by JJ Pike
Petra reviewed the facts as she understood them: the brain stem was fine, the damage she’d sustained thus far could be reversed, the blindness might be temporary, they wouldn’t know until they went in. But was that really necessary? Wasn’t surgery supposed to be the last option? Weren’t there other ways to find out? “Could you do another scan, just to be sure?”
The surgeon shook his head. “We need to go in, soon.”
She pressed her back against the chair to prevent herself from getting up and running away. “Soon as in today?”
“No, soon as in now.” The surgeon handed her a pen. “It’s not ideal. We’d prefer that it be a parent, but you’re her next of kin.”
“I need a minute.” She smiled. It was fake, she knew that, but that couldn’t be helped. She wanted them to stop talking so she could think it through.
The surgeon looked at his watch. “I’ll be back in five minutes. I know it’s a lot to take in, but I’ve been doing this procedure for over twenty-five years. She’s in safe hands.”
“So, she’ll live if we do this and die if we don’t. Is that the gist?”
The surgeon shook his head. “There are no guarantees, but this is her best option. Five minutes.” He walked as far as the nurses’ station, but didn’t leave the floor. That was no good. The pressure was still on.
It was too much responsibility. How had it come down to her? Mom and Dad were MIA, Aggie had gone AWOL, and Paul—her bestest, funniest, onliest true friend—was trapped in a city that was collapsing. She couldn’t think about how much danger he was in. That would be bad luck. You are what you think, right? Think good thoughts. Think about him getting out. Think about being together again. Think your way into his brain and make him strong enough to do whatever it took to make it back to her. “Whatever it takes,” she beamed from her mind to his. “I don’t care what you do, in order to survive, do it.”
That re-centered her. Paul would pull out all the stops, put himself first, ignore all the people who clawed at him, begging for help, because she—his bestest, freakiest, strangest sister—had asked him to. Knowing that calmed her. He’d never let her down. If anyone on Earth would break the laws of physics to get to her, it was Paul. He would come back and everything would return to normal.
Good.
Much better.
So, deep, deep breath and back to Midge’s brain.
She stared at the stack of papers one more time. She had Midge’s life in her hands. It made her stomach turn and her head spin. Just because the doctors said she personally was the one who had to decide, didn’t mean she had to. What if it was the wrong decision? What if Midge was permanently injured? Or worse? What if she died and it was all her fault? She couldn’t be the one to decide.
She ran her fingers over the phone in her pocket. She’d promised Aggie that she’d get rid of it (because: plastic), but she’d snuck it out of the trash and back into her bag. Talk about a lifeline. Mimi should decide. No contest. Why hadn’t she thought of that sooner? It was the panic. She wasn’t thinking straight. Mimi was perfect. She’d been around the block, seen the world. Heck, she’d even had cancer and been in a hospital for months on end, so she’d know what to do.
She dialed but couldn’t get through to Mimi’s phone. Then she remembered, Mimi was strictly old school. She only turned her phone on when she was making an outgoing call.
She hit autodial and watched Sean’s number ring and go directly to VM. She stared at the ceiling. When had she last seen him use his phone? Before the accident that tore up his leg. She didn’t remember charging it, and he couldn’t while he was bed-bound. She’d called his parents and left them a message about his injuries. She’d used her phone, not his. Not that it mattered. They hadn’t called back. They were the worst.
So, if Mimi’s phone was off and Sean’s phone was dead, who else could she call? Sean and Mimi were at Jim and Betsy’s house. Jim had a land line. She felt the laugh burble up from deep inside her panic. Who had a landline? No one. Well, these kind people who’d taken them in, but seriously no one else.
Surely Mimi could hear the phone ringing and ringing and ringing in Betsy’s kitchen. No one picked up and it didn’t go to voicemail. Had Mimi turned the answering machine off? Or had the stupid thing filled up and turned itself off? When news that Betsy had been shot got out, their phone had rung off the hook. She’d had a long, complicated surgery—it was touch and go a couple of times—but she’d pulled through. Jim said it was because she knew he’d never make it without her; that she’d come back to keep him out of trouble. It was miraculous. Midge could do with some of that luck. “Come on, Mimi. Pick up.”
She didn’t have time to go back to the house to grab Mimi and let her take control of the situation. She wanted to slap herself silly. It was her own fault she was in the hot seat with no adult to make the decisions. She had persuaded Mimi they should visit Midge in shifts. But that was when they thought Midge only had a scrape on the side of her head. They’d all believed she was hardly even injured, just being kept in for observation, nothing to worry about. All A-Okay.
But it wasn’t only that. Petra hadn’t wanted to leave Sean alone. His temperature had gone down, even though his stitches were inflamed and red and looked like they might bust apart any second. He’d told her how much he hated feeling useless and she was deathly afraid he’d get up and try to do something “heroic.” She’d made Mimi promise she wouldn’t take her eyes off him, which meant Mimi was coming in the afternoon when she got back to the house. She hit redial. The phone rang. Why wouldn’t anyone pick up?! Why, why, why had she told Mimi to stay away?
“Miss Everlee?” One of the junior doctors was back. She couldn’t remember his name. According to the chief neurologist, he was going to “assist.” He was young. Too young to be a neurologist, surely? Weren’t they all crusty old dinosaurs with a million years’ experience? Why would she let this guy saw into Midge’s brain?
“I’ll be back.” She grabbed her jacket and ran down the corridor. Jim was around somewhere. He’d been with Betsy all night. He’d know what to do. She would find Jim, he’d help her with the decision, the doctors would do their job, and everyone would survive. She took the stairs two at a time to Betsy’s ward.
The door to Betsy’s floor was locked from the inside. Petra waited a couple of minutes, hoping someone would come into the stairwell, but no one even passed the door so she turned and ran back up the stairs.
By the time she got back to Midge’s floor, the door to that stairwell was locked, too. There were scores of nurses not more than a few feet away. She banged on the door and waited. No one came. Her heart was beating in her throat, in her brain, behind her eyes. Being without Paul was a kind of hell. She wasn’t designed to be alone. She’d told her parents that they were supposed to be together “at the cellular level.”
When they’d gotten separated “for your own good” and sent to different colleges, her anxiety had been just like this: through the roof. Her roomie, Stella, had loaned her some Xanax to tide her over. Just until she got the hang of being around strangers with no Paul to shield her.
Stella’s older brother, Frank, had made his way through college selling prescription drugs to college kids who wanted to stay up and study, or get some sleep, or sail through a party, and everything in between, so Stella always had a few pills to spare. Frank could get you uppers, downers, benzos, candy, kibbles and bits, but not crank. He drew the line there. “Over the counter meds: yes. Over the counter meds that had turned into street drugs: no.” Petra wasn’t sure why methamphetamines (aka crank) were worse than Ritalin (aka kibbles and bits), but in Frank’s mind there was a distinction.
She stared at her phone. If she called Stella she might be able to score a couple of Xanax. She didn’t want to be out of it altogether. Floating in cotton wool, with the jagged angles of the world blurred would be enough. She’d be able to bear the harsh sterility of the hospital if she only had a way to smooth the edges. The door op
ened. It was that junior doctor whose name she couldn’t remember. Shouldn’t he be wearing a name tag? Or were they all running on empty now, worrying about what was going on down in Manhattan? She stashed her phone in her pocket and did her best to look like she hadn’t been seriously jonesing for something that would give her a little buffer against reality.
“We wondered where you’d got to,” he said. “Come back with me and we’ll get this rolling.”
Petra tiptoed into Midge’s room. What a horrible, impersonal place. She had to get her sister out of there as soon as possible. She took a deep, cleansing breath, but nothing changed. The room didn’t fade away, the heart monitor didn’t stop its incessant beeping (not that she wanted that to stop; “don’t get me wrong universe, that can keep going”), and the doctor who was too young didn’t evaporate. She grabbed the papers from the chair, took the pen from his hand and signed in all the places he told her to sign.
A couple of burly guys in white scrubs crowded the door and wheeled Midge away. She didn’t even have time to kiss her sister or tell her it was going to be okay or that they all loved her and it’d be back to normal soon. Then the doctor evaporated, gliding beside Midge’s gurney, and Petra was left alone with the television and her gruesome imagination.
“Look at all the people in the water. They’re not all going to make it. Let one of them take Midge’s place.” It was a terrible thought. She wished she could unthink it. But that wasn’t how her brain worked. She knew what came next. She thought an awful, immoral thing and her brain latched onto it with the speed and tenacity of a hungry cheetah. She could never outrun her brain. It was there, ready to hold her to account.
In this case, she’d offered the universe a trade: take anyone but Midge. Her brain led her through each of the logical steps. “Do you mean I should take one of the people already in the East River?” Petra choked down a sob. Did she care? Mom would say, “Protect your own first.” Dad would say, “Do your best.” What would Paul say? What would he do? Paul would find a way to make it fair on everyone. He was the best humanity had to offer. He never gave up. He would do everything in his power to make sure the maximum number of people won; or, if at all possible, no one lost.
But Petra’s world wasn’t like that. There were winners and losers. The thoughts would not leave her, even though she tried to conjure Paul and have him help her be better. She struggled against the “who will take Midge’s place?” trade, looking for a way to make it less odious.
Let someone old and happy, someone who had a good life and did all the things they wanted to do, take her place. It did no good. People who’d had “good lives” and “done everything they wanted to” included Mimi and Betsy. She couldn’t trade them for Midge.
She clamped her hands over her ears, as if that would weed out the inevitable. The mental calculator was already in play. Would she? If she had to? Would she trade her grandmother for her baby sister? Mimi would give her life for Midge’s in a heartbeat. But it was one thing to give your own life, quite another to offer someone else’s.
“Antalore vente, Paul.” If she used their private language and beamed her thoughts at him via their secret channel he’d come back sooner. “Come quickly. Don’t leave me here. I make myself crazy with these awful thoughts.”
She closed her eyes, wishing and hoping and praying that when she opened them he’d be there in the flesh, cracking up, telling her it had never happened, making things better. Instead she saw the Brooklyn Bridge on the TV. Though it couldn’t be real; what she was seeing was too much like a crazy sequence out of an action movie. This didn’t happen in real life. She held her breath as the bridge cracked and crumbled.
Those people spinning into the water, flapping and fighting and smashing into the waves would die, so Midge would make it.
She bent over and retched into the trash can.
Someone handed her a napkin. She hadn’t even heard them come in. She stood, wiping her mouth. “Oh, Jim…” The tears came. He was a minute too late to help her make the decision and now she’d thought the thoughts that had caused all those people to die. Why was that? Why hadn’t he been around when she’d needed him?
Jim wrapped his arm around her and gave her a squeeze. “You’re fine. It’s all going to be fine. Why don’t you come and sit with me and Betsy?”
They made their way to the fourth floor in silence. Jim was calm and quiet, but she knew if she wanted to talk he’d be cool with that too. He wasn’t like some of her professors who held silence like a weapon, willing you to talk when you’d rather not.
Betsy was sitting up.
Petra’s mouth fell open. “How?” She stopped herself. It would be rude to ask the obvious question. How are you getting better when Midge is getting worse?
Betsy held her hand out for Petra and they cried together.
“What do you mean there’s no amoxicillin?” The Charge Nurse had a voice that carried.
Petra watched the nurses shrug and back away, but no one answered.
The Charge Nurse railed at her underlings for three minutes straight. A picture emerged. The pharmacy had been robbed.
Petra inched behind the curtain on the far side of Betsy’s bed.
The pharmacy had been robbed. Hospitals to the south had been ransacked. Hospitals to the north were stockpiling in preparation for what was to come, but they too were running low on medication.
Petra knew in the sane corners of her mind that she hadn’t caused the Brooklyn Bridge to collapse, but she was fully and totally responsible for the lack of antibiotics.
She looked at Jim. He held a finger over his lips. They were in agreement. Silence was the only way forward.
CHAPTER FOUR
Christine scanned the passengers, weighing what she was going to need to say to win her the votes. She held onto the pole and tried to steady herself while the waves worked the boat from every side. She needed to look like she was in control. “Can I have your attention please? I need your help.” That was good, throw yourself on the mercy of people. People like to feel useful, to believe they can make a difference. Even if that difference is minuscule.
“My name is Christine Baxter. I’m the Chief Science Officer at a biotech firm in Manhattan. I know what caused this disaster.” She didn’t, but it was better if she sounded well-informed, authoritative, like someone they should trust. “With your help, we can prevent further deaths. I have most of the data I need to reverse-engineer what went wrong, but there’s one missing element. There is a girl who was injured in the original blast…” Might as well call it a blast. They wouldn’t understand the mechanisms that propelled MELT from a small vial on a plinth in a film studio, down through the bowels of the building, and into the sewage system below. “I need to find that girl. She has the answers. No, she is the answer.”
No one was paying her any attention. They were sitting around the edges of the boat gripping the rails, their eyes scanning the shoreline, grateful that they were off the island.
“I have the answers,” said Christine, “but I need this girl.”
There was a woman directly to her left who seemed to be listening. She was certainly staring, which was possibly an indicator that she was at least partially willing to hear her out. Christine leaned forward in an attempt to engage the woman fully. It was easier to talk to one person. She forced yet another smile, doing her best to be personable. It wasn’t her greatest strength. Her ex-husband had told her she had the smile of a lynx stalking a field mouse. She’d argued that lynxes didn’t stalk field mice, but he’d only laughed and told her she was making his point for him, that she was humorless, that she’d never understood him, and that he was leaving her for some toothy ninny he worked with. The ninny probably laughed in all the right places. All those places that made no sense to Christine. She hadn’t told anyone about the divorce. It was too personal. What would she tell them? He left me because I didn’t laugh at his jokes? There was no need for anyone else to know. It was a private matter an
d it was going to stay that way.
She knew she was on the spectrum, but not so much it was noticeable to the casual observer. She wasn’t like half of her fabulous Asperger-y colleagues, who could decode the Kryptos sculpture that sat outside the CIA’s headquarters at Langley in a matter of days but who didn’t wear shoes with laces in case they forgot to tie them.
She was simply deficient in certain areas that smoothed social intercourse. She wasn’t a good reader of people, didn’t know when to laugh, often missed sarcasm. It wasn’t that she was stupid—she knew that now—rather that her synapses didn’t go to those “social interaction” places. They went elsewhere. Where they were needed. Places that got her scholarships and grants and awards, but not close friends or warm relationships. She had to fake understanding humans and what made them tick. But she’d practiced. A lot. She could do this. Be friendly, be gentle, make no assumptions.