Hope Street (14 page)

Ellie spoke calmly throughout the drive to the local hospital. Sometimes Curt realized she was talking to Peter, who occasionally emitted a quiet moan. Sometimes she was talking to Curt. “He’s okay,” she’d say. “It’s just some weird virus, I’m sure. We’ll get his fever down and bring him home. He drank some of the Gatorade last night. That should have helped.” At one point Curt heard her speaking into her cell phone, leaving a phone message for Peter’s pediatrician.

At the local hospital, he skidded the car to a halt at the emergency room entrance. “Let’s get a wheelchair,” Ellie said.

“No, I’ll carry him.” Curt eased his overheated son out of the backseat, trying not to stagger under Peter’s limp weight, and
carried him to the broad glass door. It automatically slid open and he rushed inside.

He hated hospitals. Few people didn’t hate them, of course, but even when Ellie had been on the staff of Children’s Hospital during the early years of their marriage, he’d despised visiting her there. On those rare occasions when they could meet for lunch, he’d ask her to join him at a luncheonette down the block from the hospital. The glaring lights, the squeaky soles of everyone’s shoes, the smell of pine and antiseptic heavy in the air, the eerie hush, the aura of mission and menace that surrounded all the employees, from the most revered doctor to the lowliest orderly…he hated it.

And now his son had to be here. His son, arms wrapped loosely around Curt’s neck and so much heat simmering through layers of pajamas and blanket that Curt began to sweat…His son was sick.

Oh, God—make this be nothing serious.

A young man in blue scrubs approached with a wheelchair and helped Curt to lower Peter onto the seat. An older man in a security-guard uniform approached and told Curt he had to move his car. “You can’t leave it blocking the entry,” the guard scolded.

Curt swallowed the impulse to tell the man what he could do to himself. “Go park the car,” Ellie murmured in a soothing voice. “I’ll stay here with Peter and take care of the paperwork.”

Swallowing his rage, Curt nodded. He would rather park the car than fill out forms and recite insurance-policy numbers, anyway.

He stepped through the automatic door and out into the gray morning. The rain and sleet stung his face. He dove into the car, cruised the small lot outside the emergency room for ten minutes without finding an open space then gave up and drove
around the building to the visitor’s garage. Before leaving the car, he yanked off his necktie—he wouldn’t be needing that this morning—and left a message on his secretary’s answering machine, telling her to reschedule his meeting with Professor Benzer. “My cell phone’s on if you have to reach me,” he told her. “Call me if you need me. If things go well, I may get to the office this afternoon.”

He reentered the hospital through the front door and took a minute to orient himself. Even the main entry, with its carpeted floor and framed paintings, its tweedy upholstered chairs and the little cart selling gourmet coffee in one corner, gave him the willies. He could still smell that sterile hospital scent. He could still feel the tension humming in the air just beyond the lobby.

He wandered through a maze of halls until he reached the emergency room. Ellie and Peter were gone. He’d expected them to be—he wouldn’t have wanted his son sitting around all this time, waiting for a doctor’s attention. But the absence of both of them in the brightly lit area, with its sleek desk and fluorescent lighting, plastic chairs and milky curtains, kicked him in the gut.

Where were they? The hospital monster had swallowed them.

He managed a few deep breaths to steady his nerves before approaching the desk. “I’m looking for my wife and son,” he said. “Peter Frost is my son’s name. He was running a fever.” Good. He sounded calm, authoritative, far more confident than he felt.

The nurse behind the desk checked something on her computer and nodded. “Follow me,” she said, beckoning him toward one of the curtained-off areas. She pulled back the curtain to discover no one behind it. “Oh, maybe they’re here,” she said, leading him to another curtained area. Behind that curtain, an elderly man sat on the table, one hand cradling the other wrist. “Hmm,” the nurse said, frowning.

You’ve lost my son.
Curt wanted to throttle the woman.
You’ve lost my son and my wife.

Before the nurse could peek behind any more curtains, Curt spotted Ellie approaching him from the far end of a corridor. She was alone. “There’s my wife,” he said, breaking from the hapless nurse and jogging down the hall.

As he neared Ellie, he scrutinized her face for a clue of what was going on. She seemed tired but not panicked. “Where’s Peter?” he asked.

“They’re running tests.” As soon as Curt reached her, she let her shoulders slump, as if she was passing an invisible burden from her back to his.

“You couldn’t stay with him while they’re doing that?”

“They wouldn’t let me. Even when I said I was a nurse.” She managed a feeble smile. “The doctor said we should get some breakfast and then check back here. It’ll take a while.”

The thought of breakfast caused his stomach to lurch. “I’m not hungry.”

“Neither am I.”

“Maybe some coffee,” he suggested.

They followed the signs to the cafeteria. Even though food was being sold and eaten there, the place smelled of antiseptic cleansers, and it was so brightly lit Curt could imagine surgeons performing appendectomies on the long Formica tables. He grabbed a tray and herded Ellie down the aisle of food offerings, pointing out the pastries, fruit, yogurt and omelet sandwiches to her. She shook her head. He didn’t blame her; none of the platters sparked his appetite.

He filled two mugs with coffee, handed the cashier a few dollars and carried the tray to a table. They sat facing each other. Did he look as pinched as Ellie? As haggard?

At least she didn’t seem frightened. “They figure it’s some kind of infection,” she told Curt. “They put in an IV to get some fluids into him and they’re going to run a bunch of blood tests. While they wait for the results, they’ll be cooling his body down with ice baths.”

“How was he feeling?” Curt asked, recalling Peter’s succinct answer to that question last night:
shitty.
“Is he scared?”

“He was too wasted to be scared,” Ellie said. “He was half asleep.” She drummed her fingertips against the thick ceramic surface of her mug, stared into the steam for a moment then sighed. “It’s probably either something viral or bacterial.”

“Which is better?” Curt wanted to know what to hope for.

She shrugged. “If it’s bacterial, they can pump him with antibiotics. Viruses are sometimes harder to treat.”

All right. He’d hope for bacterial. “He’s going to be okay, right?”

Ellie gazed at him.
Come on, Ellie—tell me what I want to hear. Convince me. You’re the medical professional.
“He’s strong,” she said. “He’s always been as healthy as a horse. Whatever he has, he should be able to fight it off.”

That wasn’t as definitive an answer as Curt was hoping for. He forced down a few sips of coffee and tried not to wince at its metallic flavor. A fever? A freaking fever? How sick could Peter be? How serious was a fever?

They struggled to finish their coffee, then hiked back to the emergency wing. As they approached the waiting area, they spied a doctor at the far end of a hall, marching toward them. “That’s Dr. Kaye,” Ellie said, accelerating.

Dr. Kaye. The name rang a bell. The kids’ pediatrician, Curt remembered, abashed that he hardly knew the woman. Ellie had always handled all the doctor’s visits for the children. Curt had met the doctor only a few times.

“Hi, Mrs. Frost, Mr. Frost,” Dr. Kaye greeted them when they met mid-hall. Dr. Kaye’s smile looked a bit forced and pensive. She wore wool trousers and a turtleneck beneath a starched white medical coat. Gold, button-shaped earrings glinted through her curls.

Curt started praying again.
Please, God. Make it something fixable, something curable. This is my son.

“We’re running some more tests on Peter,” Dr. Kaye said, dispensing with chitchat. “He’s just undergone a lumbar puncture—a spinal tap,” she clarified for Curt. “We’ll run a culture on that to confirm our diagnosis. But we’re pretty sure it’s meningitis.”

Curt’s muscles seized. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. How bad was that? People didn’t die of meningitis, did they?

“Viral or bacterial?” Ellie asked.

Dr. Kaye’s smile grew even more pensive. “Bacterial. I’m guessing streptococcal. He’s had his HiB vaccine, so it isn’t that.”

Bacterial was good, wasn’t it? Ellie had said bacterial infections were easier to treat, that Peter could be pumped with antibiotics—

“I’m sorry,” Dr. Kaye continued, her gaze shuttling between Curt and Ellie. She must have seen something in Ellie’s face—recognition, comprehension—because she turned fully to Curt. “Bacterial meningitis is, unfortunately, the more virulent version of the disease. Viral meningitis usually resolves itself in a matter of days. With bacterial meningitis, we’ve got to bombard him with antibiotics and try to keep the swelling in his brain down.”

Swelling in his brain.
No. Curt didn’t want to hear that. That was not what he’d prayed for.

“So you’ll bombard him with antibiotics,” he said, his voice as rough as sandpaper. Peter had a problem, a huge problem.
Dr. Kaye and the other doctors at this hospital would solve that problem. Peter’s brain was not going to swell.

“We’ll do everything we can,” Dr. Kaye assured him. “We’ll be admitting him to the hospital, of course. Once we’ve got a definitive diagnosis, we’ll have to notify the Department of Health. And I hate to say this, but the media will probably get wind of it. Whenever a healthy young patient contracts this disease, they make a big deal about it…” Her voice faded into a drone, and Ellie responded with nods and comments, taking over the conversation. Curt heard only echoes, distorted sounds. The brittle hospital air filled his lungs. He stared at the beige cinderblock wall next to him, at the stainless-steel wheeled cart, at the empty gurney, the green oxygen tanks stashed on its lower shelf. He held himself motionless, afraid that if he moved he would fall over.

Thank God Ellie seemed to know what to say, what to do. Thank God she was taking it all in, processing it, discussing treatment options with Dr. Kaye and requesting permission to stay with Peter in his room once he was admitted.

Thank God she could handle it. Because Curt sure as hell couldn’t.

T
HANK
G
OD
C
URT COULD HANDLE
everything.

During the four long, lost days she remained by Peter’s side, Curt took care of whatever needed to be done. He dealt with the high school, the health department officials and prying reporters from the local TV news programs. He drove Jessie to and from the hospital, phoned Katie at college and asked her to come home. He kept in constant contact with his parents and Ellie’s. He stayed in touch with his office, rescheduling the negotiations on one of his cases and guiding several associates through another
one. He read the mail, fielded calls from friends and neighbors, brought Ellie snacks from home and watched Peter.

All Ellie did was watch Peter. Occasionally, she managed to doze off in the reclining chair wedged between the wall and his bed. Often, she found her gaze drifting from Peter’s unnaturally still body to the monitors above his bed, beeping with each beat of his heart. She stared at the doses of antibiotic dripping into him and questioned the nurses about whether the penicillin was working or ceftriaxone should be used, instead. She roused herself enough to hug Jessie and Katie when they visited, but for the most part her mind had narrowed to one single thought:
Peter.

The weekend arrived and with it the first mild day of the year. Morning sunlight soaked through the window and into the room, lending the air a golden glow. One of the orderlies whistled as he pushed a dry mop down the corridor outside Peter’s room. A nurse smiled as she gave Ellie a tall glass of orange juice from the nurses’ station. “It’s gorgeous out,” she reported. “Maybe you ought to step outside and get a taste of that sunshine.”

Ellie wound up not getting a taste of sunshine. Just minutes after she’d finished the orange juice, and minutes before Curt and the girls arrived at the hospital, Peter was dead.

The girls became hysterical, sobbing that if only they’d arrived in time, they could have grabbed hold of Peter and held on tight enough, and he wouldn’t have slipped away. They were desperate for comfort, for reassurance, but Ellie couldn’t provide them with what they needed. She folded in on herself, spiraling down and down, slipping into her own darkness. She could give nothing. She had nothing.

Once again, Curt handled everything. He made the funeral arrangements. He convinced Ellie’s parents to put his parents
up at their house. He consulted with the high school’s principal about a memorial service. He picked out a grave site for Peter and chose his burial clothing.

Ellie wasn’t sure what she did. She had memories of lying in Peter’s bed back at home and staring at the patterns of colors dancing across his computer screen. Had the screen saver been on all this time?

His bedroom smelled of him. His mattress carried the lanky imprint of his body. The bottle of Gatorade she’d given him to drink still stood on his night table, and a half-consumed bag of Goldfish crackers lay on his desk, next to his earth-science textbook and a copy of
The Great Gatsby.

Where was Hope Street? Curt had promised her they would live there forever. Ellie wasn’t even sure she was still alive. If she was, she was trapped inside some ghastly address, a place that looked familiar but felt all wrong.

The house filled with flowers, so many bouquets their clashing perfumes cloyed. Ellie’s colleagues at Felton Primary School sent chocolates and wine along with the flowers, and at her request the principal offered her a leave of absence for the remainder of the school year. Curt eventually went back to work and Katie returned to college after her spring break. Jessie returned to school, too. It was her senior year. Supposedly the happiest year of a teenager’s life.