Chapter 8 Maggie
Maggie
She paced past the sink and saw her reflection in the mirror.
The hospital staff had confiscated her clothes, and her shoes as well, and she’d been reduced to wearing two hospital gowns, one back facing, one front facing, to avoid the humiliating exposure of her backside.
She might not feel like a patient, but she looked like one, her complexion washed out by fluorescent lights, her body swimming in shapeless blue cotton.
There was a knock on the door, and she turned to see Dr. Stamoran and another man walk in. Both were masked and gowned and wore plastic face shields for good measure. All to protect themselves against her. In her bare feet, dressed only in flimsy cotton, she felt exposed and nakedly vulnerable.
“Ms. Bird,” said Stamoran. “This is Dr. Chatterjee from Maine CDC. He’s joining your medical team, and he wanted to get caught up on your case.”
“As far as I know, I’m not a case yet,” said Maggie.
“No. No, of course not. Apologies.”
“Hello, Ms. Bird,” said Chatterjee, moving toward her.
He came within a few feet of her but did not shake her hand.
Of course he didn’t. No one wanted to shake the hand of Typhoid Mary.
But he had kind eyes, and he looked at her as if she was actually a human being, not a specimen to be dissected.
“I’m sorry you’re in this situation. And all because you tried to help a man. ”
“How is he? Dr. Maslov?”
“He’s in the critical care unit, but he has an excellent medical team attending to him.”
“Has he woken up?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Is he at least breathing?”
A pause. Chatterjee’s gaze faltered. He’s trying to avoid telling me the truth, she thought.
“Dr. Maslov is on a ventilator,” he finally said.
“There are respiratory issues, as well as other complications. But as I said, he has an excellent medical team.” Chatterjee glanced at Stamoran.
“And as luck would have it, we have in town one of the world’s top infectious disease experts. ”
Maggie nodded. “I heard Dr. Stamoran speak last night at the conference, so I’m familiar with his CV.”
“Then you also know you’re in good hands.”
Stamoran smiled. “And we’ll take care of you.”
“I’m hoping I don’t need any care. What are the chances this isn’t Ebola at all? Couldn’t it be something like food poisoning?”
“That’s possible,” said Chatterjee. “But Dr. Maslov’s low lymphocyte count is compatible with a viral infection.
His PCR screen is still negative for Ebola and Lassa fever, but it’s early in the course.
Until we can rule out something more dangerous, we have to err on the side of caution, so I think Dr. Stamoran made the proper call, keeping you in isolation.
It’s a matter of public safety. And you’re comfortable enough here, aren’t you? ”
“I’d like to have my phone back.”
“They took your phone?” Chatterjee looked at Stamoran.
“It was exposed to Maslov’s hotel room, so it’s been disinfected,” said Stamoran. “It’ll be returned to her.”
“How long do I have to stay here?” said Maggie. “I have a farm to run.”
“Ah, yes. I understand you’re a chicken farmer,” said Chatterjee. “I imagine that’s a lot of physical work. You certainly look fit. And you’re sixty-one?”
That was hardly ancient, although a young man like Dr. Chatterjee might think so. “I consider myself fit,” she said.
“And that will make a difference. Having no preexisting illnesses and a healthy immune system.”
“If I do get sick, what will be the first signs? I don’t have my phone, or I’d google it.”
Her question clearly made Chatterjee uncomfortable, and he didn’t immediately respond.
It was Stamoran who answered. Last night at the conference, he had delivered a matter-of-fact description of mass death and global catastrophe.
Now he answered her question with that same matter-of-fact voice.
“It will present like any number of viral illnesses. Muscle aches, headache. Fatigue, maybe a fever. Those are nonspecific symptoms, so even if you do experience them, it doesn’t mean you have Ebola. ”
“And then what happens?”
“It progresses to abdominal pain, vomiting, diarrhea, sometimes bloody. Patients may bleed from other orifices as well, like the mouth, or sites of needle punctures. It can progress to multiorgan failure.”
“But at least half of these patients survive,” said Chatterjee. “And there is a vaccine now, which we’ve requested on a rush basis from CDC. As soon as it gets here, you’ll receive a dose.”
“What about Dr. Maslov?”
“There are monoclonal antibodies we can give him, and those are also on their way here. So you see, there are therapies available. It’s not a death sentence, if they’re given early enough.”
“Is it early enough for Dr. Maslov?”
Chatterjee hesitated. “I’m not going to sugarcoat it. His condition is critical. He was a healthy man, but he was working in an Ebola hot zone and possibly exposed to large viral loads. Humanitarian work can be dangerous.”
As she had discovered. Yet she had not hesitated in that hotel room when she’d seen Maslov collapsed on the floor. She had made the choice to save his life, and this was the consequence: She was trapped in a hospital room, possibly incubating a virus that could kill her.
After Stamoran and Chatterjee left, she paced the room again, considering that question.
Could she ever again look at herself in a mirror if she abandoned a man she might have saved?
Some choices were too painful to be lived with.
She knew, because she’d made more than a few during her career, choices she still regretted.
There was another knock on her door. This time it was a nurse, returning Maggie’s cell phone, zipped in a plastic bag. At last, her conduit to the outside world was restored. She took it out of the bag and powered it up. It dinged again and again with a string of text messages from Declan.
Call me!
What’s happening?
Status?
***
She dialed his phone, and he answered on the second ring, sounding breathless.
“At last! What the hell is going on?”
“I’m still in isolation. I couldn’t call because they had to disinfect my phone. I just got it back.”
“Look outside.”
She went to the window and saw Declan and Ben standing below in the parking lot, waving. “You found my room.”
“Of course we did. Putting you on speakerphone, so Ben can hear. How are you feeling?”
“I feel absolutely fine.”
“No symptoms at all? No fever, headache?”
“I’ve been asked that question too many times already. I have no symptoms at all.”
“It’s still early.”
“Are you trying to cheer me up?”
“I’m sorry. It’s just that Ben and I have been reading up on Ebola, and it’s nothing to sneeze at.” He paused. “Bad metaphor.”
“If I do get sick, I’m lucky that Dr. Stamoran’s advising my medical team. But they still don’t know it is Ebola. It could be anything.”
“Right. Like some other fatal exotic African virus.”
“Again, Declan. Stop trying to cheer me up.”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I just hate the fact you’re up there and I’m down here and there’s nothing I can do. You know, it wouldn’t be hard to rappel up there and see you. If I waited till dark, who’d see me? I’ve got rope and climbing gear . . .”
“Whoa, boy,” Ben said, breaking into the conversation. “You just got your cast off. We don’t want you in there with another broken leg.”
Even from three floors up, she could see the worry in Declan’s face. She pressed her hand against the window, wishing she could touch him. Reassure him. “Go home. You can’t keep playing Romeo in the parking lot.”
“I don’t want to leave you here all alone.”
“Alone?” She laughed. “I’m surrounded by doctors and nurses who keep asking me how I’m feeling. I’d love to be left alone.”
“Have they told you anything? Given you any updates?”
“I know all my blood tests are normal so far. I can tell they’re puzzled, though, because I don’t think they know what Dr. Maslov has. So far, his screens for Ebola and Lassa fever are negative.”
“That’s good.”
“But it could take days before they’re certain. Until then, it seems I’m stuck here. So go home. I’ll call you if anything changes.”
“You just stay healthy. I’m counting on it. And don’t worry about a thing at home. We’ve got it all covered. Callie and Luther will take care of your chickens.”
“And the conference? What’s happening there?”
“It’s been canceled. We haven’t had a chance to catch up with Ingrid, but—” He paused. “That’s her calling now. I’d better take it.”
“Tell her she puts on a hell of an event,” Maggie said, and hung up.
She paced over to the sink and had the sudden urge to again wash her hands.
Closing the barn door after the horse has escaped, she thought as she scrubbed with soap and water for the fifth time that day.
Being trapped in quarantine made her acutely aware of all the microbes that must be swirling in the air.
She wondered about the last patient who’d stayed in this room, and whether the person had survived.
Wondered if the patient’s viruses still lingered here and if, even now, she was breathing them in.
She studied herself in the mirror and smoothed back her hair.
At the moment, she looked perfectly healthy, her arm muscles well-toned from working on her farm.
She was perfectly healthy, aside from the injuries acquired during her old job—a broken ankle after a bad parachute landing, a chunk of shrapnel embedded in her leg from an IED.
Her blood tests, according to Dr. Stamoran, were all in the normal range.
But of course they were; she wasn’t sick . . . yet.