“Is there a means to fly her out?” John interjected forcefully. “Surely you must have planes down at Asheville Airport that are still flying.”
“We did, but we don’t now. We lost the last two a week ago. The pilots just took off with their families and disappeared. And even if we did have that means, I’d prioritize a hundred other cases first for airlift, even if we had it.”
Makala waved for John to shut up and there was a long pause. A long pause that drifted into nearly a minute of silence. “I’m sorry, but the answer is no. Now, if you will excuse me…” John stood up.
“We are talking about my daughter!” he shouted. “I suspected that,” Vance replied. “And suspect as well that it’s been far longer than four days since her last injection.”
“Please, Dr. Vance. Please, it’s my daughter. Just one injection.”
“John, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“John. Like I said, they sent up five vials. I’ve got two kids in this hospital now who have standard childhood diabetes and are barely hanging on, but God forgive me I’m withholding the medicine even from them because I’ve got nearly thirty adults with varying degrees of diabetes that can survive a lot longer with just a low dose. I might need this stock for the rest of the year to try and save some that can be saved.”
“Please for God’s sake.”
“John. Please listen. One injection for your daughter will not change the final diagnosis; it will simply postpone the inevitable. My God,” he said wearily, “do you think I want to tell you this? John, I have enough anesthesia for maybe twenty operations and we need hundreds. Painkillers, even just some damn aspirin…”
His voice trailed off.
Makala was waving John off, signaling him to be quiet.
“Dr. Vance. Makala here. I’ve been treating this girl since all this started. She’s a tough kid, a survivor. We can save her life.”
“For how long?” Vance replied, and now his voice was getting cold. “Type one diabetics. A hundred years ago they died within weeks after pancreatic shutdown. That’s the world we are back in now, maybe for years to come.”
Again a pause.
“Nurse Turner. You understand triage as well as I do.”
“Triage?” John shouted. “You are talking about my daughter, god damn it. You will not triage her off.”
“Sir, I am sorry for you. I truly am.”
“Damn you, listen to me! I can mobilize a hundred well-trained infantry and by God we will be there in an hour and by God you will give me that insulin. And if need be I’ll blow up the water main to your damn town.”
A long silence.
“Are you listening to yourself?” Vance said. “Would you really do that?”
“Yes!”
“I don’t think so, John. I’ve heard a lot about you, John; you are not the type to get innocent people killed if you try that stunt. And if you do, the Asheville militia will meet you at Exit 53, and this hospital is cordoned with troops as well. If you blow the main thousands of innocent people will suffer.
“I’m sorry for you, sir. God save us, I’m sorry for all of us, sorry for those who could have prevented this and now must carry that on their souls….”
His voice trailed off, breaking into a muffled sob.
“Good-bye.”
The line clicked off.
“No!”
John swung the phone around, tearing the wire connection out. Filled with impotent rage, he held the phone, and then flung it against the wall. “John, please.”
Makala was in the room, tears streaming down her face.
“Damn all of this. Damn this country. Damn all of this,” and he collapsed into his chair, sobbing.
“Come on, John; let’s go home. She needs us there.”
He finally stood up. In the hallway Judy was standing by the switchboard. She had heard every word and was silently weeping. Tom, gaunt, face pale, was silent, standing in the hallway beside Judy, looking at him.
“John, I’m willing to go up there and try and get it for you,” Tom said softly.
Makala shook her head.
“No, Tom, we’re going home. Can you see to things the next few days?”
“Sure.”
“Judy, hold any calls to the house.”
Makala drove John home. As they passed through the guard post, manned as always by two students, John said nothing, acknowledging nothing, the students watching him, eyes wide, as he and Makala drove through, for they could see he was crying.
Jen was outside the house as they pulled up, Makala helping John to get out. She didn’t need to be told.
“How is she?” Makala asked.
“Drifting in and out. Breath is fruity smelling like you said it would be. She’s no longer urinating; I can’t get water into her.”
“John.”
It was Makala, hands grasping him tight.
“You have to do this now. I want you to go in there as if everything is fine. She is not to know you are afraid. If she asks about medicine, tell her it’s coming shortly. She cannot know you are afraid.”
He nodded.
“You ready?”
“Yes.”
He walked up the front steps and opened the door, then paused.
“Hail Mary full of grace he started to whisper, the prayer going silent as he stepped into the house.
The alcove that faced towards the creek had been converted into the sickroom, a bed set up, raised up higher with books underneath so Jennifer could see out the window, watch the creek and the bird feeder. Elizabeth had finally stirred out of her shock as this crisis came and had spent several hours cracking pinecones, gathering handfuls of the precious seeds to fill the feeder, and keeping by Jennifer’s bedside, reading to her.
Ginger, now nothing but skin and bones, barely able to walk, had crawled up onto the foot of the bed.
Jennifer turned and looked towards him. “Daddy?”
“Here, my pumpkin.”
He came over and sat by the bed. She was clutching Rabs tight, and arrayed on the far side of the bed were the three Beanie Babies she had snatched as they evacuated the now-lost home… one of them Patriot Bear, the gift for her twelfth birthday.
“Will I get well?”
“Sure, sweetheart, you’ll be up and running in no time. Makala and I ordered some medicine and it will be here soon.”
He was afraid to look up at Makala, who he knew was standing in the doorway. If they made eye contact he feared he’d break. Jennifer turned away, features pale. “You’re lying, Daddy. You never could lie to me.”
“No, honey. It’s the truth. You’ll soon feel well.” She said nothing, just looking at him. “Sweetie, would you like me to read to you?” Head turned away, she nodded.
He stood up, scanning the bookshelf, and saw two books and his heart filled. Both had obviously belonged to Mary, one from early childhood. He opened them. Inside one was inscribed. “Merry Christmas, sweetheart… 1976.” The second had in a childish scrawl, in pink crayon, “My book, Mary.”
He set the second book to one side, returned to Jennifer’s bed, opened the first, and started to read. “‘When Mr. Bilbo Baggins, of Bag End—’” And then he stopped.
No, not this one. She had seen the movies when they had first come out and was young enough then that it had frightened her.
He put
