“Mrs. Zabriski is sick,” she blurted out as soon as Marissa introduced herself. “I talked with her a little while ago. She’s downstairs in the emergency room but she is going to be admitted to the hospital. They think she has the same thing that her husband had. My God, am I going to get it too? What are the symptoms?”
With some difficulty, Marissa calmed the woman enough to explain that in the L.A. outbreak the doctor’s secretary had not come down with the illness.
“I’m still getting out of here,” said Judith, opening a side drawer of her desk and taking out a sweater. She tossed it into a cardboard box. She’d obviously been packing. “And I’m not the only one who wants to go,” she added. “I’ve talked with a number of the staff and they are leaving, too.”
“I understand how you feel,” said Marissa. She wondered if the entire hospital would have to be quarantined. At the Richter Clinic, it had been a logistical nightmare.
“I came here to ask you a question,” said Marissa.
“So ask,” said Judith. She continued to empty her desk drawers.
“Dr. Zabriski had some abrasions and a cut on his head, as if he’d fallen. Do you know anything about that?”
“That was nothing,” said Judith, making a gesture of dismissal with her hand. “He was mugged about a week ago, in a local mall while he was shopping for a birthday gift for his wife. He lost his wallet and his gold Rolex. I think they hit him on the head.”
So much for the mysterious question of trauma, thought Marissa. For a few minutes she stood watching Judith throw her things into the box, trying to think if she had any further questions. She couldn’t think of any just then, so she said good-bye, then left, heading for the isolation ward. In many ways she felt as scared as Judith did.
The isolation ward had lost its previous tranquility. With all the new patients, it was fully staffed with overworked nurses. She found Dr. Layne writing in several of the charts.
“Welcome to Bedlam,” he said. “We’ve got five more admissions, including Mrs. Zabriski.”
“So I’ve heard,” said Marissa, sitting down next to Dr. Layne. If only Dubchek would treat her as he did: like a colleague.
“Tad Schockley called earlier. It is Ebola.”
A shiver ran down Marissa’s spine.
“We’re expecting the State Commissioner of Health to arrive any minute to impose quarantine,” continued Dr. Layne. “Seems that a number of hospital personnel are abandoning the place: nurses, technicians, even some doctors. Dr. Taboso had a hell of a time staffing this ward. Have you seen the local paper?”
Marissa shook her head, indicating that she had not. She was tempted to say that she didn’t want to stay either, if it meant being exposed.
“The headline is ‘Plague Returns!’ “Dr. Layne made an expression of disgust. “The media can be so goddamned irresponsible. Dubchek doesn’t want anyone to talk with the press. He wants all questions directed to him.”
The sound of the patient-elevator doors opening caught Marissa’s attention. She watched as a gurney emerged, covered by a clear plastic isolation tent. As it went by, Marissa recognized Mrs. Zabriski. She shivered again, wondering if the local paper really had been exaggerating in their headline.
6
April 10
MARISSA TOOK ANOTHER FORKFUL of the kind of dessert that she allowed herself only on rare occasions. It was her second night back in Atlanta, and Ralph had taken her to an intimate French restaurant. After five weeks with little sleep, gulping down meals in a hospital cafeteria, the gourmet meal had been a true delight. She noticed that, not having had a drink since she’d left Atlanta, the wine had gone right to her head. She knew she was being very talkative, but Ralph seemed content to sit back and listen.
Winding down, Marissa apologized for chattering on about her work, pointing to her empty glass as the excuse.
“No need to apologize,” Ralph insisted. “I could listen all night. I’m fascinated by what you have accomplished, both in L.A. and in St. Louis.”
“But I’ve filled you in while I was away,” protested Marissa, referring to their frequent phone conversations. While she’d been in St. Louis, Marissa had gotten into the habit of calling every few days. Talking with Ralph had provided a sounding board for her theories as well as a way to relieve her frustration at Dubchek’s continued insistence on ignoring her. In both cases, Ralph had been understanding and supportive.