by Bonnie Doran
Worth eavesdropped on the conversation at the nurses’ station. He doubted they knew he could hear them, but his room’s glass doors had been left open to the bustle of the caregivers. He could see their faces as they watched the patients. Worth had learned to read lips, a useful skill he’d picked up before getting a decent hearing aid. Between his clear line of sight and the stage whispers, he had no trouble understanding them.
Annie and another nurse—was it Diane?—spoke with worried tones.
“How are you doing?” Diane sipped her coffee. She looked as tired as Annie had earlier.
“There’s not enough coffee in all of Colorado to keep me going.” Annie gulped. “I’m in the middle of a double shift, like you and everyone else. Intermediate Care is handling overflow, and still it’s not enough. I don’t know how long we can hold out.”
“Did you talk with Dr. Stephens?”
“Yes. He thought it could be something like Hong Kong flu. The current vaccine doesn’t work.” Annie huffed a breath. “It’ll take months to develop a new one.”
Diane drained her mug. “We could have dozens more cases by then and who knows how many across the country.”
Worth sensed hesitation in Annie’s lowered voice. “I wonder if it’s H1N1, the original one from 1918. I did some research on it in nursing school. Nasty. The media will probably speculate about it. Once they do, it’ll be the lead story on every news program.” She took a deep breath as if she were plunging into the deep end of a pool. “Any word of this, and the population will panic.”
“Well, the papers didn’t hesitate to spill the beans on Mr. Hildebrandt’s health. They’ve been out to get him for a long time. Boy, once they get their jaws around some scandal, they’re like guard dogs.” Diane looked pensive. “I wonder how they found out about his HIV.”
Worth tensed.
Annie sighed. “I don’t know, unless someone blabbed. Some photographers got in here the other day, but I booted them out. Today’s paper said ‘unnamed sources,’ and that could mean anything.” She shrugged. “We may never know.” Annie stood and stretched. “I need to make my rounds. I’ll check on Hildebrandt again.”
As Annie approached his room, Worth quickly turned on the television and pretended interest in a nature program about naked mole rats. He wanted to prop his eyes open with toothpicks to look halfway alert, but what he needed was a nap. She did the usual, checking oxygen and pulse levels, swapping out the expended IV bag for another, and noting the information on his chart. She hung it backwards at the foot of the bed. “Is there anything I can get you, Mr. Hildebrandt?”
“Please call me Worth. Got that lung transplant I ordered?”
Annie smiled. “Sorry. It wasn’t in the UPS delivery.” She glanced at the bedside pitcher that Worth had barely touched. “Your urine output shows you’re not drinking enough. I want you to finish this by noon.”
“Aye, captain.”
Annie grinned. She turned to leave and nearly collided with Dr. Stephens. They stepped out of Worth’s room and spoke in hushed tones with their backs to him, but Worth picked out a few words. “CDC,” “index case,” and “marriage seminar.”
Worth closed his eyes. How had the media found out he was HIV-positive? He shivered with a chill that had nothing to do with his fever. Only one person would have relished telling the press. The woman who infected him.
Miss Tanda.
****
Carol’s gaze followed the orderlies as they wheeled an empty gurney past her room. Odd. Usually they rolled someone in and occasionally someone out, but no one was on this gurney, unless…oh.
She’d visited an ICU ward when a friend was ill and asked the nurse about it. Apparently, someone who died was usually hidden underneath the gurney on a shelf like they’d used for her personal belongings. The thought made Carol squirm.
“Mike. Did you see that?”
He looked up from his book just as it—the body—disappeared through the double doors. “What?”
“An empty gurney. It could have someone, uh, dead underneath it.”
“Huh. That’s the first one I’ve seen leave here without someone on it. Might mean nothing.” He shrugged and returned to his book.
Carol coughed into her elbow. She thought she’d feel better by now. She turned her lagging attention back to the TV, a bit miffed at her unobservant husband. But he was here. Her attitude softened.
The evening news anchor switched his gaze to the in-house expert. “We’re tracking the unseasonal virus. Here’s Dr. Cohen. Brad, what’s the situation?”
“Well, Quinn, the CDC reports outbreaks in Idaho, Wyoming, Kansas, and Utah, with the most cases in Colorado. They’re looking for the index case—the first known case of this virus—and are confident they’ll find it soon.” Dr. Cohen frowned. “They’ve reported three deaths, two of them elderly with breathing problems and one in her twenties.”
Mike’s book dropped to the floor, startling Carol. “Twenties? Since when has the flu killed someone in their twenties?”
Like me. Carol tried to concentrate on the newscast, but the drugs were making her sleepy. “I heard Worth Hildebrandt is getting worse.”
“Hmmm?” He tore his eyes from the TV and looked at her.
Huffing out a breath would only make her cough. After five years of marriage, she should know to get his attention before talking. Mike didn’t always hear her when he was deep into a novel or a TV program, and she couldn’t talk above a whisper. “Worth’s really sick, isn’t he?”
“That’s what I overheard. Sicker than you are. Probably caught the same bug at the seminar.” He picked up his novel, a thick thriller.
She bristled at his lack of conversation and tried again. “I can’t imagine feeling worse than I do right now.” The effort of talking made her cough, echoing the hacking from the other rooms. She ached all over, and breathing was almost more trouble than it was worth. She wanted him to pay attention to her, argue with her, something. “I just wanna die.”
Mike clenched his fists. “You’re not going to die.”
Carol regretted her cheap tactic. They locked eyes, worry etched into Mike’s face. He returned to his novel. Mike was usually a fast reader, but he hadn’t flipped a page for a long time. He’d also been spending a lot of time in her room before and after work, sometimes reading and sometimes—was she sure it wasn’t the drugs?—just holding her hand. She reached for a tissue. Lack of sleep during her long stay in ICU must be the reason for her weepiness.
She dozed, vaguely aware of her husband sitting in the chair in the corner. Slumber wouldn’t come. The hushed cacophony of the ward at night kept her awake in spite of her weariness.
The chair scraped as Mike dragged it to her bedside. He held her hand to his heart. Then she heard Mike pray. It shocked her so badly that all she could do was feign sleep.
“Please, God, don’t take her from me.” His voice cracked. “Please. I love her. Please, heal her.” Mike poured out his soul to God. Carol feared to interrupt such a holy moment.
Odd. Comforting warmth spread through her down to her toes. No vise squeezed her lungs. She took one deep breath, then another.
Finally, Mike quieted. Carol opened her eyes. He stared into hers, sniffling. “Feeling better?” His smile held strained edges.
“Mike.”
He gripped her hand like it was the only thing saving him from a long fall off a cliff. “I love you. I’ve never stopped loving you.” He blew his nose in a honk that was totally Mike.
“Oh, Mike.” Carol tried to hug him, but she only succeeded in knocking the sensor off her finger. The machine beeped indignantly.
They chuckled at the annoying sound. Carol sank back in her bed from the awkward embrace and swiped at her eyes.
He kissed her temple, perhaps afraid of aggravating her nostrils still irritated by the things in her nose. She reached up to caress his jaw, rough with dark stubble and wet with a single tear. They broke apart reluctantly as a nurse ba
rreled into the room, apparently alerted by the machine’s beeping. She glanced at the sensor lying on the bed, re-clipped it onto Carol’s finger, and left in a huff. Annie stepped into the room and did the usual, efficient things. Carol smiled back, feeling like a naughty schoolgirl.
The nurse, Annie, checked the machine next to the bed and started to write figures on the chart. She frowned and checked the machine again. She studied Carol’s face.
Carol gulped. Oh no. “What’s wrong?”
Annie’s puzzled expression morphed into a grin. “Nothing. Your oxygen rate’s improved. And you don’t look as pale as you did earlier. I’ll ask Dr. Stephens to check on you this morning, but I think you’re on your way to recovery.”
Carol winked at Mike and breathed a silent prayer of thanks. She cleared her throat. “What happens next?”
“If the doctor decides you’re well enough, you’ll be released to a regular room. You’ll probably stay overnight and then be discharged. How does that sound?”
“Heavenly.”
“I’ll let him know. Breakfast?”
“Yeah. I think so.” Carol wasn’t hungry, but eating was one of those things the hospital insists you do before they unshackle you. “Something simple.”
“Broth and gelatin.” Annie grinned again. “It’s what we do.”
Carol and Mike stared at each other after the nurse left. She smiled. “Hi.”
Mike smiled back. “Hi.”
“So what do we do now about us?” She couldn’t get past the fear dampening her joy. Would there be an “us”? After Mike’s confession of love, could she not light one candle of hope?
“Climb back on our horses and ride off into the sunset?” Mike’s attempt at levity curled one corner of Carol’s mouth, but the other corner reserved judgment. He turned serious. “Something tells me we have to find the horses first.”
“Could we try marriage counseling?” Carol lifted her eyebrows.
“Yeah, we could. Whatever it takes.”
They were still holding hands when breakfast arrived.
****
Carol sighed. It was a relief to breathe without those pesky things in her nose.
The doctor had released her to a regular room. She really was getting better. She still felt weak, but being sick with the flu and lying in bed for several days will do that. One good sign—the hospital food was starting to taste bad.
Mike sat at her bedside as she ate lunch. The tomato soup was acceptable, but the macaroni and cheese…She tried one more bite and gave up. “Blech.”
Mike chuckled. “That bad?”
“Yeah. It’s a secret plot. Makes you want to leave the hospital fast.” Carol smiled. “Actually, most of the food here is a cut above institutional food and more than a few notches above mine.”
“One more night, then you’re home.”
“I can’t wait.” She sighed. “What I want more than anything is a pepperoni pizza from Romano’s.”
Mike raised his eyebrows. “That does sound good. We’ll celebrate when you get home.” He patted her hand. “I need to return to the office, at least for a few hours. I’ll be back after work.”
“Promise?”
Mike kissed her forehead. “Promise.”
After a short nap, Carol thumbed the remote for a television program more exciting than infomercials. The nurse’s aide presented dinner around 5:30. Carol was debating whether to trust the substance that looked somewhat like meatloaf when Mike returned. He was hiding something behind his back, but the aroma of garlic betrayed him.
“Romano’s?”
“Nothing but the best. Pepperoni and mushrooms.” Mike grinned as he pulled out a white pizza box. He set the hospital food tray on a nearby chair, pulled apart two pizza slices, and put them on paper plates. Two colas appeared from his coat pocket. He winked and closed the door. Then he produced three LED tea lights from another pocket and switched them on. They flickered into happy glows.
For the first time in three years, they said grace.
25
“I” Plus Eight Days
“Pyat, chetirye, tree, dva, odeen, start.”
Dan startled from his daydream. The Russian countdown wouldn’t happen. They couldn’t launch the resupply rocket.
They’d hurried their preparations of Progress M-09M and shaved a week from the original launch date. The unmanned spacecraft would have docked tomorrow with food, water, and oxygen for the beleaguered station. The weather still wouldn’t cooperate, and now they had another problem.
Steve gripped the Russian liaison’s shoulder. “I know your people did their best.”
The liaison hung his head. “Da. Russia stands ready to help, but Progress”—he heaved a sigh—“Progress cannot help.”
Dan’s hopes sank. How in the world could they reach the station in time? He turned to Steve, who snapped another pencil.
A controller who overflowed the seat of his chair turned to the flight director. “Flight, radar confirms ISS has moved out of danger from Larry’s body or Reconciliation.”
“Good job, Ernie.” Steve swallowed.
“With the new radar upgrade, we can find a pin if we have to.”
Steve gave a somber nod. “Ladies and gentlemen, let’s observe a moment of silence for our fallen colleague.”
Dan bowed his head.
The memorial service on Earth had been with full military honors, of course. Larry’s death hadn’t really registered for Dan until then, the gloomy day reflecting his mood.
Steve ended the silence with a return of his usual mission intensity. “Tracking, where is Reconciliation now?”
Bruce turned, a head above the other controllers even when sitting. “Over the South Pacific.”
“Control, how long before we reestablish telemetry?”
Sweat shone on the middle-aged man’s bald head. “I don’t know. It’s tricky with the instruments compromised. I’m having to reset the—”
“I know the difficulties involved, Harry.” Steve’s smile earned a nod from the man. “I know you’re doing the best you can under the circumstances. We certainly never anticipated this scenario.”
Harry straightened. “Yes, sir. We’ll get it back soon.”
“Good.” Steve stood and stretched. “OK, people, Blue Team is ready to relieve you. Brief your replacements and be back here at oh-six-hundred hours.”
Dan talked with the next CAPCOM. As he filed out, he whispered to Steve, “What do you really think are the chances of recovery?”
Steve’s eyes reflected weary confidence. “Good. Very good.”
Dan’s heart lifted a bit. Recovery of Reconciliation had become a symbol of Larry’s legacy and a personal issue for all at Mission Control. A second issue filled Dan’s mind—the opportunity for Frank to clear his name. He wanted his friend to have that chance. No doubt lodged in Dan’s mind that an instrument glitch caused the accident.
He stopped at the cafeteria before heading home. He loaded his tray with everything in sight. Stress eating. Shorty Baxter waved at him from a corner table, and Dan walked over. “Hey, Shorty.”
“Hey yourself. Just getting off CAPCOM duty?” Dan’s fellow astronaut bit into his barbeque sandwich. “Ah, that’s better.”
Dan slid his tray onto the table and sat. He stared at his plate. “Yeah. It’s been brutal.” He slathered his baked potato with the works and smashed it over and over.
“How’s Hildi holding up?”
“Fine.”
“There’s something you’re not telling me.” Shorty pointed his fork at Dan to punctuate his words.
Dan stabbed at his pork chop. Maybe he wasn’t hungry after all. “I just don’t know anymore.”
Shorty polished off his meal in two more bites. “Sheesh, everybody but you can see it. You love her, right?”
“Yeah.” Dan stretched the word. Did he? Maybe that explained the backflip of his brain every time he thought of her. “I think so.”
“You know so. So
what’s kept you from popping the question?”
“I keep asking myself that. Right now, it’s 250 miles of space.”
“Look, Dan.” Shorty gulped his sweet tea. “Take it from someone who nearly let the woman of his life get away. Go get her.”
If only it were that simple.
****
Dan readied himself for bed. Six hours’ sleep for days in a row just didn’t cut it for him. He didn’t share Shorty’s confidence in NASA. The station needed that oxygen, and he saw no way anyone could deliver it in time. The thought of Hildi gasping for breath dropped his heart into a deep elevator shaft.
He’d never patched things up after their quarrel. Now she’d never know he loved her. If the rocket was lost, so was any hope of rescue.
No rescue. The station would soon become a tomb for Hildi and five other astronauts. Death by asphyxiation.
26
“I” Plus Nine Days
Dan ran tired fingers through his hair as Steve led the discussion. A discussion that was going nowhere. The flight director had called an impromptu and critical meeting.
“OK, people, let’s go through this again.” Steve cupped his chin in his hand. “We can’t reduce the air pressure—”
“No.” Another geek from ISS control jabbed his pen at a copy of the report.
“I agree.” The flight surgeon’s pale face was even paler than usual. “Any lower and we risk unconsciousness.”
Dan’s heart lurched at the image of Hildi’s body floating through the corridors.
Steve tapped his pencil on the conference table littered with papers, laptops, and discouragement. “Other ideas.”
The surgeon cleared her throat. “We could order them to minimize their movements. Maybe even make them sleep more with pills.”
“What about inducing a coma?”
Dan knew they were grasping at smoke, but they had to come up with something or six astronauts, including Hildi, would inherit the station as their private mausoleum. He squeezed his eyes shut.