“Lock the door, baby.”
“I can’t stay, Ben. I have to get back.”
She told him about her patient.
“You’ll have to file a police report,” Wallace said. “It’s the law.”
“The law hasn’t protected her before. Look, all she wants to do is get away from her husband. She worked as a secretary. Didn’t you say you needed a new file clerk?”
“Well, yes, but…wait a minute!”
“Thanks,” Honey said. “We’ll get her on her feet, and find her a place to live, and she’ll have a new job!”
Wallace sighed. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“I knew you would,” Honey said.
The next morning, Honey went back to see Mrs. Owens.
“How are you feeling today?” Honey asked.
“Better, thanks. When can I go home? My husband doesn’t like it when—”
“Your husband is not going to bother you anymore,” Honey said firmly. “You’ll stay here until we find a place for you and the children to live, and when you’re well enough, you’re going to have a job here at the hospital.”
Mrs. Owens stared at her unbelievingly. “Do…do you mean that?”
“Absolutely. You’ll have your own apartment with your children. You won’t have to put up with the kind of horror you’ve been living through, and you’ll have a decent, respectable job.”
Mrs. Owens clutched Honey’s hand. “I don’t know how to thank you,” she sobbed. “You don’t know what it has been like.”
“I can imagine,” Honey said. “You’re going to be fine.”
The woman nodded, too choked up to speak.
The following day when Honey returned to see Mrs. Owens, the room was empty.
“Where is she?” Honey asked.
“Oh,” the nurse said, “she left this morning with her husband.”
Her name was on the PA system again. “Dr. Taft…Room 215…Dr. Taft…Room 215.”
In the corridor Honey ran into Kat. “How’s your day going?” Kat asked.
“You wouldn’t believe it!” Honey told her.
Dr. Ritter was waiting for her in Room 215. In bed was an Indian man in his late twenties.
Dr. Ritter said, “This is your patient?”
“Yes.”
“It says here that he speaks no English. Right?”
“Yes.”
He showed her the chart. “And this is your writing? Vomiting, cramps, thirst, dehydration…”
“That’s right,” Honey said.
“…absence of peripheral pulse…”
“Yes.”
“And what was your diagnosis?”
“Stomach flu.”
“Did you take a stool sample?”
“No. What for?”
“Because your patient has cholera, that’s what for!” He was screaming. “We’re going to have to close down the fucking hospital!”
Chapter Twenty
“Cholera? Are you telling me this hospital has a patient with cholera?” Benjamin Wallace yelled.
“I’m afraid so.”
“Are you absolutely sure?”
“No question,” Dr. Ritter said. “His stool is swarming with vibrios. He has low arterial pH, with hypotension, tachycardia, and cyanosis.”
By law, all cases of cholera and other infectious diseases must immediately be reported to the state health board and to the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta.
“We’re going to have to report it, Ben.”
“They’ll close us down!” Wallace stood up and began to pace. “We can’t afford that. I’ll be goddamned if I’m going to put every patient in this hospital under quarantine.” He stopped pacing for a moment. “Does the patient know what he has?”
“No. He doesn’t speak English. He’s from India.”
“Who has had contact with him?”
“Two nurses and Dr. Taft.”
“And Dr. Taft diagnosed it as stomach flu?”
“Right. I suppose you’re going to dismiss her.”
“Well, no,” Wallace said. “Anyone can make a mistake. Let’s not be hasty. Does the patient’s chart read stomach flu?”
“Yes.”
Wallace made his decision. “Let’s leave it that way. Here’s what I want you to do. Start intravenous rehydration—use lactated Ringer’s solution. Also give him tetracycline. If we can restore his blood volume and fluid immediately, he could be close to normal in a few hours.”
“We aren’t going to report this?” Dr. Ritter asked.
Wallace looked him in the eye. “Report a case of stomach flu?”
“What about the nurses and Dr. Taft?”
“Give them tetracycline, too. What’s the patient’s name?”
“Pandit Jawah.”
“Put him in quarantine for forty-eight hours. He’ll either be cured by then or dead.”
Honey was in a panic. She went to find Paige.