The Tolling of Mercedes Bell: A Novel (36 page)

“I can’t breathe,” he sputtered, and launched into another round of coughing.

“Jack, we’re going to get you dressed. Then we’re going to get help.”

“No,” he whined. “Don’t want to. Want to go home.”

“This is home, Baby.”

“Jackie’s a good boy.”

“Yes, he is. Jackie’s a very good boy.”

Yet another spasm of coughing erupted. She quickly unbuttoned his pajamas. His entire upper body was red, puffy, and boiling hot. He cooperated with having an undershirt and a soft polo shirt pulled over his head.

She took his hands when he was again quiet from coughing and helped him stand on uncertain legs. He listed right and left, as though tipsy, and grabbed the top of the doorjamb with both hands to keep from falling. She guided him to the toilet. She pulled down his pajama pants and seated him firmly. He complied without objection. He seemed relieved to be sitting. Walking was scary. She put his feet into his underwear and pulled them up to his knees.

Suddenly he thundered, “Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?” There was the Jack from last night.

“I’m taking care of you.”

“I don’t need taking care of. What’s going on here?” he demanded, with the frantic look of a captured bird.

“We’re just getting dressed for the day,” she said reassuringly. His eyes flitted here and there, as though wild animals were about to leap out from the shower.

“Am I going to work?”

“Not just yet.” She helped him into his socks and trousers, then stood him up. She fastened his pants, moving as quickly as she could lest he become uncontrollable.

“We’re going on an adventure.”

“An adventure?” A delirious, manic grin spread across his face. An adventure meant travel, and travel always made him happy.

“Yes, Honey. Do you want anything to eat?” It was going to be a long day.

“Not hungry.” He shook his head, which made him dizzy and prompted another coughing fit. She put a handkerchief in his hand, grabbed her purse, and shoved his wallet into it, along with his car keys. While he coughed more, she retrieved a jacket for him. Soon they were ready to walk through the front door.

She prayed that he wouldn’t balk, and led the way with confidence. He followed on uncertain feet, concentrating on his balance. Soon she was helping him into the passenger side of his big black Mercedes, which she had never driven.

“I’ll drive,” he announced, although he was already belted in on the passenger side.

“Not right now. I have a surprise for you.”

He nodded, obviously confused. His hair was uncombed, his face unshaven and red as the hibiscus blossoms on their bush. Never
before had the elegant Jack Soutane left the house without showering, shaving, and tending meticulously to his appearance.

By the time they crossed the bridge, he had stopped coughing and was dozing.

Mercedes’s mind was flying. She had opted for a San Francisco hospital because Jack had lived in the city for so many years. His doctor or doctors might have privileges there. They were soon parked near the entrance to the emergency room.

He looked up with sleepy eyes, coughing.

“I’ll be right back,” she said, taking the keys. “There’s something I have to do.”

He was too feeble to object. She got out of the car and marched into the intake area. A few minutes later she emerged with a Samoan orderly and a wheelchair. She tapped on Jack’s window and opened the door.

“Jack, Honey, we need you to come with us.”

He looked skeptical.

She took his hand and encouraged him to stand. He complied as the orderly took his other arm, settled him into the wheelchair, and pushed him into the hospital.

After Jack was taken into an examination room, Mercedes filled out forms at the desk, her hands shaking. She forced herself to find Jack’s health insurance card in his wallet. She felt hollow inside.

A dark-haired doctor named Sinclair appeared. He sat down beside her and questioned her about Jack’s symptoms. She told him everything she could think of.

“Why don’t you go to the cafeteria and have some breakfast?” he suggested. “I think we’ll run some tests right away and see what turns up. We’re going to admit your husband. He’s a pretty sick fellow.” He looked at her compassionately.

She wished she felt surprised, but it was as if all the weirdness of the past few months had been leading ineludibly to this day. She
went to the cafeteria and tried to compose herself with a cup of coffee. She stared out the window, looking but not seeing.

S
OMETIME LATER SHE WAS SITTING
in the lobby when the doctor reappeared. She tried to read his face, but he was practiced at shielding his emotions. How much bad news had he delivered in his career? She felt pure dread when he led her into a private room and sat down beside her.

“The preliminary tests show that Jack has pneumonia. His oxygen level is quite low, which might explain some of his memory problems,” Dr. Sinclair began.

“He’s been coughing for months and I’ve been trying to get him to go to his doctor. I have no idea who his doctor is or even if he’s been to see him. We’ve had so many cross words over it. I’ve been very worried.”

“I’m
his doctor. I thought that’s why you brought him here.”

“You? Dr. Sinclair?”

“Yes. Jack’s been my patient for many years. I’m not always here, so it’s coincidental, to say the least, that you brought him when I happened to be making rounds.”

Tears filled her eyes. He put his hand on her shoulder.

“Let me tell you what’s going on with Jack. First of all, the rash is an allergic reaction of some kind, possibly to medication. But the greater concern is pneumonia. The strain Jack has is called pneumocystis. Have you ever heard of it?”

She shook her head.

“Fortunately we are well prepared to treat it because it’s become more common in recent years. We’ve already put him on oxygen and medication, including a steroid. He’ll have to remain in the hospital for now.”

She was having a déjà vu. It was like watching the events unfold through a plate glass window, as after Eddy’s death.

“Your husband is fighting for his life,” he said. “We have the lab and MRI results. We think we know the cause of his convulsions.” He placed his hand on her forearm. “Jack has tested positive for HIV and has a colony of the AIDS virus in his brain.” She gasped and covered her mouth with her hands. “That explains last night’s convulsions, the erratic behavior, mood swings, night sweats, and so on. I’m afraid this does not bode well for his future.” He waited a moment, but she could not form a response. “And I’m sorry to say that you are at risk,” he continued. “You must take an HIV test as soon as possible.”

She covered her ears with her hands and bent over. Not another word. She couldn’t bear another word.

“There is no cure yet, but research is going on all over the world. We have drugs to boost the immune system and suppress infection, but none to kill this virus yet. I’m very sorry.”

“How long does it usually take for HIV to show up on a test?” Her pulse raced.
Germaine! Oh God, no!

“Anywhere from six weeks to six months. If your test comes back negative that’ll be good news, but temporary. I don’t want you to have any false hope. Take another test in three months.”

“Does anyone who’s exposed ever escape getting it?”

“I personally don’t know of a case, but there is a tiny percentage of people reported in the literature.” He paced himself, attuned to her reactions. “Less than one percent.”

She stared at his face. She wanted to scream. She wanted to run upstairs and throw herself into Jack’s arms. She wanted to flee the hospital and pretend that none of this was happening. A vision of Germaine’s gray eyes flashed in her mind. She felt as though a knife had just been shoved into her heart.

“Use this time wisely. You do have some time. Jack has less. Get
your affairs in order.” After a moment’s silence he said, “Now let me tell you what to expect with Jack. AIDS is an unforgiving illness that can take many different courses. Unfortunately, Jack is already very ill. Depending on the degree to which his immune system has been compromised, he may have an uphill battle with the pneumonia. We must keep him here where we can closely monitor him.”

“You mean he could—die—soon?” She was horrified.

“We should know within a couple of weeks. But that’s not all. If he survives the pneumonia and we release him, he’ll be homebound for a good while. He’ll need a home-care nurse. He’s in a significantly compromised mental state.”

He let Mercedes catch her breath. “I know this is a lot to hear all at once. I wish I could do something to mitigate the bad news.”

“Just tell me everything.” She held her head in her hands, to keep it from exploding.

“As the virus replicates and moves around in his brain, there will be many changes—to his mental capacity, his appearance, his personality, and eventually motor functions. You’ve already seen some of that. But there will also be periods of lucidity when he seems almost normal. Take advantage of those. Get his business affairs organized. Find out what insurance you have, whether he has a will, and make provisions for your daughter.”

“Will he be able to resume his law practice?”

“Certainly not—even if he recovers from pneumonia. He’s on the road to dementia, and his judgment is no longer reliable. Since the virus is in his brain, it’s not likely to leave. Obviously there will be a lot of business for you to attend to.”

“Do you know how he got it? I mean, we had the HIV test before we were married and we were both negative.”

“Has either of you had any blood transfusions or taken any drugs intravenously since then?”

“No.”

“Then one of you has exchanged bodily fluids with an infected person.”

“That just doesn’t make any sense to me. Isn’t it a gay man’s disease?”

“That’s the public perception, but this virus doesn’t discriminate. It’s not exclusive to the gay population by any means. We’re in the middle of an epidemic that’s becoming a pandemic.”

“But Jack’s not gay, and we love each other. He wouldn’t cheat on me,” she said in bewilderment. “I haven’t been with anyone but him since we first fell in love—in fact, for a lot longer than that.”

“Perhaps how he got it isn’t so important right now,” Dr. Sinclair said. “You have quite enough to deal with without worrying about that. You’re welcome to go up and see him now. Please bear in mind that he’s on the floor with our other AIDS patients, all of whom have depressed immune systems. Consequently, we limit visitors to immediate family and only during visiting hours. No children.”

Our other AIDS patients.
Was this all just a nightmare? Would she wake up soon? Afternoon light poured into the windows of the room in which they’d been sitting. The whole day was passing by in a procession of horrors. Life as she had known it was suddenly gone. Nothing would ever be the same. Not one thing.

“Yes, I’ll go see him now, unless you have anything else to tell me.”

“Just that I’m very sorry,” he said.

Dr. Sinclair’s dark brown eyes were rimmed with long black lashes, she noticed, like Jack’s. He was obviously a kind man with great endurance. He shook her hand and said he would call her soon with updates.

T
HE
AIDS
WARD,
as it was called, was full. Jack had a semiprivate room, shared with a deranged-looking wraith, who was probably in his early thirties. A thin blue curtain separated the two beds; both patients were under oxygen tents with IVs in their arms.

The roommate gaped at Mercedes as she walked past. He was a skeletal figure, like a concentration camp refugee.

Jack’s eyes were closed. His feet extended beyond the end of the bed and had been carefully wrapped in a blanket by one of the nurses. She touched them with both hands as she rounded the bed, staring in disbelief at this kingly man, felled by a form of life too tiny to see with the naked eye.

Despite having his upper body elevated, he fought for breath and continued to cough frequently. He seemed relieved to be in the hospital and had taken to it without complaint. She sat in a chair beside him and slid her hand beneath his left hand.