Tristan had already gotten out of the Land-Rover. He was heading up the long walkway toward a small house, medical bag in hand. Marissa ran to catch up to him. Falling in step alongside him, she tried to catch his eye. She had to take five steps to keep up with his every three.
“You have to talk with me,” she said when it became clear he intended to ignore her.
“It’s very important.”
Tristan stopped short, “I’m not interested in talking with you,” he said.
“Besides, I’m busy. I’ve got patients to see, including a very sick little girl, and I hate pediatrics.”
Marissa brushed her dusty hair from her forehead and squinted up at Tristan. Even though his eyes were deeply set, she could now see they were blue.
“I’m a pediatrician,” she said.
“Maybe I could help.”
Tristan studied her face as he chewed on the inside of his cheek.
“A pediatrician, eh?” he said.
“That’s mighty convenient.” His eyes strayed to the front door of the house. When he looked back at Marissa, he said: “I can’t turn that down, not with what I know about pediatrics.”
The patient turned out to be an eight-month-old baby girl who was acutely ill. She had a high fever, a cough, and a runny nose.
The child was crying when Marissa and Tristan entered her room.
Marissa examined the infant while Tristan and the anxious mother watched. After a few minutes, Marissa straightened up and said: “It’s measles, without doubt.”
“How can you tell?” Tristan asked.
Marissa showed him the small white spots inside the infant’s mouth, the reddened eyes, and the faint rash just beginning to appear on the forehead.
“What should we do?” he asked.
“Just get the fever down,” Marissa said.
“But if complications occur, the child should be hospitalized. Is that possible?”
“Certainly,” Tristan said.
“We can airlift her to Charleville, or even Brisbane if necessary.”
For the next few minutes Marissa discussed the situation with the mother, describing the telltale signs of trouble. Then they discussed where the child could have picked up the virus. It turned out that two weeks previously, the family had visited relatives in Longreach, where there had been a sick child.
After discussing prophylaxis for the other children at the station,
Marissa and Tristan left the mother and walked toward the next house on Tristan’s list.
“Thank you for helping,” Tristan said as they mounted the stairs to the second porch.
“I think you could have handled it without me,” Marissa said.
She was tempted to say more, but her intuition told her to wait.
Marissa stayed with Tristan and helped see the rest of the patients at the station. All were routine except for an old woman of ninety-three who was dying of cancer but refused to be taken to a hospital. Tristan respected her wishes and simply provided for her pain.
Walking out of the last house, it was Tristan who brought up the paper.
“I guess my curiosity has gotten the best of me,” he said.
“What possibly could have motivated you to come all the way out here to ask me about a journal article that was discredited?”
“Because I’m suffering from the syndrome you described,” Marissa said, keeping pace with him. They were heading toward the communal food-service area.
“And because the syndrome has been appearing around the United States and even in Europe.”
She wanted to ask straight off why he’d made up cases, but she was afraid such a question would end the conversation.
Tristan stopped and studied Marissa.
“You had tuberculous salpingitis yourself?” he asked.
“Confirmed by biopsy,” Marissa said.
“I never knew I’d had it. If I hadn’t tried to get pregnant, I probably never would have known.”
Tristan seemed deep in thought.
“I’ve been trying to learn something about it,” Marissa continued, “but it’s been difficult. In fact, it’s been a disaster. I’ve just lost a friend. I’m even wondering if she was killed.”
Tristan stared at her.
“What are you talking about?”
“I came to Australia with a friend,” Marissa explained.
“A woman suffering from the TB salpingitis just like me. We came because of your article, and inquired about you at FCA in Brisbane.