by Ross Pennie
The principal looked anxiously toward the closest privacy curtain, afraid of being heard by whomever was in the next bed. A moment later, her shoulders relaxed and her eyes brightened. “They’re deaf as posts in here and barely alive. So I don’t know what I’m worried about.” She looked at Natasha for a moment, then leaned forward and whispered, “We were given a peek into a cannabis operation.”
Natasha admired Muriel Simon’s spunk. The woman was far more than the sum of her not-so-mousy parts. “You took the kids to a cannabis grow-op?”
“Now Miss Sharma, it’s not a grow-op when it’s a sophisticated operation harvesting cannabis for medical use.”
“You were allowed inside?”
“Not exactly. The interior is strictly controlled in terms of climate and hygiene. But they do let you look through a glass wall.”
“Were the kids spellbound?”
“Um . . .” She paused, then nodded matter-of-factly. “I think that is the right word. But I don’t want you to think . . .”
“Think what?”
“That, uh . . . that we were corrupting our students. Our teachers made it abundantly clear that this particular cannabis crop was strictly for medical purposes.”
“Did you get any blowback from their parents?”
“Do you mean, were they angry that we showed their children the legitimate side of something that has become a key element in many of their lives? Oh, Miss Sharma, our Beasley neighbourhood may be financially compromised, but our families’ attitudes are inspiringly . . .” She searched a moment for the right word. “Enlightened.”
Her eyes widened with alarm, and she shot a hand to her mouth. “Oh my goodness!” She pushed herself straight up in bed. “You have it in mind that two of my students, and their beloved teacher’s aide, came down with polio as a result of their trip to the greenhouses. Exposure to pesticides, perhaps? Oh, dear God, I’ll never forgive myself if more of them —”
Natasha rested her hand on the poor woman’s arm and glanced at the monitor. Her systolic blood pressure had shot up twenty-five points.
“Take a few deep breaths, Mrs. Simon.” Natasha couldn’t take her eyes off the numbers in the digital array. “Please try not to upset yourself. We have no reason to think those greenhouses have any direct bearing on the polio outbreak.” At this moment, absolute honesty was not nearly as important as the poor woman’s blood pressure.
Muriel Simon tightened her lips. She was used to giving instructions — not following them — and ignored Natasha’s advice about breathing deeply. “If you don’t think the details of our field trip are pertinent to your investigation, why are you asking me these particular questions?”
“We’re following every avenue of investigation that presents itself. I know you wouldn’t want us to leave any stone unturned.”
“You mean like our starfish and dear Pancho and Pedro?”
“We must seem intrusive, and I’m truly sorry about the starfish, but —”
“Your need to discover the source of the polio epidemic has made you desperate for answers. I can see that with crystalline clarity.”
The woman was right. Natasha was desperate. And so was Zol. Hamish, too, in his own way. And there was no point in trying to deny it to this perceptive woman. “I’m afraid you’re right. At this point, I think every one of us at the Health Unit feels desperate to some extent.”
Mrs. Simon seemed pleased that she’d scored a point at Natasha’s expense. She obviously enjoyed reading people, a skill she must use every day in dealing with her students and their parents. She studied her monitor for several moments then gave Natasha a satisfied grin. “Look,” she said, “my blood pressure is settling on its own. We can keep going. What else would you like to know?”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course. I enjoy solving conundrums as much as you do.”
Natasha studied the monitor. No alarms were flashing or sounding. “Well then, let me ask you — do you remember where the greenhouses were located?”
She gestured impatiently toward the monitor. “I need this technology to stimulate my heart, Miss Sharma, not my brain. The little grey cells are working just fine.”
“Yes, of course. I’m sorry. So . . . the greenhouses . . . they were located in . . . ?”
“That small place not far from Niagara-on-the-Lake. It’s on the main road before you enter the town. What’s it called? Oh yes, Cicero. A grand name for something that’s no more than a hamlet.”
Natasha had visited Niagara-on-the-Lake at least a dozen times and had never heard of a village called Cicero. And then it dawned — the woman was confusing her Latin scholars. “Might the place have been called Virgil, Mrs. Simon?”
“Oh, goodness. How silly of me. Of course it was. Named after the Roman poet, not the orator.”
Natasha felt her face flush and her own heart rate climb twenty points. Mrs. Simon’s students had visited the exact village where Dr. Polgar told Zol a mosquito surveillance team had trapped the Aedes albopictus. The Cathcart Street students and their teachers could have been bitten by those mosquitoes. And if the mosquitoes were carrying Zika virus, they could have infected Cathcart Elementary’s staff and students. What a thrill to be making progress after so many dead ends in the investigation. But it would come apart if the polio victims from Cathcart School had not been on that trip.
Natasha touched Mrs. Simon’s arm. “Did Ms. Asante go on the field trip?”
The principal’s eyes glistened with tears. “Yes, bless her. She went on all our trips.”
“And . . . well . . . it’s not fair to expect you to know the answer to this without consulting your records, but —”
“I don’t need to consult any records. Both of the children who developed polio were also on that trip. They were helpful translators when it came to interacting with the migrant workers tending the tomatoes and the flowers. The labourers came alive to my students as real people thanks to Juan-Carlos and Céline. Juan-Carlos, as you can well imagine, being from El Salvador, speaks fluent Spanish. And Céline’s first language is Haitian Creole.”
“We think mosquito bites might be a key element in our polio puzzle. Is it possible —”
“I can stop you right there. The mosquitoes in the tulip greenhouse were nothing short of a scourge. Something to do with our unusually hot April and the humidity in the greenhouse. I got three bites myself. But never in a million years did I think they —”
“Did you notice mosquitoes anywhere else?”
“No, just in the tulip nursery. And, yes, I remember what it was called. Vander Zalm Nurseries, located in the same hamlet with the pretentious name. Virgil.”
Natasha couldn’t help smiling at the woman’s moxie. “Did you happen to notice what those mosquitoes looked like?”
Mrs. Simon was looking pleased with herself. She’d been providing answers her entire working life and seemed to be delighted to keep them coming now, each accompanied by a detailed explanation. “The older kids thought the mosquitoes looked like the pictures of the children in The Boy in the Striped Pajamas. Have you read that book? It’s by John Boyne and is set in a World War Two Nazi internment camp. The grade sevens studied the novel this year. To be honest, it packs quite the emotional punch.”
Natasha opened her notebook. “You don’t mind if I jot down a few points to remind me of this conversation?”
She glanced again the privacy curtain next to her. “I would prefer you didn’t mention the . . .”
“It has no bearing, Mrs. Simon. There’ll be no mention of it in my notes.”
With her pen poised over her notebook, Natasha stopped to think. She’d just confirmed that three of the epidemic’s ten polio cases had visited an Aedes albopictus hotspot in Niagara Region during April this year. She needed to find out how many others had done the same. The deceased janitor had lived alon
e, which might make it difficult to trace his steps. The family of Jamila Khateb — the girl who worked at Petz Haven and was now on a ventilator — didn’t strike Natasha as likely to have visited Niagara’s greenhouses or to have shopped in Niagara-on-the-Lake’s upscale boutiques. They didn’t speak English and would have more urgent demands on their limited income. It was, however, possible that Jamila did visit Niagara on a trip sponsored by her high school.
“Do high schools sometimes take their students on field trips, Mrs. Simon?”
“Certainly.”
“I’m wondering about Sir John A. Macdonald High School. I need to know if one of their students, a seventeen-year-old girl, visited Niagara Region recently.”
“Niagara is a favourite field-trip destination for Sir John A., I do know that. But can’t you just ask her?”
“She and her family are recent refugees from the Middle East. Her parents don’t speak English, and she’s incapacitated at the moment — unable to talk.”
“Oh dear, oh dear. That sounds ominously like dear Ms. Asante.”
Natasha dipped her gaze to her notebook. “I really can’t say.”
Mrs. Simon waved a dismissive had. “I understand your situation. You’re not at liberty to release confidential information. Especially about a topic as sensitive as this polio epidemic.”
“Well, as I say . . .”
“Never mind. I have a friend you can call. She’s a guidance counsellor at Sir. John A. If that school took their students to Niagara recently, Marg Bickerton can tell you exactly when, where, and which students were on the trip.” She pointed to the locker beside her bed. “My phone’s in there. If you hand it to me, I’ll give you Marg’s number.”
The laboratory in Winnipeg had promised to let Natasha know the results of Jamila Khateb’s Zika virus testing this afternoon. If Jamila was Zika positive, and if she’d gone on a school trip to an Aedes albopictus hotspot in Niagara, that would mean four of the epidemic’s ten cases — forty percent — had visited Niagara Region in April this year and had been infected with Zika virus.
Natasha wondered if it was too soon to hope she might finally be making headway against the epidemic. The source of the Zika component of the double-virus infection did seem almost in view. The source of the Parvo-W component remained as elusive as ever. Finding it depended on pursuing her word-of-mouth theory. But given the demographic diversity of the cases outside Beasley, that wasn’t going to be easy.
Her phone buzzed in her briefcase. She apologized to Mrs. Simon and dug it out. Jesse’s too-eager face was beaming at her, announcing his call from the Health Unit. She prayed he had results from Winnipeg, and that the laboratory provided more answers than questions.
Natasha stepped into the hall outside Muriel Simon’s room and hit the green button on her cellphone. “Yes, Jesse? You’ve got results for me?”
“I’m just fine, thank you for asking.”
“That’s the good thing about you, Jesse. You’re always in fine form.”
“All the same, it’s nice to be asked.”
She wondered what earrings he was wearing today. His Day-of-the-Dead pearly skulls, his Long John Silver gold-coloured hoops, or his Steven Tyler feathers?
“Did Dr. Szabo ask you to call me?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. But Dr. Zed is tied up at the moment. He’s having a serious conversation with the mayor, who sounded like a bear when he called the office and demanded to be put through to the boss.”
The mayor always sounded like a bear when a local outbreak was mentioned more than once in the Hamilton Spectator and angry letters to the editor started piling up. Natasha figured it was letters from angry voters, not the plight of innocent citizens, that got him steamed over outbreaks of infection.
“Dr. Zed says you’ll be pleased with what I have to report from the good folks in Winnipeg,” Jesse continued. “How’s your day going so far?”
“I’m standing in the corridor of the cardiac ward at CUMC. It’s not the easiest place for chit-chat.”
“You mean, you’d like me to call back later? At a more convenient time?”
Natasha never liked sarcasm and found the best response was silence. She touched her earlobe. What earrings, she wondered, was she wearing today? She’d got dressed so quickly this morning she couldn’t remember. Ah yes . . . the sterling silver triangles Zol bought for her last year in Singapore after that disastrous . . .
“You still there, Natasha?” Jesse said, ending the awkward silence.
“I most certainly am.”
“Okay, then,” he said, his tone conciliatory. “I’ll make this quick and snappy.”
“Thank you.”
“The two most recent polio cases, Jamila Khateb and Bhavjeet Singh Malik, are positive for Parvo-W. In their blood and their spinal fluids. That makes each of the ten cases positive for Parvo-W virus. It’s invaded the central nervous systems of all our victims, and still we have no idea where it’s coming from.”
We? What made Jesse think he was part of the investigative team? “Did they send us any other results?”
“Yes, indeed.” He cleared his throat. “As promised, they ran Zika virus PCRs on the spinal fluids of our polio cases. Eight of the ten are virus positive.”
“Hmm . . . Which two are negative?”
“Let me check.” She heard paper rattling as he thumbed through Winnipeg’s printout. “Oh! That’s interesting . . .”
“What?”
“The two without Zika virus in their spinal fluids are the two kids, Juan-Carlos and Céline. They are anti-Zika antibody positive but Zika virus negative.”
That struck Natasha as both interesting and perhaps explainable. The two people in the epidemic with the mildest disease were the two children. Neither had required intensive care, and both had been discharged from hospital after only a few days. Perhaps children neutralized Zika virus more efficiently than adults did, as was the case with other viruses, such as measles, mumps, chicken pox, and West Nile virus.
“Anything else, Jesse?”
“That’s it for now. But on my lunch break, I’m going to buy a bucketful of insect repellent.”
How much did Jesse know about the epidemiology of Zika virus? she wondered. He’d been hired part-time as an IT guy and receptionist, not as a biologist. “Why’s that?”
“Ten fresh Zika infections spread across our fair city means Aedes albopictus, or one of its cousins, can’t be far away. I figure a mosquito tiger is in our midst.”
“Keep that to yourself, please, Jesse.”
“Lips are sealed. Oh . . . Dr. Zed is buzzing me. He must have finished with the mayor. He’ll need a large coffee. See ya!”
Natasha returned to Muriel Simon’s room to say goodbye. “Before I go, Mrs. Simon, is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable?”
“I’m fine, dear,” the principal said. “I need nothing better than you to get to the bottom of this polio epidemic. The board refuses to close my school, but at least I have you people at the Health Unit watching over us.”
Out in the hallway again, Natasha phoned the number Mrs. Simon had given her for Marg Bickerton, her friend from the guidance office at Sir John A. Macdonald High School. The call went immediately to voicemail. Natasha dropped Muriel Simon’s name in her message and made it clear she would appreciate a return call as soon as possible.
Chapter 25
One floor above the cardiac ward, Natasha hurried toward the intensive care unit. At the unit’s imposing entrance plastered with curtly worded rules and regulations, she used the wall phone next to the locked doors and explained the reason for her visit.
A receptionist buzzed her in and told her to report directly to the nursing station. There she was directed her to put on a gown, gloves, and shoe covers from a nearby counter. She was told to wait for someone to escort her to Jam
ila Khateb’s room. She was relieved it had been decided that the lack of polio transmission within households meant she wasn’t required to wear a mask.
When she walked into Jamila’s room a few minutes later, what Natasha noticed first was the noise. The rhythmic hiss-cluck-hiss of the mechanical ventilator brought back horrible memories of Cousin Vik’s three days in ICU. They didn’t call motorcycles donor-cycles for nothing. Six transplant patients had benefitted from Vik’s fatal crash, but that didn’t diminish the intensity of the family’s nightmare. Vik’s mother still worried he’d been removed too soon from life support. Sometimes, she claimed her son was still alive until the doctors killed him by removing his beating heart.
Natasha took a few deep breaths and forced herself to suppress the image of Auntie Saroj wailing at Vik’s bedside. Today, it was Jamila in the bed, a beautiful young woman lying peacefully on her back with her eyes closed.
Even with an endotracheal tube in her nose and a disposable bouffant cap askew on her head, she was attractive. Her lashes, long and luxuriant, rested gracefully on her delicate cheeks. There were no lines around her brow or eyelids to suggest she was anxious or uncomfortable. The midazolam dripping into an IV port in her left arm was doing its job.
Standing next to Jamila, their hands resting near her but afraid to touch her, was an exhausted-looking couple: a woman wearing a beige hijab and a man in baggy chinos and a wrinkled shirt. The fear in the couple’s eyes, the tension around their lips, and the despair in their shaky hands made them unmistakable as Jamila’s parents. How terrifying this must be for them. They’d escaped the horrors of war-torn Syria only to be thrown into another one. This time, in a foreign land where everyone spoke an incomprehensible language.
“As-salaam alaikum,” Natasha said as she approached, keeping her hands by her sides and her voice soft yet hopefully audible above the whir of the ventilator.