Bitter Paradise

by Ross Pennie

  “Well, please speak with her parents once more and specifically ask about the afternoon of the Friday before she became ill. See if they can tell you where she was at that time. Perhaps you might try interviewing the parents separately. Perhaps the mother knows something that Jamila didn’t want her father to know about.”

  “Yes, Ms. Sharma, the Friday afternoon before last. I have taken note of it.”

  “I’m worried she might have been up to something else. Not a doctor’s appointment but something she was ashamed of that exposed her to the Parvo-W and is playing a vital role in our outbreak.”

  When the persistent young woman urged him once again to speak with the parents and said she’d be in touch again tomorrow, Hosam’s hand shook so badly he could barely return the telephone to its cradle.

  Chapter 35

  On Wednesday morning, Zol awoke to the vague smell of old smoke and the sound of retching. The latter was coming from the bathroom. He reached across the bed for Tasha. She wasn’t there, but her pillow was still warm.

  He debated with himself about checking on her versus leaving her be. On the rare occasions he found himself vomiting, what he wanted most was to be left alone. The only thing worse than heaving your dry stomach into the toilet was someone watching you do it.

  After three more paroxysms echoed from the bathroom, he opened the door a crack and peeked in. Poor Tasha. Her favourite bathrobe was bunched across her back, and she was kneeling in front of the toilet as if in prayer.

  He pushed the door open and squatted beside her. Pressing his arm firmly around her waist, he said, “My poor darling. Not that damned gastro again.” He’d been sure the cryptosporidiosis thing they’d both had several weeks ago was well behind them. They’d succumbed to the allure of fresh fruit out of season — parasite-infested raspberries from Guatemala — and had paid the price.

  He ran a facecloth under the tap, wrung out the excess warm water, and handed it to her as he helped her to her feet.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, “I didn’t mean to wake you. But this time, I knew I wouldn’t make the other bathroom in time.”

  After she’d wiped her face, he took the facecloth from her and rinsed it with more warm water before returning it. “Don’t worry about me. I’m just sorry you’re having a relapse.”

  She gave him a wry smile and wiped her face again. He left her to brush her teeth and clean herself up behind the closed door. What had she meant by this time? Had she been ill for a few days without telling him?

  He returned to bed and checked his phone for an email from the province’s public health directorate in Toronto. They often sent alerts and updates overnight, but this morning’s message held only housekeeping issues. A good start to the day.

  When Tasha returned to the bedroom, she looked exhausted. Huge, dark circles had formed around her eyes. “I think you better take the day off,” he told her. “It will speed your recovery. Last time we both went back to work too soon. Remember? This polio thing has been hard on us both. Perhaps you’re not getting enough sleep.”

  “I’m not sick, Zol. I’m fine.”

  “You don’t look fine. Well . . . I mean, you will always look lovely to me, but right now —”

  “I don’t need a day off. I’ll feel better in a few minutes.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “I’ve been feeling like this for the past week or so. You haven’t noticed because I’ve been making it to the other bathroom in time.”

  “Do you think you need another round of antimicrobials? There’s a repeat left on the script Hamish gave us.”

  “I don’t think antimicrobials are indicated.”

  “Just rest, then?”

  “Zol, darling, have you noticed what I’ve been drinking lately?”

  “You opened that bottle of Sauvignon Blanc last night. We all had some, even Hamish. It was pretty good.”

  She shook her head. “I had sparkling water. I’ve been drinking quite a bit of it lately.”

  He thought for a moment and remembered the dozen green bottles in the recycling bin. Perrier. Women drank sparkling mostly when they were dieting or they were . . .

  He remembered her almost jumping off the bed last night when his thumb had grazed her nipple.

  Was she?

  Her lips were forming an impish grin.

  “Oh my God,” he said. “You’re pregnant.” He jumped out of bed and took her in his arms. “This is wonderful. Absolutely fantastic.”

  “You’re pleased?”

  “Of course I am. Oh Tasha darling, I’m so happy.”

  She kissed the base of his neck then pulled away. “The timing is terrible.”

  “Who cares about the timing, love.”

  “My mother.”

  “For heaven’s sake, you always say we shouldn’t let her judge us. Or interfere in our affairs.”

  “But this is different.”

  “How so?”

  She had no answer, just dark eyes brimming with tears and a quivering lower lip. He took her into his arms again and held her close. As always, he loved the warmth of her — emotional and physical.

  After a long, quiet moment, he whispered into her ear. “How far along are you?”

  “Seven weeks, today.”

  “Oh my! Not that it matters, but I thought we had this birth control thing covered. We are in the business of helping families plan ahead for healthy parenthood.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that. I must not have absorbed my birth control pills when I had that ten days of diarrhea. I guess they slid right through me without doing their job.”

  He felt the coolness of her tears on his neck. “I hope those are tears of joy because I’m so happy I could burst.”

  “Really?”

  “Of course. Along with Max, you’re the best thing that has ever happened to me. And now, with another little Max or Maxine on the way? What could be better?”

  “Maybe if you weren’t so horny, I would have recovered completely from my gastro before —”

  “I’m much more than horny, Tasha. I’m absolutely besotted.”

  “But still, the timing is terrible. What if —”

  “Let’s look at this rationally. You’re seven weeks now. The wedding is in another . . . How many days is it?”

  “Seven weeks plus three days.”

  “That means you’ll be fourteen weeks on our wedding day. Not even showing.”

  “But what about this morning sickness?”

  “It will be over by then, don’t worry.”

  “My mother says she vomited for six months straight when she was carrying me.”

  “And you believe her? You know we have to divide everything she says by ten to get even close to the truth.”

  “So you’re not upset?”

  “Upset? For heaven’s sake, I’m ecstatic. But look, if you’re worried about the timing, we can get married this week. A private civil ceremony here at home or at City Hall. Or anywhere else you’d like. We could invite a couple of witnesses and swear them to secrecy.” He loosened his embrace so that he could gaze fully into her face. “Would that make you feel better?”

  “Absolutely not. If my mother ever found out, she’d see it as a shotgun wedding and would never let me forget it.”

  “Fine, then. We’ll keep the wedding plans as they are. How tight-fitting is your dress?”

  “That’s why I’ve been avoiding Dinesh Ramsay, Mummyji’s dressmaker. I was afraid he’d notice me filling in as the weeks went by, and he’d tell Mummyji what was going on. He’s a terrible gossip.”

  “Will you be able to find something that suits the occasion and will accommodate” — he winked and made air quotes with his hands — “this filling in of ours?”

  “I think I found the perfect dress on the internet.”<
br />
  “Well, go for it, my darling. In the knowledge that your groom is absolutely thrilled you’ll be blossoming inside it.” He squeezed her again. “Now, I want you to take this morning off. I’ll make that trip to Tiffany’s flower shop.”

  “No, no. I’m perfectly capable of —”

  “Ms. Sharma, the boss insists. You’re having the morning off. With the option of the entire day if you need it.”

  “Zol, it’s not necessary.”

  “Maybe not, but I’d like the chance to test my skills in the field. I’ve been spending too much time in my office lately.”

  “Well . . .” she said with a cheeky look in her eyes. “I suppose I can work from home this morning if the boss insists. But I’ve got to visit that refugee women’s cooperative at lunchtime. You know, the place where Rima Khateb, Jamila’s mother, has been helping out.”

  “That’s today?”

  “I need to be there by noon or so.”

  “Even though we’ve pretty well ruled out foodborne transmission?”

  “For the optics, if nothing else. The other women will be antsy about Rima’s presence among them. And who knows? I might find an important tidbit among the hummus and tabouleh.” She grabbed his arms and pressed her thumbs into his biceps. “But before you set foot in Tiffany’s flower shop, you have to promise me something.”

  “What?”

  “That you’ll pick up some DEET and do a proper job of applying it before you enter that shop. If Tiffany’s got Zika-infected Aedes albopictus buzzing around her flowers, I don’t want you getting bitten and infecting me and Junior here,” she told him, releasing her grip and patting her tummy.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Chapter 36

  At the Health Unit, Zol took the back stairs two at a time, tossed his Stetson onto the rack, and dropped his briefcase on his desk. On the drive over, he could think about nothing but the baby in Tasha’s womb. They’d talked about having a child at a time that was best for Tasha’s career. But now that it looked like an infant would be arriving before the end of the year, the practical issues whirled inside his head. The only way he was going to accomplish anything at work today was to knuckle down and concentrate.

  He picked up the phone and buzzed the reception desk. “Good morning, Jesse, it’s —”

  “Hey, Dr. Zed. What can I do you for?”

  “I need to talk to you. I mean . . . in person . . . here, in my office.”

  “Uh-oh. Sounds serious.”

  “Nothing to worry about, Jesse. It’s good serious.”

  “Be right there, Dr. Zed. Do you need a coffee?”

  “Maybe later.”

  Thirty seconds later, Jesse was rapping on the door and sliding into the room. As usual, his shirt was loud. A Hawaiian number, today. And his earrings were long. Blue feathers that matched the birds on the shirt. At least he’d shaved today. When he tried the stubble thing, it was always too patchy for a good look.

  Zol invited him to take a seat but Jesse eyed the chair with suspicion and said, “How much trouble am I in, Dr. Zed? Maybe I should just stand and . . . and take it like a man.”

  “Relax, Jesse. I’m offering you a promotion.”

  The young man’s eyes widened in amazement, and he settled his lanky form onto the chair without a word.

  “The polio file is getting more complicated by the day,” Zol told him, “and I’d like you to join our investigative team.”

  “Are you serious? That would be wicked. Majorly wicked.”

  “Tasha tells me you’ve been following the outbreak closely and you understand a good deal of the science involved.”

  “I’ve always been fascinated by bugs, Dr. Zed. I had a butterfly and beetle collection when I was a kid. The other boys thought I was . . .” The innocent smile vanished from his face. “Well, you can probably guess.” He stared at his hands in his lap and picked at his well-bitten fingernails.

  Watching Jesse’s earrings twirl with every movement of his head, Zol imagined there were many things the other boys had taunted him about. Jesse was a talented guy who’d been born . . . well . . . different. There was no nicer way to put it. And it was clear he’d experienced more than his share of shaming and name-calling.

  “I’m looking for someone with plenty of smarts who has the insight to look beyond the meagre amount of info we’ve assembled so far.”

  “I’ve never been known for conformity,” he said, his eyes brightening a little as he fidgeted with an earring.

  “If we’re going to piece this polio thing together and bring the outbreak to a halt, we have to find the source of the Parvo-W.”

  “You’re looking for the one obscure thing that links all the cases, right?”

  Zol nodded. “That’s the guiding principle of epidemiological investigation, but —”

  “I’ll bet it’s something kind of weird. Outside the mainstream. Which is why it hasn’t turned up yet. I’m guessing it’s something embarrassing or shameful. Something a person would want to keep underground.”

  “We’ve found it impossible to interview any of the cases properly,” Zol told him. “Two lived alone and died quickly, three are still in medically induced comas, and all of the next of kin have been cagey or difficult to contact.”

  Zol reviewed with Jesse how the outbreak clustered around the Beasley, Limeridge, and Dundas sections of the city. When he described Tasha’s theory that word-of-mouth was likely how the three neighbourhoods became linked, Jesse agreed that her theory fit the underground angle. “My guess is we’re looking for something illegal, Dr. Zed. Or something on the black market. Whatever it is, it seems to involve people living on the margins.”

  Zol and Tasha had already noticed that the ten people afflicted by the outbreak were financially vulnerable. Until now, that had not struck him as particularly unusual. In public health, almost every issue came down to living standards. Poor people lived shorter and less healthy lives than rich people.

  “When I looked at their profiles,” Jesse continued, “I noticed they were all earning minimum wage or less. And working for the kind of employers who don’t provide benefits.”

  “I’m not going to say anything more, Jesse. I want you to use your own instincts, your unique point of view, and maybe your computer skills.”

  “Where do you want me to start?”

  Zol handed him a photocopied page from Tasha’s notebook. It outlined the precious little they knew about Darryl Oxman, the young janitor from Limeridge Mall. “This fellow was case number seven and the second death. He lived alone and was alienated from his family, which makes tracing his story a particular challenge.”

  Jesse took the page and studied it eagerly, pumped by the challenge.

  Zol said, “I want you to interview his employer at the mall. See what you can discover about him. Maybe the boss can point you toward Darryl’s friends, hobbies, habits — good and bad.”

  “If this Darryl guy had a secret life, his boss probably doesn’t have a clue,” Jesse said, then quickly looked down.

  Zol paused then cleared his throat, knowing he was about to tread on shaky ground. “Before you go, Jesse, I’d like to give you one last word of advice.”

  Jesse looked up and smiled warmly. “It’s okay, Dr. Zed. I’m going to change the shirt and ditch the earrings.”

  Five minutes later, the phone buzzed. Zol picked it up.

  “Hey, Dr. Zed.”

  “You’re still here?”

  “I asked Amanda to cover the phones for me, but she can’t start until eight thirty. Dr. Wakefield is on the line. He sounds super anxious. Can I put him through?”

  “Of course.”

  “We’ve got another one,” Hamish said.

  “Where?”

  “In ICU. I’m with her now. She had a respiratory arrest in the ambulance on the way to
Emerg. They’ve got her stabilized on a ventilator, but she’s one sick lady.”

  “Give me the thumbnail, will you?”

  “Asian female, thirty-five. First name Thuy, last name Nguyen.” Hamish spelled the names out then continued. “It’s impossible to get much out of the sister who came with her in the ambulance. The woman’s hysterical. But from what I can make out, the patient first showed signs of illness three or four days ago. She immigrated from Vietnam fifteen years back and now runs a nail salon with her husband and the sister. You’ll never guess where it is.”

  “Okay, I’m not guessing.”

  “Dundas. I checked the place out on Google Maps. It’s a hole-in-the-wall on Sydenham Street.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Of course not. Why would I be kidding?”

  “Sorry. Figure of speech. How close is it to Tiffany’s flower shop?”

  “Three doors down.”

  “Holy shit. Maybe we’re getting somewhere. Any connection to Vander Zalm’s Nurseries?”

  “Hard to say. The hysterical sister has never heard of Virgil or Niagara-on-the-Lake. And she told me the patient visited the Falls only once, and that was a long time ago.”

  “The Zika link must be with Tiffany. I’ll check it out when I visit her shop this morning.”

  “I thought Natasha was —”

  “Something’s come up.”

  “Another polio case?”

  “Something else. Listen, I need you to trace every move your patient made over the past three weeks.”

  “We’re expecting the husband to arrive shortly. I’m hoping he speaks English and won’t be blubbering like the sister.”

  “See if your woman’s been into something dodgy or frankly illegal. There’s a good chance our Parvo-W is eluding us because its source is underground. It may involve a conspiracy of some sort.”

  “Exactly how am I going to do that, Zol? If they’re using their nail salon as a front for laundering money, dealing drugs, or importing endangered species, they’re certainly not going to enlighten me with the details.”