistband and held it in front of his face. The message read “5-7512,” the black, dashed numerals stark against the eerie, luminescent blue light of the pager screen. It was the OR.
“Campbell, here,” he muttered when the nurse answered.
“Dr. Campbell, I forgot to tell you to call your wife. She paged you during that last case. Sorry about that.”
Now what? He sighed as he clipped the pager back to his waistband. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to talk to Anna. Rather, he couldn’t do anything about her problem, whatever it was. And the calls were always about problems. She never interrupted him just to chat; she knew he was too busy for that. Last week, the day before they left for the Upper Peninsula, Bullet had climbed the sweet gum tree and Anna had worried he couldn’t get down.
“That cat will come down when he gets hungry,” he had said, shaking his head at the silliness of her concern. The week before that she had locked her keys inside the car.
He dialed and continued to study Matt’s films while the phone rang. Earlier in the evening he had examined the knee. It was red and swollen and obviously sore—the boy had winced and then cried when he tried to straighten it. He couldn’t be sure from his exam whether the boy had a fracture or an infection.
Anna answered the phone.
“What’s up?” He lifted a paper clip from the alternator desk and rotated it between his fingertips. He stared at Matt’s bones. Then he began clicking the paper clip against the metal shelf.
She said Eddie was sick and had a fever.
She told him to stop making the noise. He palmed the paper clip.
“How high’s the fever?” he asked.
“Don’t know. Chris dropped the thermometer yesterday, smashed it to smithereens.”
“Did you give him any Tylenol?” He ran his fingertip along the edge of Matt’s tibia, eying the cortex ahead of his finger to make sure he hadn’t missed a break.
“Yeah. Didn’t help much.” She went on to say he wasn’t nursing well, although he did a little better with the last feeding.
He told her Eddie had the same cold she had. The line was silent. He knew Anna was pissed off, but he couldn’t do anything about it, neither about the baby’s fever nor about her being mad. The paper clip twirled between his fingertips.
“Remember how you worried every time Chris had a runny nose?” he said as he gazed at the metal fastener. He admired the bend of the wire with its satisfying lack of symmetry, its look of a spiral that someone had stepped on. “It’ll be fine, Anna.”
She didn’t say anything.
“Look, honey, if you’re worried about Eddie, call Dr. Elliott.” He pulled the bottom of the film away from the light box to put a different tilt on the image.
Her response was a deep sigh.
His fingers curled around the clip. “Okay. See you tomorrow afternoon. I’ll try to be home by three.”
Her final words were, “We’ll be waiting for you to come home.”
As he set the receiver back on the cradle, he sucked on the narrow end of the paper clip. For Anna, badness lurked behind every corner and blew in with every breeze. Things that were minor disruptions to most people were major dangers to her. “Look at this . . .” she’d say, pointing to a scratch on Chris’s cheek. “Is that okay?” she’d ask, picking at a minuscule scaly patch on his neck. She lived like a cartoon character—a woman with a thundercloud permanently installed above her forehead.
He stared at the Durban kid’s films, searching once again the bony trabeculae of the kid’s knee for a crack line.
He hooked the paper clip to his wedding band and spiraled them against each other until the clip slipped off. Wedding. Bride. Last week. Upper Peninsula. Six years previously. Baltimore. Another bride. Anna’s walk down the aisle at their wedding, her hand resting on her father’s arm.
He hoped this memory would never grow dim. As she strode toward him, her milky satin gown had twisted over her breasts and hips like a whisper, its fabric writhing to the rhythm of the processional. Watching her move nearer, he was incredulous that the most beautiful creature on Earth was about to become his wife. Even now she was beautiful, but in a different way. Less ingenue. More responsible.
She had nervously whispered, “With this ring as a symbol of my love, I pledge to . . .” He couldn’t remember the exact words, even though he had uttered the same phrase as he slid an identical ring onto her trembling finger. Something about being faithful. At the time, they had spent hours weighing every word while they wrote and rewrote their vows. It was as if the ceremony were a cosmic phenomenon that hinged on using absolutely correct language. He remembered that they agreed “obedient” would not be in their nuptial contract. Now, over half a decade, a large mortgage, and two kids later, the exact wording seemed deadeningly unimportant. But, he remained committed to the idea of the whole thing.
He checked the clock on the wall—9:15—and wondered where the intern had gone. He typed a paging message into the computer, “I’m in radar—call 72025. Campbell,” and sat back to wait for the phone to ring.
Thank goodness Chris had a brother. There was something lonely—almost tragic—about only children like Anna. Their singleness deprived them of the tough, but irreplaceable life lessons that siblings could teach each other: how to negotiate for equal treatment from Mom and Dad; how to win and lose a fight; how to share a brownie and a bedroom and a can of orange Crush and the limited territory in the backseat of Dad’s Chevy. Not only did she have no siblings, Anna had only one cousin, Jennifer.
His family was different, full of kids, full of fun. As children, he and his two brothers and whichever boy cousins happened to be around would swipe jugs of 7Up from Uncle Allen’s basement, empty them as fast as possible in huge, slurpy gulps, and then hold burping contests. On cool misty afternoons, they drank creek water from their cupped hands and wiped their chins with the tails of their plaid flannel shirts. When they helped their grandfather feed the sheep, their stiff Carhartts—miniature versions of the overalls their dads wore—kept out the muck and the frigid winter wind.
And now, an echo through the generations, his son imitated him. He found it cute that Chris fished pickled pigs’ feet from the jar with his fingers and ate them sandwiched between Ritz Crackers; that he insisted on wearing the bill of his Detroit Tigers baseball cap—its plastic clasp was cinched as tight as it could go—low on his forehead; the way he drummed his fingers on the kitchen table in a syncopated, tappity-tap cadence while waiting for breakfast. Once Chris had patted Anna on the fanny as she walked past. She spun around and yelled at him to never do that again. But then yesterday, when Chris spilled a glass of orange juice and shouted, “Goddammit,” Anna had smothered a laugh and said, “Honey, that sounds just like you.”
Unlike Anna, he knew all about children. As a boy, he had been recruited to walk his younger cousins in the stroller, to push them on the swing in the park, to play horsey. He had learned how to change a diaper and mop up baby vomit before he was six.
He’d been impatient with Anna when Chris was a baby. She’d been terrified she would make a horrible mistake and wreck her child forever. She seemed to turn what could be very easy into something very, very hard—often. She worried about food allergies and buying the right toys, about Chris eating from Bullet’s bowl or falling headfirst into the toilet or tripping down the step between the kitchen and the family room. He, on the other hand, had always viewed kids as resilient and knew the important things about them: that eating cat food doesn’t hurt anybody; that kids are close to the ground—with bones as forgiving as Slinkies—and tumbles rarely produce serious damage; that the best toys for three-year-olds were cardboard cartons, tablets of plain paper, and boxes of crayons.
Yet, Anna was a good mother. Her worry was grounded in the deepest, most profound love for her children. Who could fault her for that?
In the silence of the reading room, he pushed aside his thoughts of Anna and tried to concentrate on Matthew Durban’s knees. He tapped the paper clip on the metal shelf of the alternator, creating a noise to perturb the quiet, to spring him back to the real world.
His pager sounded again. “ADMISSION—6N. NURSING HOME HIP FRACTURE,” read the message. He sighed. First, he’d do an arthrocentesis on Matt’s knee. Most likely the boy had a septic joint. Then he’d go see the old person with the broken hip. He twirled the paper clip between his fingers twice and slipped it into his pants pocket.
Chapter 6
Anna
Outside the bedroom window, first light tinted the inky sky with a tangerine blush. Alone in her bed, she coughed and a glimmer of awareness edged into her sleeping mind. She didn’t fully realize yet it was morning. Her back had pressed against the mattress for too long and needed a new position. She folded her pillow and rolled onto her side, curling her spine into a comma. With that turn, her left foot slipped into a place on the sheet, now cool and empty, where Jake usually slept. She withdrew her foot, nestled into the warmth of her half of the bed, and pulled the covers over her shoulder. She coughed again. Her mind began to unfold. Simple thoughts replaced sleep. Cozy. Snug. Secure. Bathroom. It’s so comfortable here.
Soon her neck felt stiff. She rolled onto her stomach. Pain. Searing pain. In her chest. She rolled back onto her side. Her groggy mind cleared even further. Her breasts ached into her armpits. Now her mind was fully free of sleep. Her breasts were tense, too full, sore as boils.
She opened her eyes to the peachy halo around the clouds that dotted the dawn outside the window. Why hadn’t she heard Eddie cry for his middle-of-the-night feeding?
As she stepped into his bedroom, she looked through the crib rails. He was asleep and still. She often crept into his room to watch him breathe, to observe her baby deep in the innocence of sleep, in that dreamy world that was his alone, a place she could never enter. She wanted to be sure he was still alive. Whenever she did this, she felt silly. Of course he was alive.
This morning, like every other morning, he was safe in his crib, breathing in and out, a peaceful rocking motion. She folded her arms under her heavy breasts to ease the pull on her chest. It was the most comforting sight imaginable—her baby quietly, gently breathing.
But as she drew closer to Eddie, she saw that his breaths were not even, were not the usual, steady to and fro. Instead, they blew out of him in jerks and stutters. With each breath, he uttered a soft grunting noise—an airy, mournful whimper. What was wrong with his face? It looked like chalk. “Eddie,” she called. “Eddie.” She pulled her baby from the crib. “Are you okay?”
He didn’t stir, but lay motionless in her arms. She jostled him, kissed him on the forehead. His skin was clammy. He still didn’t move. Why was he like this? Something was terribly wrong.
Thought fragments stumbled through her mind as she rushed him into the bathroom. He’ll be okay. He just needs a little tussling. Hot water. Jake. He’s got to be okay. Police. Cold water. 911. Of course he’ll be okay.
She turned the handle on the cold water faucet and sat on the open toilet seat, clutching him to her throbbing breasts. His head hung limp over her elbow; his arms and legs dangled against her belly. Forward and then backward, driving, driving, again and again, she rocked as if the intensity of her movements would bring color to his ashen face.
“No,” she called out loud. “No. Jake, why can’t you be home?”
Thought piled upon thought. Her heart galloped. Her breaths—deep gulps of air—came in quick jerks. Her body prepared to flee, she was ready to run. She could jump straight up; she could leap from rock to rock; she could cover a half mile in no time; she could run away. She had to get him to the emergency room.
She laid him on her bed and pulled a plaid, cotton shift from the closet. She tugged it over her head, down over her nightgown, and slid her bare feet into her clogs. Gathering Eddie in her arms, she ran into Chris’s room.
“Wake up,” she shouted. “We’re taking Eddie to the hospital.”
Chris wiggled under the covers and was then still.
“Now,” she called again. “Get up.”
He scrambled to the floor and stared at her with glassy eyes. The early-morning sunlight streamed through the window and sparkled off the patch of golden hair kinked above his ear. “I can’t go in my jammies.” His voice was thick and whiny.
“Yes, you can.” She grabbed at him.
“No.” He twisted out of her reach.
She stooped down, eye to eye with him. Her voice trembled. “Honey, Eddie’s really sick. We have to go now. Nobody will care if you’re in your jammies.” She dug her fingertips into his sleeve and dragged him down the hallway.
Her Subaru swerved around the corner into the emergency room driveway. EMTs were unloading an ambulance parked at the entrance. They pulled a stretcher from its rear door, set it on the pavement, and snapped the clasp that raised the bed to waist level. The patient was wrapped from chin to toes in a dark-colored blanket. She saw its head—a genderless face framed in gray hair and pitted with the creases of old age.
Her foot stomped on the brake. The car jerked to a stop behind the ambulance. A strange, gurgling sound rumbled from behind her. She listened. It came again—from the backseat.
“Mommy, Eddie looks funny,” Chris called.
“Funny, how?” She twisted her shoulder toward Chris and glanced backward. She winced as her seat belt dug into her aching breast.
“His eyes are rolling around.”
“Oh, God,” she gasped. She clambered out of the car. The soles of her clogs sank into an oily puddle. A man in a scrub suit stood in the hospital’s entryway. She screamed at him, “My baby’s having a seizure. Please help me.”
Inside, the damp, heavy air seemed to part in front of her as she ran after the man who carried Eddie. Smells of sour breath, disinfectant, fluorescent lights, rubbing alcohol, and old meat floated in sickening waves around her. Occasional electronic beeps punctuated the clatter of distant conversation.
A nurse—her name tag said MARY—laid Eddie on the scale. She wrapped a tiny cuff around his upper arm, pumped it up, and let it deflate. She stuck a thermometer into his armpit and, holding his elbow against his side, trapped it in the folds of his skin. She placed a stethoscope against his chest, stared at the clock on the wall, and bobbed her head to the beat of his heart.
In the boxes on the ER record, the nurse wrote, 10.1 kg, 65/40, 40.8° C, 80, and 120.
Anna didn’t know what these numbers meant, other than readings from Eddie’s body.
“Is that okay?” she asked. “Are those numbers normal?”
“High fever,” Mary answered, her voice pulsing with urgency.
Anna’s thoughts raced in forty directions yet went nowhere as they tried to grab the momen
t, tried to keep her far away, tried to bring her close, tried to convince her this wasn’t happening.
Mary carried Eddie into the nearest alcove.
Anna followed with Chris in tow.
“My husband is Dr. Campbell,” she said. “He’s here at the hospital. Could someone page him?”
She stared at her baby lying on the gurney. He looked like a rag doll. His eyes were shut, his knees bent, his lips slightly parted, his face pasty. Against the long, smooth sheet, he seemed very, very small. She shook her head, thinking he must be someone else’s child. This wasn’t the laughing baby that belonged to her. But those were Eddie’s clothes. The cotton sleeper with the rabbit embroidered on the front was a gift from her cousin, Jennifer. Last Christmas, she thought. No, the Christmas before. No, Eddie wasn’t born then. It was last Christmas. She shook her head again, trying to untangle the scrambled thoughts inside.
A doctor, tongue blades and ink pens stuffed in her breast pocket and a stethoscope dangling from her neck, slipped into the alcove and introduced herself.
A harsh light glared overhead. The walls seemed to move inward. Anna felt as if she were being crushed. She stared at the middle-aged, black-haired doctor, seeing and yet not seeing her. This woman, this stranger in the white coat, had stepped boldly forward to take care of her sick baby. She would help Eddie. The plastic ID badge pinned to the doctor’s pocket read DR. JUNE EASTERDAY.
“He looks dead,” Anna whispered. “Is he dead?”
The doctor slowly shook her head as she leaned over Eddie, caressing his soft spot. She cradled his head in her hands, moved it up and down as if weighing a melon. She pulled the wrapping off one of her tongue blades and tossed the rumpled paper toward the end of the gurney.
Anna watched it bounce off the sheet and fall to the linoleum. She stooped to retrieve it, but stopped midcrouch—it didn’t matter that the paper wrapper was on the floor.
Ten Days Page 5