The Fever

by Diane Hoh

  Amy turned a deep pink. “Well, I know it was terrible, what happened to you,” she stammered. “What I meant was, you didn’t go into the lake. Dylan stopped you, just like Smith stopped you from stepping into the empty elevator shaft. That’s what I meant by lucky.”

  “Amy,” Duffy said, her voice quivering, “this place isn’t safe for me. I have to go home, right now, before something else terrible happens to me. Ask my doctor, okay? Tell him…tell him it’s absolutely crucial that I not spend another night in this horrible place.” Tears of fear and despair filled her eyes. “Please, Amy?”

  Matching drops of saltwater trembled on Amy’s own pale lashes. She couldn’t speak.

  “Duffy,” Cynthia said, folding and refolding an edge of Duffy’s yellowed blanket. “I know you’ve been through some really awful stuff. But it isn’t the hospital’s fault. The hospital isn’t out to get you. You’ve just had a couple of accidents, that’s all. You were in the wrong place at the wrong time. It could have happened to anyone.”

  “But it didn’t.” A sudden wave of nausea washed over Duffy, and her head began to ache. “It happened to me. And…and I just remembered…there was this weird noise…right behind me…just before the chair took off down the hill. I’d forgotten…but I remember now. This sound…”

  Amy leaned forward. “Noise? What kind of noise?”

  Duffy needed to sleep. She could barely keep her eyes open. She struggled to remember what kind of noise it had been. “I’m not sure…like someone was tiptoeing up behind me…you know, the way people walk when they don’t want to be heard? And then…a little creaking noise…the sound those old chairs make when the brake is put on…or…off.” Duffy’s eyes flew open. “Amy! That is the sound I heard…the brake being released on my chair!”

  Amy and Cynthia exchanged glances.

  “Duffy,” Cynthia said patiently, “that’s silly. I know you’re upset, but you’re really beginning to sound paranoid. Anyone fooling around with your chair would have been seen by the other people outside.”

  Duffy fought rising nausea. “Maybe not. I was at the top of the hill. Alone. Everyone else was on the slope. Why would they be watching me? Someone could have run up behind me, released the brake, and then run away.”

  “Duffy!” Amy exclaimed in horror. ‘That’s crazy! Why would anyone do such a horrible thing?”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Cynthia agreed. “It’s just your fever talking. The nurse said it was up again. You have to stop this, Duffy: hating the hospital, not letting yourself feel safe here. It’s keeping you from getting well. You have to relax.”

  Duffy made a rude sound. “Relax? Are you crazy? How can I relax?”

  “Maybe what happened,” Cynthia proposed calmly “is, a student nurse came along and intended to take you inside. She released the brake, and then something caught her attention…another patient needing something…and she forgot she’d released the brake. I’ll ask around, okay? Will that make you feel better?”

  Duffy felt tears of frustration threatening again. And she realized then what felt so wrong about the way people were reacting: They were all so sure the chair’s race down the hill had been an accident. How could they be so sure? How could they?

  She wasn’t.

  Frustrated and feeling extremely ill, she muttered, “You won’t get any answers from anyone, Cynthia. Smith didn’t when he asked about the sign on the elevator door. No one will admit to releasing that brake. Forget it.”

  Her parents arrived then. She could tell by the look on her mother’s face that they had already heard about the runaway chair. Maybe now they’d take her home.

  Amy gestured to Cynthia that they should leave. “We’ll come back later,” she told Duffy. “You’ll be feeling better then.”

  That was Amy. Always looking on the bright side.

  Was there a bright side?

  The only bright side, it seemed to her, was that her parents might take her home now, agreeing that she wasn’t safe here.

  That idea was quickly squelched. While her parents were upset about the downhill race, they were not only convinced that it had been an “unfortunate accident,” but their total faith in Twelvetrees Community Hospital and Dr. Jonas Morgan remained unshaken. If they had a concern, it seemed to be that their very imaginative daughter might be overreacting.

  “Honey, you have to calm down,” her mother said. “Although,” she added, “I do think someone could have stayed with you out on that slope. It’s so steep.”

  And her father said, “Duffy, of course it was an accident. What else could it be? You wouldn’t be reacting this way if you weren’t so sick.”

  When they had gone and Duffy was waiting for Jane to arrive, she tried to tell herself her parents were right. It had simply been an accident.

  Because she couldn’t think of a single thing she had ever done to anyone that would make them deliberately send her flying down a steep hill, trapped in a wheelchair. So if there was no reason, there was no plot to kill her. It had been an accident, period.

  But…she felt the wind again ripping at her face, felt the horror of being trapped in the speeding chair, saw the icy waters of the lake approaching…and heard again, as clearly as if she were once again out on the top of that hill, the sound of stealthy footsteps approaching behind her, the creak of the brake being released.

  Accident?

  How could she be sure?

  She wasn’t sure of anything anymore.

  Chapter 9

  DUFFY MISSED KIT FIERCELY. Images of the two of them exploring the woods, Kit with his ever-present camera, she with a stick in hand, played across the dingy white walls of her room. Being with Kit had always been so easy. He never demanded brilliant conversation or her complete attention, didn’t get his feelings hurt if she sat down on a log and became engrossed in a book while he wandered around taking pictures, and he always seemed to understand when she was in what her mother called “one of your moods, Duffy.”

  Where was he now? He couldn’t have reached the coast yet. She tried to picture a map of the United States in her mind. Where would Kit be by now? Didn’t you have to go across the desert to reach California? What if that old rattletrap of his broke down?

  A flash of anger at Kit darted through her consciousness. He should be here now. She needed him. He’d always been there before. Couldn’t he have put up with that awful uncle of his for just one more week?

  Ashamed of her selfishness, a wave of nausea flooded over her.

  But even when the shame eased, the nausea didn’t. And her head had begun to ache, a new symptom. Was the flu finally attacking her full force?

  As she struggled to pull herself to a sitting position, she noticed something odd about the ceiling light. It seemed surrounded by a frothy halo, something she had never noticed before. Were all fluorescent lights like that, or had the flu suddenly attacked her eyesight as well as her stomach and her head?

  She felt much worse than she had when she had first arrived at Twelvetrees Community Hospital.

  “This is not the place to come when you want to get well,” she told the aide who brought her dinner. “I didn’t feel this rotten when I first came in here.”

  “You’re just having a bad day,” the aide said matter-of-factly. “If I were you, I’d consider myself lucky to be alive. Smith Lewis said he couldn’t believe you survived that race down the hill. And you without a scratch! It’s a miracle.”

  That sentiment was echoed a while later by the nurse who came in to take Duffy’s temperature again and dispense more pills. “You should count your blessings,” she said. “Surviving such an escapade—it’s incredible. You’re a very lucky girl, Dorothy.”

  “Yeah, right,” Duffy said harshly. Then she added slyly, “Since you admit I’m having a bad day, how about making it better by letting me take a shower before visiting hours? Please? Just one tiny little shower?” A shower would definitely calm her down and ease the queasiness in her stomach.

&nb
sp; “Absolutely not!”

  Duffy groaned.

  “Someone would have to go with you and no one has time. And didn’t you just say your stomach was upset? Why on earth would you want to get out of bed and walk all the way down the hall when you’re feeling so crummy?”

  “Because maybe if I had a shower, I wouldn’t feel so crummy,” Duffy retorted. “God, I hate this place!”

  Amy and Cynthia stopped in briefly when they were collecting the dinner trays.

  Duffy thought Cynthia looked beat, and said so.

  “Yeah, I guess I am,” Cynthia admitted. “I keep falling asleep at night when I should be studying. But no school tomorrow…teachers’ conference, so I figured I could afford to work today. They’re awfully busy here.”

  “I know,” Duffy said grimly. “They won’t let me take a shower because they think I need a keeper and everyone’s too busy to go with me. I think maybe I’ll just take one, anyway.”

  Amy gave her a warning glance. “Duffy, honestly, why can’t you just obey the rules for a change?” Sighing, she turned her attention to Cynthia. “You work too hard,” she said softly. “What you need is a man in your life. Someone to take you to a funny movie or out dancing, help you unwind a little.”

  “I don’t have time to date,” Cynthia said.

  “Well, I do,” Amy said, her mouth curving downward. “For all the good it does me.” For a brief moment, her round face filled with sadness. “I thought that Dylan and I…” Then, just as quickly, her face cleared and her usual cheerful expression returned. “Oh, well, that’s life, right, Duff?”

  “Right.” But Duffy was surprised by the momentary bleakness in Amy’s face. Dylan had told everyone that his split with Amy was “mutual,” meaning, Duffy thought, that they’d both decided it was time to split up. But it certainly didn’t seem as if Amy was happy about the decision.

  After Amy and Cynthia had taken her tray and left, Duffy began to wonder. Had Dylan been lying about his breakup with Amy? Maybe to protect her from embarrassment? That was the kind of thing Dylan would do. He didn’t like hurting people. But Amy seemed hurt, anyway.

  Duffy felt briefly ashamed, because she had often wondered what outgoing, popular Dylan saw in a girl who got upset if her library books were one day overdue. Knowing now what a nice, thoughtful person Amy was didn’t ease Duffy’s discomfort. And remembering how attentive Dylan had been since she’d become a patient didn’t help. She wondered nervously if she had, innocently enough, had anything to do with Dylan and Amy’s breakup. She hoped not. She would hate that.

  It was silly to think about stuff like that now, Duffy reminded herself. Right now, all she wanted was to feel better. And despite what everyone said, Duffy knew that a soothing, hot shower would help.

  After all, it hadn’t actually been the shower the nurse had objected to. Only the need for someone to accompany Duffy.

  Well, I don’t need any help, she thought, preparing to slide out of bed. I can take a shower all by myself. I’ve been doing it for years.

  The room spun wildly. She saw double, and her knees melted. Her stomach heaved. “Oboy,” she murmured, clutching her stomach. This was not going to be easy.

  Kit always said nothing worth doing was easy. And he should know. Nothing had ever been easy for him.

  Duffy managed to slide her feet into her slippers, although looking down she saw four feet instead of two. The room spun crazily as she slipped into her robe and stood, up straight. But although she teetered dangerously, she remained upright.

  “Great!” she whispered, and collected her shampoo, razor, soap, washcloth, and towel from the cabinet in her bedside table. Then, walking very carefully, she made her way to the door and peered out.

  It was still very early evening, that quiet time after dinner when patients often nap before visiting hours. The halls were empty, the nurses away from the station, eating their own dinner or busy dispensing medication in other rooms.

  Duffy decided to risk it. Maybe she’d get lucky.

  She did. Clutching the wall for support, she made it to the twin shower rooms at the end of the hall without being stopped. The first door was locked, but the second doorknob turned easily in her hand. Heaving a deep sigh of relief, Duffy slipped inside and flipped on the ceiling light, locking the door of the small, beige cubicle behind her.

  She noticed with mild curiosity that this light, too, had a strange halo. Her head pounded anew, and her stomach did a dizzying dance. But there was the shower stall, so inviting in spite of the ugliness of the grim little room. A shower would make her feel better. Probably do more good than a thousand little pills.

  The shower felt unbelievably good, like a drink of water after a long desert trek. The tension in her muscles melted away under the flow of the wonderfully hot water. Her skin responded with joy, and Duffy felt momentarily well enough to hum a tune as she lathered and rinsed. Still dizzy, she was careful to lean against the cold, clammy tile as she scrubbed.

  She had just finished wrapping her blissfully clean hair in the towel and was in the process of awkwardly shaving her legs in the narrow tiled cubicle when she felt a sudden blast of cold air against her shoulders. She paused, lifting her head to listen. Had the door opened? No, that couldn’t be. She clearly remembered locking it.

  As she straightened up, there was the click of a light switch and the room disappeared into a thick cloak of darkness.

  Duffy was standing, soaking wet, in total, silent blackness.

  Chapter 10

  DUFFY’S FIRST CLEAR THOUGHT as she stood, wet and disbelieving in the shower stall, was that there had been a power failure. Cynthia had warned her that such failures were frequent occurrences in the old building.

  But…that wouldn’t explain why the door had opened, admitting that wave of cool air over the top of the glass shower door …or the sound of the light switch being flicked off.

  How could the door have opened? She hadn’t heard the sound of a key turning in the lock.

  But the water had been running the whole time. The sound of someone turning a key would have been muffled.

  Was there someone in the room with her now?

  Beginning to tremble, Duffy listened, not breathing. She heard nothing. Not a sound.

  With her only towel wrapped, turban-style around her wet hair, she grabbed her robe from the top of the shower door and threw it on over her water-slicked skin. Then, anxious to leave the musty, pitch-black room, she turned to retrieve her shower supplies from the tiled ledge.

  Suddenly, the shower door latch clicked open behind her. With only enough time to gasp in shock, Duffy was seized from behind and thrown bodily, facedown, onto the floor of the stall, where several inches of water had puddled due to the slow drain.

  Warm, soapy water filled her mouth and nose. She choked, gagged, spat, and struggled to pull herself upright, out of the foamy water. But a knee in her back pinned her down, rendering her immobile.

  What…what was happening?

  She was too tall for the tiny space. Her legs, cruelly bent at the knee, were crumpled up against the cold, wet tile. A fist pressed down painfully on the back of her neck. She was completely helpless, her mouth and nose submerged in warm water, unable to move …to scream…to make a sound…unable to cry out for the help she needed.

  Her mind, stunned and shaken, reeled in an effort to think clearly. All it could manage was a shocked, terrified, What is happening?

  But as she struggled desperately to free herself of the deadening weight on her back, to lift her head out of the soapy water, her mind cleared, and began to race frantically.

  I can’t breathe. I will drown in this tiny little bit of water if I don’t do something …something. But what? What can I do?

  Then she realized that her razor was still clutched in her right hand. A small pink plastic grooming tool, she was afraid it could do no harm to her attacker. It was designed specifically not to do harm.

  But it was all she had.

&
nbsp; Desperate, she slashed backward, hard.

  A harsh, guttural scream of pain echoed in the stall…a whispered curse…the fist left the back of her neck.

  Duffy threw her head up out of the water, gasping for air.

  The whispered, angry cursing above her continued as bright red droplets of blood began plopping into the soapy puddle surrounding her.

  The little pink razor had come through for her.

  Duffy lay in fear, her head stiffly held up out of the water at an awkward, painful angle. Had her desperate slash made her attacker angrier with her? Would the next attack, when it came, be even more vicious? She had no strength left to fight…how could she hold her head up out of the water if another attack came?

  She waited…not breathing…her heart beating wildly against her chest, tears of terror stinging her eyelids.

  With one final, whispered curse, the weight left her back. Another whiff of cool air entered the stall as the shower, door was flung open.

  And then came the blessed, beautiful sound of the wooden door to the room opening and ferociously slamming shut.

  She was alone again.

  But someone was very, very angry with her.

  Duffy lay on the floor of the stall, sobbing tears of fear and relief for what seemed like a long, long time, cradling her head on her arm to keep it up out of the water.

  When she felt her legs going numb, she used the palms of her hands pressed against the clammy tile to pull herself to her feet. Unsteady, her head screaming in pain, her stomach lurching, she swayed and had to lean against the wall for support.

  Her white robe was soaking wet. The towel wrapped around her head had been dislodged in the struggle; cold strands of sodden hair chilled the back of her neck.

  She began trembling violently and although she tried to still her shaking limbs, nearly biting through her lower lip with the effort, her body refused to obey her.

  It was so dark…so dark and damp….

  Taking a deep breath, she slowly pushed open the glass shower door, peering into the velvety darkness for any sign of a threat.