With her general fear of catching Ebola, Marissa was more than happy to comply. When she entered the room, she found Dr. Rand just about to begin. He looked up from the table of horrific tools. Dr. Zabriski’s body was still enclosed in a large, clear plastic bag. His body was a pasty white on the top, a livid purple on the bottom.
“Hi!” said Marissa brightly. She decided that she might as well be cheerful. Receiving no answer, she conveyed the CDC’s requests to the pathologist, who agreed to supply the samples. Marissa then suggested the use of goggles. “A number of cases both here and in L.A. were apparently infected through the conjunctival membrane,” she explained.
Dr. Rand grunted, then disappeared. When he returned he was wearing a pair of plastic goggles. Without saying anything he handed a pair to Marissa.
“One other thing,” Marissa added. “The CDC recommends avoiding power saws on this kind of case because they cause significant aerosol formation.”
“I was not planning to use any power tools,” said Dr. Rand. “Although you may find this surprising, I have handled infectious cases during my career.”
“Then I suppose I don’t have to warn you about not cutting your fingers,” said Marissa. “A pathologist died of viral hemorrhagic fever after doing just that.”
“I recall,” said Dr. Rand. “Lassa Fever. Are you about to favor us with any further suggestions?”
“No,” said Marissa. The pathologist cut into the plastic bag and exposed Zabriski’s body to the air. Marissa debated whether she should go or stay. Indecision resulted in inaction; she stayed.
Speaking into an overhead microphone activated by a foot pedal, Dr. Rand began his description of the external markings of the body. His voice had assumed that peculiar monotone Marissa remembered from her medical school days. She was startled back to the present when she heard Rand describe a sutured scalp laceration. That was something new. It hadn’t been in the chart, nor had the cut on the right elbow or the circular bruise on the right thigh, a bruise about the size of a quarter.
“Did these abrasions happen before or after death?”
“Before,” he answered, making no attempt to conceal his irritation at the interruption.
“How old do you think they are?” said Marissa, ignoring his tone. She bent over to look at them more carefully.
“About a week old, I’d say,” Dr. Rand replied. “Give or take a couple of days. We’d be able to tell if we did microscopic sections. However, in view of the patient’s condition, I hardly think they are important. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to get back to work.”
Forced to step back, Marissa thought about this evidence of trauma. There was probably some simple explanation; perhaps Dr. Zabriski had fallen playing tennis. What bothered Marissa was that the abrasion and the laceration were not mentioned on the man’s chart. Where Marissa had trained, every physical finding went into the record.
As soon as Rand had finished and Marissa had seen that the tissue samples were correctly done, she decided to track down the cause of the injuries.
Using the phone in pathology, Marissa tried Zabriski’s secretary, Judith. She let the phone ring twenty times. No answer. Reluctant to bother Mrs. Zabriski, Marissa thought about looking for Dr. Taboso, but instead decided to check Dr. Zabriski’s office, realizing it had to be right there in the hospital. She walked over and found Judith back at her desk.
Judith was a frail young woman in her mid-twenties. Mascara smudged her cheeks; Marissa could tell that she’d been crying. But she was more than sad; she was also terrified.
“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
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
