Pandemic (9 page)

“Oh. It’s still not too late to come over. I have everything planned. Waiting home alone isn’t going to do you any good—”

“I . . . I don’t think I should.” I realized the truth I’d shared with Jay applied to Ethan, too. I didn’t want to be his girlfriend again. It wasn’t going to work any better now than it had the last time.

“I’m not asking for a commitment—”

“I know. But I’m exhausted, and confused, and this probably isn’t the best time to see each other.”

“Fine,” he said before hanging up on me. At least he would stop texting for a while.

I changed into comfy pjs and spent most of the evening waiting for word about Megs. I checked online multiple times, expecting to find new information about the flu. Finally, an updated article was posted. More than two hundred cases had been reported in Portico, with twelve fatalities.

I read through the dozen names, catching my breath at the one I recognized.

Angela.

I sank back into the chair. The
Portico Press
had a whole article about her, but I couldn’t bear to read the details. I made a mental list of the differences between Dad’s assistant and Megs. Angela was pregnant; Angela was older; Angela might not have used antibacterial soap.

After an eternity, Mrs. Salerno called.

“We’re still at the hospital,” she said. “Megs is in serious shape.”

No, no, no.

“Can I come see her?”

“She can’t have visitors, Lily. I’m sorry.”

Her voice sounded strained, as if she’d been crying. Mrs. Salerno never cried.

Fear made my hands tremble. I clutched the phone harder. “She’s going to be OK, right?”

“Her lungs have been affected. The doctors . . . they don’t know. I’ll call you if there’s any news. You should let your parents know if . . . if you start to feel ill.”

I sat there dazed for a long time after we said good-bye. How could this happen so fast? It was in her lungs. Megs had perfectly healthy lungs. She didn’t even smoke.

Finally moving, I took the cigarettes from my backpack and flushed them down the toilet. Megs would be proud. Then I tried to reach Mom and Dad, leaving the same message for both of them: Come home.

C
HAPTER
9

Quarantines will not reduce the spread of influenza unless they create total isolation. In most cases, absolute segregation is nearly impossible.

—Blue Flu interview, contagious diseases expert

I
n my dream, Megs and I sat on the swings at the park. The rain had just stopped, and the air had that fresh, spring smell to it that we both loved. We swung back and forth in unison, chatting about nothing, about everything.

“You’re going to find love when you least expect it,” she said.

“What are you? A fortune cookie?”

She laughed, a cheerful, bubbly sound. “Let’s go higher,” she said.

We pumped faster, until it looked like we could kick the sun.

“We don’t have much time,” she told me. “I’m going to jump. Love ya!”

“Megs, wait!”

It was too late. The swing next to me creaked back and forth, empty.

I woke up with a yelp to the sound of the phone on Sunday morning, feeling around until I found it.

“Hello?” My voice was raspy and tired.

“Lily, it’s Dad. Are you all right?”

“Yeah, I just woke up. Where are you?”

“I’m in Delaware packing up. I’ll be home as soon as I can, by dinner at the latest.”

“You got my message about Megs last night? Mrs. Salerno said I can’t visit her. It seems so unfair.”

“She’ll be isolated, honey, until they determine exactly what’s wrong. This illness is spreading fast. The public health department may contact you and the people she’s been around—”

“Yesterday was Career Day.”

“Oh my God.”

He’d participated last year, talking to students about journalism, so he knew how hundreds of people attended from all over Morris County. It would be impossible to track who Megs had been in contact with.

“I’m glad you stayed home,” he said.

I squeezed the phone. I couldn’t tell him I’d been there, not even for a little while.

“Do you think Megs will recover?” I asked.

“I’m sure she’s getting good care,” he said. “Do you have any symptoms? Fever, achiness, coughing?”

“No, I’m fine. Do you think Megs has the same flu that Angela . . .”

“I don’t know. I hope not,” he said. “Look, I need you to remain inside the house, at least until I get there. Don’t go out at all.”

“Like a quarantine?” Fear gripped my stomach and squeezed tight.

“A voluntary home isolation, honey. Don’t even answer the door.”

“For how long?”

“We’ll talk about it when I get back,” he said. “You should rest and drink lots of water. You’re sure you feel healthy?”

Actually, I had a monster headache, but that was probably from the tension of worrying. “I feel fine.”

“Any word from Mom?”

“No. Why? Has the flu reached Asia?”

“It’s only a matter of time,” he said. “But I’m sure she’s OK. Maybe her call isn’t going through. It took me several tries. Everyone’s probably checking on family, overloading the phone system.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” I hoped it wasn’t anything more than that.

“I’ll call in a few hours when I have my travel plans worked out. I’ll text if I can’t get through. We should have her flight information by then, too.”

I kept my voice calm, trying to think rationally. “I thought I’d buy more supplies. Mom might have told you about the extra food stored in the closet?”

“She mentioned it.” His tone implied it had actually been a lengthy conversation.

“If we have to be isolated for a long time, it won’t be enough. We’ll need even more.”

“You can’t leave the house—”

“I can order online, Dad. I have your credit card from when I bought flowers . . .”
For Angela. Before she died.

I didn’t finish my sentence aloud. I didn’t have to.

“Go ahead and use my card to buy what you think we’ll need,” he said. “I’ll see you soon. Call me if anything changes.”

I searched the kitchen for comfort food, finally settling on macaroni and cheese for breakfast. After eating, I took my temperature. It registered normal all three times.

From the isolated safety of Dad’s office, I logged onto the computer and browsed the virtual aisles of the online grocery store. After filling my shopping cart with mostly nonperishable items, I selected delivery for tomorrow. Then I went to a drug store site and made a bunch of purchases there. The thought of the supplies should have calmed me, but my hands shook a little and I felt fidgety. Did that mean oncoming flu or just nicotine withdrawal? It didn’t seem like I’d been smoking much, but I’d kind of lost track.

I really wanted a cigarette. I tried chewing gum instead.

There was still no word from Mrs. Salerno. Each time I called the hospital, the phone line was busy, and she didn’t answer her cell. I paced around the house in frustration, not able to get through to Mom, either.

After ten tries, and many deep, calming breaths, I finally sent Mom a text telling her that Megs was sick, that Dad was on his way home, that I was fine. It was easy to hide the worry when she couldn’t hear my voice.

I needed to do something constructive to pass the time. Using a yellow pad of lined paper, I wrote out the days of the week down the side, with columns across the top: me, Mom, Dad. Starting with the perishables, then factoring in my stockpile and groceries on order, I filled out each box with three meals and one snack a day. My supplies would provide enough food for about four weeks.

On a fresh sheet of paper, I listed activities to pass the time alone, starting with the useful (reorganize my history binder) and ending with the silly (download the new drawing game I wanted to try). If I didn’t get sick, I had enough resources to avoid the rest of the world for a long time.

I tacked the grid to the inside of our pantry. I had a plan, a solid one. Now I just needed Megs to recover and my parents to arrive home safely. When Dad finally called back, I lunged for the phone.

“I need you to stay calm,” he said.

Fear surged through me like an electrical shock.

“What’s wrong? Are you sick?”

“I’m healthy, but they’ve quarantined my hotel. It’s impossible for me to come home.”

I leaned on the kitchen counter for support. But it wasn’t enough to steady me. Clutching the phone, I slid to the floor in a terrified heap.

C
HAPTER
10

I would ask all people of the world, regardless of their particular faith, to pray.

—Blue Flu interview, world religious leader

“L
ily? Are you still there?” Dad asked.

Huddled on the kitchen floor, I gripped the telephone. “Why would they quarantine your hotel? How long until you can leave?”

“The CDC made some progress identifying the exact illness. They’ve determined that it’s a novel H5N1 that’s causing the flu,” Dad said. “The virus has mutated. Traditional H5N1 would bind to the respiratory cells deep in the lungs. It was deadly, but didn’t spread. This strain is binding in the upper respiratory track as well.”

“In English, Dad.”

“It’s bird flu. It’s deadly and highly contagious. They’ve traced the source to migrating waterfowl, like the ones they banded last weekend at the swamp.”

I gasped. “Mom almost dragged us to that!”

“I know. And Angela was there, along with several other people who’ve become sick.”

“You said you didn’t have any contact with Angela. So why are you quarantined?”

“Bad luck, really. There’s a national bird banding convention at my hotel.”

“You’re stuck with tons of potentially sick people?”

“We’re confined to our hotel rooms.”

“Have you spoken to Mom?”

“Yes. She’s trying to leave Hong Kong, but they’ve cancelled most of the flights to the East Coast. There are rumors Newark Airport will shut down soon.”

I took the phone into my room and climbed into bed. Dad was quarantined. Mom was stuck in a foreign country. My best friend was sick. I was home alone after possibly being exposed to a fatal illness. The panic made it hard to breathe. I focused on each inhale, every exhale, as if my body might forget how to breathe properly.

Dad cleared his throat. “I know this is difficult. I called my stepbrother—”

“Uncle Jim? I’ve met him like twice in my whole life.”

“I know. And he can’t come anyway. But I’m trying, honey.”

I pulled the covers up to my chin, realizing how isolated and alone I was. “Dad, if I start to feel sick—”

“Are you ill now?”

“No, but just in case, who would I call? You’re away, Mom’s away, Mrs. Salerno is at the hospital. . . .”

He was quiet a moment. “What about Reggie? He’s right down the street.”

My neighbor and happy ShopWell cashier. I would have preferred a motherly-type, but I guess he would do.

“He’s trustworthy, Lily, and . . .”

“And what?”

Dad sighed. “He’s statistically in a good age bracket for survival.”

“I thought old people were most at risk from the flu?”

“Not in this case. It’s too soon to tell definitively, but based on the fatalities so far, it seems to be less deadly to the younger and the older.”

“How young?” I asked.

He paused.

“Dad, I can hear it from you or the news.”

“They’re predicting that kids fourteen and younger will have a higher survival rate. So will adults over age fifty.”

Could this get any worse? “Then at sixteen, I’m screwed. And you and Mom are in the deadly zone, too.”

“I know it seems bad. I’ll keep checking on you. Texting is probably easiest. Let’s send messages every few hours. Do you want me to call Reggie, tell him your situation?”

“No,” I said, unconvincingly.

“I’ll contact him. And there’s one other thing I need you to do.” He lowered his voice. “I have some medicine hidden in the safe. It’s an antiviral. I want you to take it.”

“Will it work with this strain of flu?”

“I don’t know. But it could offer some protection if you’ve been exposed and may lessen the symptoms if you do get sick. Of course, there’s no guarantee now that the virus has mutated, but it’s better than nothing. The first two numbers of the combination are written in pencil inside the laundry room door. The last number is 88.”

“Got it. But what about you?”

“I’m guessing they’ll treat us here. You should start taking the medicine, once a day for ten days, as a precaution. If you show any signs of the actual flu, take it twice a day. And don’t tell anyone about it.”

“OK.” I had gotten good at keeping secrets.

After we hung up, I concentrated on breathing for a long time. Then my phone beeped with a message.