Bitter Paradise

by Ross Pennie

  Terry paused, then fished her cellphone out of the back pocket of her jeans. “Jamila called me. On my cell. A couple of days ago. Said she was very sorry but she’d be fifteen minutes late. Held up at a doctor’s appointment.” Terry smiled and shook her head, remembering. “Poor sweetheart. Let me see if I’ve still got her number in my recent calls list.”

  Chapter 9

  As Travis headed from the kitchen to the recycling bin in the garage with the empty pizza boxes, Zol caught Max eyeing the computer-room door. Like a husky straining to get back into the Iditarod, Max was anxious to return to their game. But hadn’t he had enough Fortnite for one day?

  Duh, of course not.

  “Let’s the three of us play a few hands of gin rummy,” Zol said, bracing for eye rolls.

  “Geez,” Max said, patting his pants pocket for his cellphone. The thing was strictly off limits during meals and had beeped several times while they’d been gorging on pepperoni, mozzarella, and marinara. “Do we have to?”

  “Come on, it’ll be fun.” Like a father-son car ride, a father-son game of cards could be the perfect time for a candid talk. An opportunity for meaningful conversation that arose as if out of nowhere. A time for spontaneous dialogue that flowed naturally, came from the heart, and aired important issues — like what it felt like to watch someone get stabbed to death at close range and be terrified you’d be next. It was all over the news and the Twitterverse, so the boys were well aware: the assistant barber had died of his injuries.

  “But we promised Omar this would be just a short break.”

  “Who’s Omar?”

  “Just a kid our age.”

  “He plays Fortnite?”

  Max made the face that said the answer was obvious.

  Zol rubbed at a kink in his neck. Was “Omar” in actual fact a teenager? Or was he some pervert pretending to be one? Did his father worry he was spending too much time playing Fortnite? Or did the boy live in a home where the parents were out most of the time — working multiple jobs to make ends meet, or gambling, or cruising the bars until closing time?

  “You’re sure he is who he says he is?”

  “He sent us a selfie. And a picture of his —”

  Max’s eyes flashed and his mouth snapped shut as Travis came back from the garage. The boys exchanged a look.

  “A picture of what, guys?” Zol asked.

  Travis wiped his lips with the back of his hand and looked at his sneakers.

  “Nothing important,” Max said flatly then turned and pointed to the cupboard where they kept the playing cards. “You’re right, Dad, we should play gin rummy.”

  Omar had shown the boys something of interest, but Zol knew it was going to be a long time before he found out what it was. And the way teenaged boys operated, he probably never would.

  They played the gin rummy one-on-one, taking turns as the dealer. Travis never lost a hand. Perhaps staying mute allowed the brain to concentrate on other tasks such as keeping a keen eye on every card. Zol tried to ease the conversation toward the barbershop with a complimentary comment about Hosam, Max’s regular barber. The man had kept his cool and administered advanced first aid with the skill of a battle medic. Max didn’t bite. And because he was showing no signs of brooding about the morning’s events, Zol left it at that.

  During Zol’s second turn as the dealer, his phone rang. When he saw it was Tasha, he answered it on the second ring. “Hi, darling. Where are you?”

  “Are the boys okay?”

  “I think Travis prefers Hawaiian pizza to curried chicken, so they’re fine. We’re playing gin rummy.”

  “You’re kidding. The PlayStation’s on the fritz?”

  “A little bonding, that’s all.” Zol turned to the boys and threw them a wink. “Right, guys?”

  Max scowled at his cards as his lips tightened in a suppressed grin. He’d been enjoying the game in spite of himself. “Whatever.”

  Travis, bless him, gave Zol a full smile that looked sincere.

  “Where are you, Tasha? Still at the pet store?”

  “In the car. On my way to the airport. With the starfish.”

  “The courier is going to accept them?”

  “I think so. They said as long as I had them in the approved containers, they’d take them tonight.”

  “Well done. Are there any left in the pet store we have to worry about?”

  “Two or three dozen.”

  “Shit! You’re kidding. What are we going to do about them?”

  “It’s okay. I put most of them in a back room with strict orders that no one goes near them. Starfish can go a few days without being fed, so they’ll be okay.”

  “What do you mean most of the starfish?”

  “There are two in the store’s massive, showcase aquarium. The tank is far too heavy for anyone to move it. They’d have to empty it first.”

  “Geez, we can’t have them doing that.” Zol pictured parvovirus contaminating the entire Petz Haven megastore. When Max was little, Zol used to take him to watch the fish and other creatures in that tank. It was a fascinating and free Saturday morning outing. The place was always teeming with families.

  “The night manager helped me isolate it from the public with a wall we constructed of jumbo dog-chow bags.”

  “Clever.”

  “I left her several sets of coveralls, masks, and gloves with strict instructions that anyone feeding the fish in that tank should wear them.”

  The crick in Zol’s neck was bothering him again. Hunching over the cards had made it worse. “Did Winnipeg say how long it would be before we can expect some results?”

  “It may be fairly quick. They’re working on a project involving sea-creature viruses in Canadian waters. Something to do with those dead starfish Hamish told us about. I gather they’ve got a grant from Fisheries and Oceans Canada.”

  “Did they tell you anything more about the Parvo-W they isolated from our human specimens?”

  “It doesn’t match any of the viruses they’ve ever recovered from fish, starfish, or other sea-dwelling invertebrates.”

  “So they think we’re totally off base with our starfish theory?”

  “I’d say they were skeptical. But interested enough to be cooperative.”

  “The money from Fisheries and Oceans might have helped a bit, too.”

  “But it’s safe to say we won’t be getting any results for a few days at least.”

  A few days was too long for an infected aquarium to be sitting in a busy public space. “Do you think we should close the store now?”

  “The owner is away in Las Vegas for the weekend. He never takes his phone to the gaming tables, so it’ll be difficult to contact him.”

  Zol needed a moment to think. It was hard to make the best decision in the face of so much uncertainty. And the problem was, the best decision was often only visible in luminous hindsight. “At this point, the starfish are only an unsupported hunch. And given what Winnipeg told you about our Parvo-W, we’re probably way off track with the aquariums. I say we cross our fingers that no one interferes with the tanks, and we let the store stay open.”

  “Cross our fingers, yeah.” Tasha paused and exhaled a lungful of air. “Except . . .”

  “Except what?”

  “Well, there’s this girl. Jamila Khateb. She’s a high school student and cleans the fish tanks. Part-time.”

  “What about her?”

  “The manager sent her home sick today. Fever, headache, stiff neck. Apparently, she looked awful.”

  The mushrooms, bacon, and mozzarella churned in Zol’s stomach. “Sounds like meningitis or —”

  “Early polio? I called the family. They live in Beasley. Same neighbourhood as Cathcart Elementary.”

  Beasley was looking more and more like ground zero. But how could that be? The
Petz Haven store was across town from Beasley, and its customers came from every corner of the city. Geographically and scientifically, it was a stretch to imagine starfish as the source of parvovirus and the resulting poliomyelitis.

  “Jamila was confused when I got her on the phone,” Tasha continued. “The only other person in the house who spoke English was her nine-year-old brother. I explained that I was calling an ambulance for his sister because she needed to go to the hospital right away.”

  “The paramedics should be warned to wear their protective gear.”

  “Already done. And I left word they need to take her to Caledonian.”

  As the city’s only university-affiliated acute medical facility, all the polio cases were being cared for at Caledonian Medical Centre. The staff there were on a steep learning curve. Most of them weren’t alive when polio last traumatized the country, six decades ago.

  “I’m having second thoughts about letting the store open its doors tomorrow.” He looked at his watch. “What time do they close tonight?”

  “In less than an hour. Nine o’clock.”

  “Good. I’ll get Hamish to have a look at the girl when she gets to Emerg. Jamila Khattar, you said?”

  “Khateb,” she corrected and spelled it out.

  “Got it. Unless Hamish is certain she doesn’t have polio, I’ll get the cops to seal the place before opening time tomorrow.” He pictured the circus that would ensue: one angry pet-store owner, a gaggle of volatile reporters, and a zillion curious animal lovers.

  A dark cloud descended as he rubbed the back of his neck. Had Tasha’s trip to Petz Haven exposed her to the parvovirus? He shoved that thought into the black hole at the back of his brain. There were a lot of demons and bugbears in there. The trick was to keep them captive and not let any of them escape.

  Chapter 10

  “Dad!” Max called from the computer room after they’d put the cards away. “The doorbell?”

  “Yeah, I’ll get it.” Zol shut the dishwasher and pressed start.

  As he approached the front door, he could see Hamish standing on the outside steps. It wasn’t a surprise. Except for Travis and Jehovah’s Witness canvassers, Hamish was the only person who showed up unannounced.

  He shuddered as he stepped into the hall and set his loafers side by side on the mat. His ruddy cheeks said he was steamed up about something, but Zol dared not ask. He was sure to be treated to the dramatic details sooner or later. “Your phone went straight to voicemail, so I thought I’d see if I could catch you here.”

  “What’s up?”

  “They called me from Emerg. About another polio case they want me to see.”

  “A young girl? High school student? Family doesn’t speak much English?”

  Hamish looked briefly puzzled but pressed on with his own agenda. “No, a young guy. Mid-twenties.”

  “Shit!”

  “No kidding, eh? There’s no end to them.”

  “What’s his story?” Zol asked.

  “Fever and headache for a couple of days, maybe longer. The Emerg doc said the guy was cagey with the details. Anyway, the family got worried when he was unable to climb the stairs to his bedroom.”

  “And that started when?”

  “Today.”

  “Early paralysis?”

  “Looks like it. The Emerg doc says she found significant muscle weakness and diminished tendon reflexes in both legs. The arms are still okay. And he’s breathing fine — oxygen saturation is 97%.”

  Zol pictured the small finger clip that measured a patient’s blood oxygen level and expressed it on a monitor as a saturation percentage. Anything over 95% was good. “Are they working him up? I mean, for polio?”

  Hamish nodded. “CT of the head and a spinal tap are in the works. They may have some results by the time we get there.”

  “We?”

  “Yes, I want you to come with me.”

  “You’re sure?” Zol felt guilty at the thought of abandoning the boys, especially today. But there was no denying that the noises coming from the computer room were nothing if not enthusiastic. By now, those congenial few hands of gin rummy had been completely forgotten. Zol could stay out the entire night, it seemed, and the boys would neither notice nor care. Which, when he thought about it, wasn’t a bad thing. Resilience did deserve to be fostered.

  Hamish stroked his flattop with his palm. “I hear our guy’s got quite the family entourage. Maybe you can get some helpful clues out of them while I’m assessing him.”

  Family groups made Hamish nervous. When tasked with a clinical problem, he was best with patients one-on-one. “A double-pronged approach, then?”

  Hamish looked pleased. “Exactly. I’ll drive.”

  Hamish always drove.

  Twenty minutes later, they were striding through the Emergency entrance at Caledonian University Medical Centre. Before the heavy doors had closed behind them, the department’s evening charge nurse hailed the much-respected Dr. Hamish Wakefield with a wave of her clipboard. Dressed in blue scrubs and white sneakers, the woman was taller than Hamish, her bearing every bit as confident. Blond, spare, and unadorned, she looked like she’d been designed at an IKEA studio. Her piercing green eyes had seen everything, and her thin, unpainted lips looked more suited to giving orders than praise.

  “Evening, Dr. Wakefield,” she said, then turned to Zol. “Dr. Szabo, I presume.” She cracked a sly smile and lowered her voice. “I’ve been seeing too much of you on TV these days.” Then, realizing her unintended double-entendre, she blushed and said, “I mean . . . well, just a lot of your face.”

  Zol chuckled at the witticism and her discomfort. “Altogether too much exposure, I’m afraid.”

  Her eyes flashed briefly, then her chin dipped as she became decidedly sober. “I guess you gentlemen know we’ve got two suspected polio cases on this shift?”

  Hamish looked surprised. “What are you saying, Cheryl? No one told me anything about a second case.” The guy hated surprises. They were neither neat nor orderly, and they were impossible to control.

  “Sorry, Hamish,” Zol said, touching his friend’s arm. “I should have told you.”

  The truth was, Zol hadn’t had the chance. From the moment he’d backed his Saab out of Zol’s driveway, Hamish had talked nonstop about the catastrophic flood in his lovingly renovated kitchen. Hamish and Al were restoring — in exacting detail — their nineteenth-century house in a gentrified corner of Hamilton’s North End. The property overlooked the lake and the yacht club. Al discovered the deluge when he arrived home today after work. He was now dealing with the mess and the extortionist on-call plumber.

  “Tasha had to call an ambulance,” Zol explained, “for a girl with suggestive symptoms. She’s a high school student.”

  “Exactly how suggestive?” Hamish asked.

  “I’m not sure.” Zol dug into his pocket for the Post-it Note with the details. “Her name is Jamila Khateb.” He turned to Cheryl. “Is she here yet?”

  Cheryl checked her clipboard. “Yes. We have her in isolation. Room Three. I’m organizing a brain CT and a spinal tap.” She looked around to be certain no one was within earshot then turned to Hamish. “Dr. Wakefield, there was a little altercation with the family of the young man we called you to see.” She glanced again at her clipboard. “Bhavjeet Singh Malik.”

  “What sort of altercation?”

  “He’s visiting from Pakistan and has no medical insurance. His uncle falsely presented another family member’s Ontario Health Card to Daphne, our registration clerk. You must know Daphne. She’s a smart woman with . . . with a distinctive appearance.”

  Hamish swept his hand along the length of his left arm. “She has a giant crocodile tattooed from her shoulder to her wrist?”

  Cheryl offered a sardonic grin. “It’s a dragon, doctor. Anyway, Daphne noticed that
the insurance card photo shows a young man with a tiger’s head tattoo on his neck.” She pointed to the side of her neck, and the grin disappeared. “The patient, whose real name is Bhavjeet Singh Malik, has no such tattoo. We called them out on their deceit, and the uncle made a loud fuss for a while before he calmed down.”

  “Thanks for the heads up, Cheryl,” Hamish said as he guided Zol around a corner and into a quiet hallway. “We may be in for quite a ride with this lot.”

  “That’s okay. I always tell myself we’re here to serve the public and —”

  “Celebrate our diversity. I know. But I hate it when people try to scam our system.”

  As Hamish was about to push open a door marked male locker room, Zol led him back a few paces. He lowered his voice. “I forgot to ask you about the school principal, Mrs. Simon.”

  “They’re keeping her in the coronary care unit overnight. She’s had a couple of spells like this before. They think she must have triple S. As in sick sinus syndrome.” Hamish paused and searched Zol’s face for any sign he had an inkling of what he was talking about.

  Zol had more than a damned inkling. He was a real doctor, not a paper-pushing bureaucrat. “You mean episodes of extremely slow heart rate caused by a defect in the heart’s built-in pacemaker, the sinoatrial node? During such an episode, the blood pressure drops like a stone and the person can collapse in a syncopal attack. You mean that triple S?”

  Hamish had the good grace to study his fingernails for a tiny moment of self-reproach then said, “They’re going to insert a temporary pacemaker through her jugular sometime tomorrow.”

  “Thank God it’s not polio. Oh, there’s one more thing . . . The girl who Tasha called the ambulance for this evening, she works at Petz Haven.”

  “The pet store? Do they have aquariums?”

  “Sure do.”

  “No . . . Did she handle any starfish?”

  “Cleaned their tanks.”

  “Are we onto something?”

  “Dunno.” Zol looked at his watch. “But some of those starfish should be winging their way to Winnipeg any minute now. Tasha’s taking care of it.”