Chapter 5 Maggie
Maggie
Saturday
At nine the next morning, almost every seat in the hotel ballroom was filled.
After last night’s opening speech by Dr. Stamoran, with its terrifying glimpse of a coming pandemic, the audience was back and primed to hear more horror stories.
There was nothing like the threat of global catastrophe to bring in an audience—especially this particular audience.
Many of the people in this room had spent their past careers focused on the world’s trouble spots, and while their lives in retirement were more sedate, they had not lost their interest in world affairs.
On this brilliant autumn day, when they could be outside enjoying the crisp weather, they had chosen to sit in a hotel ballroom to learn about the next possible threat to humanity.
“Already nine ten,” said Ben, glancing at his watch. “It’s starting late.”
“Ingrid’s not going to be pleased,” said Lloyd. “You know how she likes to run a tight ship.”
Indeed, Ingrid did not look happy. She stood at the lectern, glancing at her watch. Two of the speakers, Dr. Stamoran and Dr. Liu, were already in their chairs, ready to start the discussion, but the third chair was empty. Dr. Maslov’s.
“Uh-oh,” said Lloyd. “I know that look on her face. That is not a good look.”
“Where’s our third panelist?” said Declan.
Lloyd’s phone dinged with a text message. “It’s from Ingrid,” he said. “She wants me to fetch the fellow. He’s not answering his phone. Probably overslept.” He looked past his friends, who were blocking his way to the aisle. “Sorry, but I need to get out.”
“You stay put. I’ll get him,” said Maggie, who was sitting in the aisle seat. She stood up. “What’s his room number?”
“Two twelve.”
“Be right back.”
She walked up the aisle and out of the ballroom, past the giant poster with The Next Global Catastrophe printed in alarming red, past the unattended lobby desk, and climbed the stairs to the second floor.
The massive oak banister was a relic from an earlier era, when this stately old hotel, with its Victorian turrets and its wide veranda, served as a retreat for Boston Brahmins and New York industrialists who came north every summer to escape the heat and the noise of the city.
This same curving staircase had once been climbed by Rockefellers and Vanderbilts, staggeringly wealthy families who were now more likely to spend their summers on their private yachts, leaving grand hotels like the Cod Cove Resort to guests who demanded value for their money, but still craved luxuries like bathrobes and French-milled soaps.
She walked down the second-floor hallway to Room 212, where a Do not disturb sign hung on the doorknob. She knocked. “Dr. Maslov?” she called out. “It’s after nine! Your panel’s already started!”
There was no answer.
She knocked again, harder. “Dr. Maslov?”
Either the man had left his room, or he was sleeping so soundly that he couldn’t hear her.
Behind her, the elevator dinged, and she turned as the door slid open.
A hotel housekeeper emerged, pushing a cart laden with towels and toiletries.
The woman was nearly as old as Maggie, yet here she was, laboring at a job that required lifting and bending and scrubbing.
The workday had just begun, and the woman already looked weary from effort. Perhaps weary of life as well.
“Excuse me,” said Maggie. “This guest isn’t answering his door. Could you check if he’s in the room?”
The woman hesitated. “I’m sorry, but I’m not allowed to disturb a guest if there’s a sign on the door.”
“He’s supposed to be downstairs right now, giving a presentation. Could you just peek inside the room and see if he’s there . . .” Maggie glanced at the woman’s name tag. “Hannah?”
Reluctantly, the woman approached the door and knocked. “Housekeeping,” she called out. “Hello?” No answer. She slipped in the master key card and opened the door. Managed to take only one step into the room before she halted and backed out again. “Oh my God,” she said. “Oh my God.”
Maggie pushed past her into the room, where the air stank of sickness and vomit.
On the floor, near the foot of the bed, a man lay sprawled on his back, dressed only in his undershorts.
He appeared to be in his seventies, an age when any number of ailments might cause a man to collapse.
Maggie dropped to her knees beside the motionless body and pressed her fingers against the man’s neck.
A pulse was there, faint and rapid. Or was it her own racing pulse she felt bounding in her fingertips?
“Call 911!” she yelled. “Get an ambulance here!” As the housekeeper made the call, Maggie gave the man a shake. “Dr. Maslov! Dr. Maslov, can you hear me?”
He wasn’t breathing.
She grabbed a corner of the bedsheet and wiped the saliva from his lips. Fighting the overwhelming urge to gag, she pressed her mouth over his and blew in three breaths. Felt his neck again to check for a pulse. It was still there, but thready.
She glanced up at the housekeeper. “The ambulance?”
“The operator says it’s coming.”
“Do you know CPR?”
The woman stared down at Maslov. “Is he—is he alive?”
“Hannah, do you know CPR?”
“I don’t know how to!”
“Go down to the ballroom. There are two doctors, up on the stage. Tell them there’s a medical emergency. Go.”
The housekeeper finally shook off her paralysis and ran for the stairs.
Maggie bent over and gave Maslov three more breaths. The hospital was only two miles away. She needed to keep the man alive just long enough for the ambulance to arrive, and then she could hand him over to the professionals.
Three more breaths.
She no longer registered the foul smell of the room; her only focus was on filling Maslov’s lungs with air. She lost track of how much time had passed, how many breaths she’d delivered.
She heard the wail of an approaching ambulance.
Keep going. Keep him alive.
The siren screamed closer and abruptly shut off.
Just a few more minutes.
She heard the ding of the elevator, the clatter of a stretcher. Voices.
“Stop!” someone commanded. “Don’t go in the room yet!”
She looked up to see Dr. Cornell Stamoran standing in the doorway, his arms spread out to prevent anyone from entering the room. Behind him in the hallway stood two paramedics, looking confused.
“He isn’t breathing!” Maggie said. “Get them in here!”
“They need protective gear!” He turned to the paramedics. “Respirators, goggles, gloves!”
“Why? What’s going on here?” one of the paramedics said.
“This patient is a doctor. He just flew in from Uganda, where he was treating Ebola patients. I can smell the vomit from here. I have to assume he’s been infected.”
Maggie stared down at Maslov’s sweat-slicked face, remembering that last night, Ingrid had mentioned his work in Uganda. Now she thought about how many breaths she’d blown into his lungs, how many times she’d pressed her mouth to his. How many viral particles had she breathed in?
As the paramedics pulled on masks and goggles, Maggie backed away from Maslov and started toward the door.
“Wait,” said Stamoran. He found an N95 mask in the paramedics’ kit and tossed it to her. “Put that on first.”
A little too late now, she thought as she pulled the straps over her head. “Can I leave?”
“Not yet. We’re going to find you a Tyvek suit. Did you perform mouth to mouth?”
“I had to. He wasn’t breathing.”
“Then you’ve been fully exposed.”
She watched as the paramedics, now garbed in protective gear, crouched over Maslov’s body. Quietly she asked Stamoran: “Do you really think this is Ebola?”
“It could be just food poisoning. But we can’t afford to take a chance.”
“What am I supposed to do now?”
“You need to go into isolation.”
“For how long?”
“Until they determine it isn’t Ebola.”
“And if it is?”
He suddenly looked away, as if he didn’t want her to see the truth in his eyes. “Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it.”