She checked “Vomit, no blood” in the screen at the foot of her bed and estimated the quantity, along with a note about the confusion. The patient’s record had additional information she could share that might be comforting.
“Did you know your parents called?” she told her. “Just an hour ago. They were glad to hear that you’re getting good care.” The woman seemed to understand. “Would you like to rest? I’ll get you another towel in case you need it.”
As she hurried to the supply cabinet, she wondered if this kind of care would make people well. She’d been assured that rest was healing, perhaps the best thing.
Just after she delivered the towel, a man started shouting and thrashing. Avril ran to him. He was big—an athlete. He was trying to get out of bed. She pushed him back down, cooing soothing things. He kept struggling. She pinned his arms on his chest with all her weight, aware that he could have bench-pressed her, but instead it was like tussling with a five-year-old. A very feverish five-year-old.
Doctors came rushing over, calling, “Keep him in bed!”
He began gasping in a weird way. Someone called, “Oxygen! Stat!”
Avril let up on his arms in case it would help him breathe easier. It made no difference. His eyes stayed wide with fear, his face in a rictus. Blood dribbled from his mouth. She didn’t know what to do. His skin felt dry and hot. He kept fighting spasmodically.
“Cardiac arrest!” someone shouted, reading the monitor panel at the foot of the cot.
Equipment was being pulled over. She stepped away.
They attached things, they did things, they said things with practiced urgency. She kept backing away.
“What’s going on?” someone in a cot rasped near her—an older woman, maybe from the university staff.
Avril had no good answer. “He had a heart attack,” she said. “They’re helping him. Can I get you anything?”
“I don’t want to complain.” She squeezed her eyes shut and rolled over, clutching her blankets tight.
“You’ll get better faster if you’re comfortable,” Avril said.
“Mmm.” Then: “I’m cold. I’m so cold.”
“I can get you another blanket.”
She fetched it from a supply shelf. Meanwhile work to resuscitate the athlete continued. She wrapped the woman in the blanket. She refreshed her water. She checked her temperature: a fever, but not as high as earlier, not in a danger zone. She noted everything.
By then they’d given up on the athlete. They rolled him out still in the bed, his face covered, blood seeping through the sheet over his mouth.
The next patient who died did it quietly. Only an alarm beep from the monitor screen alerted staff.
She continued to do what she could. She knew the ventilation was set on high and fans rumbled in the ceiling, but the air smelled of bleach and flowery cleaning fluid, of unwashed bodies and sweat, and as she cleaned and helped patients, close up they smelled of urine and feces and vomit. The sound of coughing and weeping and moaning and shouts echoed continuously.
Avril was helping, but nothing seemed to be helping very fast.
At sunset, the lights were lowered. She turned a corner in a hallway, and for a moment the cots before her with their white sheets and blankets looked like a military formation of ghosts waiting to rise up.… Her first impulse was to run. Her next one was to stand up straighter and stronger.
Shinta was down the hall in the other direction. Avril went to her, hoping she was still doing well—yes, no longer on oxygen. She lay on her side, her eyes open.
“Hey, how are you?”
She looked up, her eyes puffy, her hair a mess. “Can you get my phone? I want to call home.”
“I can get you a proxy phone.” She signed one out at the administration office and brought it to her. Should she stay while she called or give her privacy? Would she need help signing into the proxy? Then someone a few beds down wanted to go to the bathroom. If patients were lucid and could walk, they were encouraged to get up and get a little exercise.
When that was done and duly noted, she returned to Shinta. She was lying on her side again, eyes open.
“No one answered.”
“I’m so sorry.” Avril took off her glove and put her hand on hers for a while, then returned the phone to the office.
The staff sent Avril home in the late evening. Get some food, get some rest, see you tomorrow, thank you for your work. And change out of the scrubs and take a shower before leaving. Be sure to wash your hair. You’re covered with contagion.
As she left the building, she noticed that it had rained. The air was warm and humid and smelled clean and good. She checked her phone, pinging her sisters and friends as she walked to the dorm. She ought to eat, but she had no appetite and went right to her room.
She called Mom so they could each assure each other that they were still fine. Mom had wept when Avril told her she was immune. When she’d told Dad how she’d been treated and nearly burned alive, he’d wept silently, just a few tears.
“But,” he said, “do not tell your mother I wouldn’t let them use you for extortion.” It was their secret, and both of them were proud of it, but Mom would never understand.
He stayed busy at work recrafting the nation, Mom was helping her neighbors, Peng talked to her like a proud grandfather, and she and her new sisters offered one another sympathy and encouragement. Irene was coming back to Madison soon, heartbroken. Lillian and Berenike were keeping Milwaukeeans alive.
Everywhere anger burned red-hot. She had found what she could do best to
