The Slammer

Maggie hated the panic that now crept into her friend’s eyes. She had known Gwen Patterson too long for Gwen to use her professional-psychiatrist tricks on her.

“It’s a good sign,” Gwen said, keeping her voice level, her mood optimistic, apparently unaware that her eyes were betraying her. “Colonel Platt said it isn’t showing up in your blood.”

“Yet,” Maggie added. “He said it hasn’t shown up yet.”

“From what I know about these viruses they work quickly.”

“Or they can remain dormant inside a host.”

“You’re strong and healthy. You said you haven’t felt sick.”

“The first symptoms can be subtle, almost like having the flu.”

“You said the little girl didn’t even throw up on you.”

“My sleeve. I think there was some vomit on my sleeve.” Maggie tried to smile as she pulled at the ribbing on her blue hospital gown. “I had to exchange my clothes for the Slammer’s latest fashion trend.”

“That’s not enough.” Gwen’s voice hitched. She saw that Maggie noticed. She readjusted herself on the plastic chair. Recrossed her legs, smoothed her skirt, switched the telephone receiver from right ear to left ear as if repositioning herself might make her stronger. “On your sleeve, that’s not enough. It’s passed through blood.”

“Any body fluids,” Maggie corrected.

“Okay, any body fluids. But it’s not airborne.”

“In lab tests it’s displayed a capability—”

“Stop,” Gwen shouted, so suddenly it made Maggie jump.

The panic in Gwen’s eyes threatened to dissolve into tears. Maggie wasn’t sure why she had resorted to sounding like a textbook. She was saying out loud all the frightening things she had learned, tossing them at Gwen because Gwen was her buffer, her crutch. But it was a mistake. It wasn’t fair. She wasn’t used to seeing Gwen like this. She was biting her bottom lip, her free hand a fist in her lap. She had always been Maggie’s mentor, her rock, her advocate. She was the stable, logical, optimistic one of the pair, but it wasn’t right to foist this on her, not now.

Gwen sat back, took a deep breath. Maggie waited, only now realizing that her chest ached. Gwen’s panic was contagious. It crushed against her lungs.

“You’ll be okay,” Gwen said as if reading Maggie’s mind.

Maggie shifted in her chair, suddenly chilled. She tucked the gown around her. The panic had transferred to Maggie, because now Gwen seemed calm, genuinely so this time. Had she slipped and caught herself, realizing she needed to be strong for both of them?

Her eyes held Maggie’s. “Is there anyone you want me to call?”

“I’ve already called you.”

“What about your mother?”

“She’d be a nervous wreck.”

“She’s still your mother.”

“Yes, she’s my mother, but she’s never been motherly. I can’t handle taking care of her right now. And believe me, that’s what it would be. Me taking care of her.”

Gwen nodded then she smiled, her bottom lip almost completely void of lipstick. “You’re going to be okay. It might be different if the little girl sprayed you in your eyes or your mouth. But that didn’t happen.”

“That did happen,” Maggie said, the memory twisting a knot in her stomach. “It happened to Cunningham.”