A thousand fearful images
and dire suggestions glance along the mind when it is moody and
discontented with itself. Command them to stand and show
themselves, and you presently assert the power of reason over
imagination.
—Sir Walter Scott
19
The hospital wasted no time getting me
admitted and moved to a room. A private room. At the far end of a
very quiet hall.
Clearly, they didn’t want to risk me
running around, exposing any more people with whatever I’d been
infected with. Made me wonder what the hell I’d tested positive
for.
Something airborne?
Nobody had bothered to share my test
results with me yet. That made me feel a little twitchy and uneasy.
Whatever it was, it had to be a very virulent bug, extremely
contagious. To test positive for anything mere hours after exposure
seemed impossible. But clearly the hospital staff was taking no
risk. Everyone who came into my room from that point on wore full
protective gear.
By morning, I was feeling isolated.
Trapped. Alone. And scared.
When would somebody tell me what was
going on?
I tried to rest, but I couldn’t. Every
time I closed my eyes, the strangest images played through my
mind—my cells being invaded by millions of little twisted bits of
RNA, viruses.
I tried to distract myself by watching
television, but there was absolutely nothing interesting to watch.
I had no computer. That was killing me. The first thing I would do
if I got my hands on one was look up tropical diseases and see
which produced such rapid positive tests for
infection.
Why wasn’t anyone telling me what I
had?
I stared at the people rushing past my
glass door and tried not to cry. I failed. I had a good, long cry
and then started pacing the floor, trying to convince myself that I
would walk out of this hospital soon. If I couldn’t, if this was
going to be the end for me, I prayed I would see my mother once
more, and Katie. I would tell them both how much they meant to me.
How much I loved them. And I would see JT again, and I would tell
him how crazy I was for him too. How I wished we could have had the
chance to see where this thing between us was going.
I even made a few promises to “The Big
Guy,” if he’d pull a miracle out of his hat. I had little hope he’d
come through for me. After all, up to this point, I hadn’t done
much praying. How serious could he take me when I didn’t come to
him until I needed something? But it was worth a shot.
Just as I was making yet another
promise to God, the door to my room opened, and JT, gowned up like
a doctor about to perform surgery, strolled in. I swallowed a sob
as he opened his arms and flung myself at him. He caught me, of
course. He sat on the bed and held me. Stroked my
hair.
“Do you know what’s going on?” I asked,
my face buried in the crook of his neck. “Am I going to ...
?”
He lifted my chin until I looked into
his eyes. “The nurse misspoke. You did have a blood test come back
abnormal. Your white cell count is elevated. Your initial ELISA
screen came back positive for VHF, but that test has been known to
produce false positive results in as many as three percent of
patients tested.”
VHF. I knew that abbreviation. Viral
hemorrhagic fever. Those bugs were nothing to play around with.
Ebola. Marburg, Lassa virus, Rift Valley fever, Crimean-Congo
hemorrhagic fever, Hantaan, Seoul, yellow fever, and Kyasanur
Forest disease. There was no known cure for any of them. And the
mortality rates were very high. Chances were, even with the best
medical care, if I had been exposed to one of those diseases, I
had, at best, a few weeks to live. And the last week or so of my
life would be hell on earth.
“Oh, God,” I mumbled. “They didn’t tell
me.”
“That’s because they have nothing to
tell you yet. They’re running some more tests.”
“How much longer will I have to
wait?”
“Not much.”
“What about you? Are you being
quarantined?”
“No. I’ve been cleared. So has everyone
else who was in the lobby. VHFs aren’t known to be airborne
contagions”
That news helped me breathe a little
easier. “Well, at least that’s something to be glad
for.”
“You’re going to have plenty of other
reasons to be happy soon.”
“How can you be so sure?”
He shrugged. “I just am.”
“Could you do me a favor?” I
asked.
“Sure. Anything.”
“Could you check on my
mom?”
“Already done. I had a feeling you’d
want to know how she was doing. She’s been admitted. They’re making
some adjustments to her medications. No word yet on when she will
be released.”
“Thanks.” A tear slipped from the
corner of my eye.
JT thumbed it away and smiled. “Is
there anything else?”
“Yes.” I dragged my hand over my eyes,
determined I wouldn’t cry anymore. At least, not until I had
something to really cry about. “Could you bring in my go bag? And
my computer? It’s the only thing at this point that’s going to
distract me from worrying about my test results, my mother ...
everything.”
“Will do.” He gave me one last snuggle.
Kissed my head through the surgical mask and left. A little while
later, a nurse carried in my laptop case, handed it to me, and took
half a gallon of blood—or so it seemed—for tests. I spent the rest
of the day avoiding reading medical articles on Ebola or any other
viral hemorrhagic diseases. Instead, I spent my time brainstorming
our case.
Many hours later, I was no closer to
figuring out who the killer was or understanding her motives. I did
a lot of staring at my computer screen, and not a lot of reading. I
saw very little of my nurse. Heard nothing from the doctor. At
about eleven that night, I succumbed at last to exhaustion and fell
into a shallow sleep that was broken and plagued by strange,
disturbing dreams.
Early the next morning, before I’d paid
a visit to a shower, or even had a chance to get rid of my morning
breath, a doctor I hadn’t met before moseyed into my room; a
younger man, probably an intern or med student, trailed behind him.
Neither the doctor nor the intern was wearing plague gear. I hoped
that was significant.
He walked right up to me and offered a
hand. “Dr. Patel. How are you feeling this morning?”
I didn’t take his hand right away.
“Tell me I don’t have Ebola and I’ll be doing great.”
“You don’t have Ebola or any other
communicative disease.”
I have never felt so relieved. I almost
started to cry again. “Oh, my God. Thank you!” I kicked my feet
over the side of the bed. I was so ready to get my things together
and get out of this place. “I’ll call my roommate for a ride home.
What time should I tell her to come get me?”
“We’re not ready to release you yet,”
Dr. Patel said.
“What? Really? Why?”
“I’ve referred you to another
doctor.”
“For what?” I asked, thoroughly
confused.
“I think it’s better if she told you.
She’ll be in shortly.” Before I could ask for more details, which
he was clearly unwilling to share, he led his little underling out
of my room.
I padded to the door and peered out.
Right away, a nurse hustled up to me, introducing herself as my
nurse for the day shift. She wore a bright smile as she informed me
I had to stay in my room. I wore an equally bright one as I asked
if I could take a shower.
“Not quite yet. Your doctor will be in
soon.” She removed my IV and the stickums on my chest. I was
grateful to be free of all the tubes and wires.
“Can I at least brush my teeth and use
a toilet, instead of the bedpan?”
“Certainly.” She watched me gather some
things from my overnight bag. “I’m sorry,” she said, eyeballing my
mouthwash. “You can’t use that here. I’ll have to keep it for
you.”
Since when was mouthwash a public
hazard? “Okay.” I handed it to her and locked myself in the
bathroom, enjoying the privacy. When I came out, a woman in a white
coat was waiting for me.
“Dr. Doyle.” She extended a hand,
shaking mine. “How are you this morning?”
“Much better now that I know I’m not
going to die from a hemorrhagic fever.” I gave her a what’s-up
look.
“Dr. Patel had some concerns,” she told
me, “and after looking at your medical history, he felt it was best
to recommend this consultation.”
“What were his concerns? I gotta admit,
you’ve got me wondering what this is all about.”
“Can you tell me if you’ve ever been
attacked before, like last night?”
“No. What exactly are you looking
for?”
“I’m not looking for anything.” She
gave me a reassuring smile, the kind that my mother’s doctor used
to calm her down when she was on the verge of an
episode.
Oh, God.
“You’re a psychiatrist,” I
said.
“Yes, I am.”
“Are you here to talk to me about my
mother?”
“ No.”
“What exactly were Dr. Patel’s
concerns?” I asked.
“We have reason to believe the attack
you experienced—which I am sure seemed very real to you—was, in
fact, a hallucination.”
I swear to God, I didn’t see that
coming. “What?”
“You do know schizophrenia has a
significant genetic component.”
“Of course.” It had been a
hallucination? “Are you sure about this?” There is
no way I could have hallucinated the broken window. The window
might not have anything to do with the attack,
though.
“Because of your work with the FBI, we
were able to gather some information about the episode. This
information has led us to the conclusion that you have experienced
at least one hallucination. I suspect you’ve experienced
more.”
I didn’t know what to say. Yes, all
along I’d known about the studies linking genetic factors to
schizophrenia. I’d lived under the shadow of the disease all my
life, waiting, watching, wondering if someday I’d see pink monkeys
bouncing around the room, or end up huddled in a closet, thinking
an alien was trying to control my mind. But the years had passed,
and with each day that I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, I
grew more confident that I’d been spared.
“Miss Skye, what are you thinking?” the
doctor asked.
“I’ve been having these awful
nightmares, but they started after I took the job with the FBI. And
the case I’ve been working is a little strange, so I thought they
were just my mind’s way of coping with the stress.”
“If this is the case, and you just
recently started having hallucinations, I’m confident we’ll be able
to control your symptoms with medication... .”
I nodded and tried to concentrate on
what the doctor was saying, but it was so hard. She was trying to
tell me, nicely, that I was mentally ill. That the things I’d seen
and felt and smelled weren’t real. It was so hard to accept. I
fingered the spot on my neck where I thought I’d been
bitten.
That horrible pain hadn’t been
real?
For the first time in my life, I
understood—really understood—my mother. I’d never imagined what a
shock it would be to hear that what was plain in your eyes, what
was more vivid and terrifying than anything you’d ever seen, was no
more real than Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny.
“... moved to another bed for a day or
two until we’re sure your condition is stabilized.”
“Can I use a phone?” I
asked.
“You will have limited use of the
telephone. We’d like to give the medication a chance to work and
need to keep your stress level as low as possible.”
“Okay.”
“Very good, Miss Skye. We’ll get you
moved into your new room very soon. If you have any questions, you
can let your nurse know and she’ll page me. I’ll be in the building
until this afternoon.” After giving me another of those smiles, Dr.
Doyle headed out. My nurse wandered in shortly afterward and handed
me a small plastic cup with a couple of tablets in it. She waited
until I’d swallowed them, then headed out.
The next thing I knew, I was handed my
clothes and told to dress. I was vaguely aware that time had
passed. I felt like my head was in a fog, or I was standing on the
outside of my body, watching the world through a blurred window. I
nodded as the nurse read my discharge instructions, and I was
wheeled to the front door. Katie’s car was parked outside. I
shuffled to it, tossed my bag into the back and sank into the front
seat.
“How are you feeling, Sloan?” Katie
asked as she pulled the car away from the curb.
“I don’t know. Okay, I
guess.”
“Are you hungry?”
“No, not really.”
“Maybe you’d like to rest for a while?”
Katie suggested.
It seemed as if I’d just woken up.
Could it be time to sleep already? “What time is it?” I asked as I
stared out the window.
“Almost noon.”
“What day is it?”
“Thursday.”
“What’s the date?”
“June seventeenth.”
“June seventeenth?” I echoed. Somehow
I’d lost three whole days. How? “What’s on your agenda
today?”
“Nothing. Why?”
“Would you mind driving me over to the
FBI Academy?”
“Um, I guess that would be okay. But
...”
“What?” I looked at Katie.
Katie stopped the car at an
intersection. She glanced at me. “Don’t you remember? You’re on
medical leave?”
“Medical leave?” Had I been told that?
I couldn’t remember. Already I was hating how my medication was
making me feel—stupid and slow and clumsy. The doctor had assured
me the side effects would ease up over time. I was starting to have
some doubts about that. “Oh, yeah,” I said, trying to pretend like
I’d just forgotten. “I forgot for a minute. I guess we can skip the
trip to the office, then.”
“Sorry about that, Sloan.” After a
beat, Katie added, “Hey, at least the FBI is paying you while
you’re off. You already collected two days of sick pay. If you’re
unable to return to work after a week, you’ll get disability for
the rest of the summer.”
She didn’t say the obvious—that come
September 1, I would be forever off the FBI’s payroll. Any chance
of my landing a full-time gig with the bureau was gone. I knew I
should be devastated by that realization, but instead I felt just
... numb. Empty. Hollow.
Katie took me back to our apartment and
I staggered inside, my bag banging against my leg as I walked. I
dropped it on the floor just inside the door and slumped onto the
couch. I turned on the TV and just sat and stared.
Was this the life I had to look forward
to? Sitting in my living room, while life was a blur outside, time
ticking by without my noticing?
God, I hoped not!
Nobody called. Nobody visited. Katie
made herself busy in the kitchen, cooking up some experiment, like
always. Eventually she told me she was going to bed. It was three
in the morning. Where had the time gone? I headed to my room,
changed into pajamas, brushed my teeth, and settled in, hoping the
world of my dreams would be more exciting than the real world. I
closed my eyes. I listened to myself breathing and tried to fall
asleep.
But then I heard it.
The voice.
It was back.
“Little mouse,” it
whispered.