West Nile virus . . . The idea exploded inside my head, setting off a flash fire. West Nile was in the news every summer in Texas. When horses contracted it, the virus could be fatal. Cities sent out spray trucks with vats of insecticide to kill mosquito larvae in roadside ditches. Last year, the outbreak was so epidemic, there had been aerial spraying in Dallas.
“It’s carried by mosquitoes and contracted through a bite.” The doctor was calm, clinical. “There’s no history of direct human-to-human transmission, so there isn’t any reason to worry that family members or friends could have caught it from her. Mr. Chastain mentioned that your son went on to school today. There’s no need to keep him home, as long as he’s showing no symptoms.”
I tried to catch my breath. Surely the doctor would be more concerned than this if it were really serious. Surely they’d be rushing around, giving her IVs, antibiotics . . . something. I took a step toward the door. I wanted to see her. I needed to touch her, to lay my head against hers and tell her everything would be all right.
“Typically human cases of West Nile are subclinical, but about 20 percent of the people infected will show mild to severe flu-like symptoms. Most often, those pass within a day or two, although on occasion the symptoms can linger. The real concern when WNV does produce a febrile illness, such as in Zoey’s case, is the secondary development of meningitis, encephalitis, or both. Fortunately her case has been caught early. We’ve brought the fever down. There’s some newer research that indicates the use of antivirals, so we’re going to start those with Zoey, just to be cautious. As with other viral illnesses, such as shingles, there can be a risk of flaccid paralysis, so it’s important to make sure her treatment is continued at home and that she continues with her medications even after she feels better. Teenagers sometimes think they’re fully healed before they really are. Keep an eye on her. Make sure she doesn’t try to do too much for a while. No school, no working, no running around with friends.”
Paul sighed, his shoulders sagging with relief.
“Home?” Had I heard that correctly? Just a couple hours ago, Paul was lifting Zoey’s limp body from the perspiration-soaked sheets and carrying her to the SUV as she moaned on his shoulder. Was the doctor trying to shuffle us out of here because, by now, he knew we couldn’t pay? We’d barely gotten in the hospital door before a woman with a clipboard had whisked me into an office to fill out forms. While Paul sat in the waiting room with my baby girl, I’d been forced to explain that I had no insurance and no money. “Are you sure it’s okay for her to go home? She doesn’t need to stay in the hospital?”
“We’ll keep her for observation for the day, but at this point I don’t think we’ll have to admit her overnight. As long as there’s someone home with her the next few days, monitoring her temperature, making sure she takes in plenty of fluids and doesn’t exert herself, things should be fine. She’ll recover more quickly at home, where she’s comfortable, and at home there’s less risk of her being exposed to any secondary pathogens while her immune system is compromised by WNV. It’s really the best thing. Just don’t leave her by herself.”
“Oh . . . oh, okay,” I stammered, still trying to process everything as the doctor walked away.
Paul tucked his hands in the pockets of his bleach-spotted camp pants and smiled, his eyes gentle and kind, tender. A rush of emotions filled me, and a mist clouded the image of Paul, standing there with his crooked, freckled grin.
“She’s going to be okay,” I breathed.
“She’s going to be okay,” he repeated. “Was there ever any doubt? She comes from tough stock.”
Our gazes caught, and a hot flush replaced the coolness of the corridor. I purposely didn’t analyze the meaning of it but stepped away instead, felt the heat in my cheeks as I watched the doctor disappear through another doorway.
“Thanks, Paul.” There was a lump in my throat. “I just . . . I didn’t know who to call. Ross is out of town, and . . . When she was so sick, I couldn’t think of what to do. I just . . . panicked. If you hadn’t answered the phone, I don’t know . . .”
“It’s okay.” Without the ever-present fishing hat, his red hair fell in tangled strands over his forehead, curling slightly at the ends as he looked at me. “You would’ve handled the situation, Tandi. But I’m glad you called. It’s not a problem.”
“You’re a good friend.” It seemed important to say the word out loud for both of us. Friend. The relationship needed a label, a category. What did you call the person who dropped everything and came running to save your life? Paul had been so cool, so logical through this whole thing. He knew his way around the rigmarole of hospitals and medical forms. The reason hadn’t occurred to me until now. Did being here among the clinical sights and smells bring back memories of his wife’s illness, her death?
“I was a basket case.” It was embarrassing now, thinking about how I’d babbled and sobbed out half of my life story —no medical insurance, no money, no family I could ask. It was a testament to Paul’s character that he was still here. He’d even taken the morning off school so that he could stay with us. I’d heard the secretary joking on the phone that he’d ruined his perfect attendance record for the year.
“You love your daughter.” He leaned across the space between us, his fingers still tucked in his pockets. “Don’t worry about it, okay? But . . . if you really are worried about it, and you really feel the need to pay me back for all this trouble, you could make me some of those banana beignets.” He lifted both shoulders. “I’m just sayin’ . . . if that would lessen the guilt in any way, I will be happy to do my part and eat said beignets.”
Then we were laughing again, and the strangest realization slipped by, stealthy and quick, like the breeze sliding around the leeward edge of a dune. I loved the way Paul made me laugh.
“I am so going to make you beignets,” I sniffle-chuckled, and we moved to the chairs to wait for someone to tell us we could see Zoey.
Ideas circled in my head as time ticked by, news of Zoey coming a bit at a time. Beignets in cute baskets, an assortment of beignets made with different fruits, chocolate beignets, beignets with homemade whipped cream like Meemaw used to serve, beignets in a fishing basket, beignets shaped like fish. I could surprise Paul at school with beignets for the whole class. . . .
The parade of inspirations was a good distraction from the question of hospital bills and how I could possibly stay home with Zoey for several days. I had to work, and in fact I needed to be at work today. But there was still the question of who Zoey had been e-mailing and why she was planning to sneak out the window in the middle of the night. What if she tried to run off again? What if whoever she was talking to came by the cottage?
“You’re quiet,” Paul said as we sat in the hospital cafeteria eating lukewarm sandwiches that he had insisted on paying for.
I glanced at the clock above the food service counter. “Sorry. I’m just trying to think things through. I guess I should call Sandy and let her know that I can’t come today.”
Paul handed me his phone.
I took it and rubbed my thumb back and forth across the screen. “This’ll leave Sandy in such a bind. She has the building inspector coming on Monday. If the place isn’t ready, it’s like a month before she can get him out there again. The music festival starts Wednesday. She’s counting on being open by then.” Maybe I could leave J.T. home to help Zoey. If I called from the shop every hour to see that they were okay, made sure she took her medicine on time . . .
Paul was already stretching across the table, reaching for the phone. “You know what, let me call the school and —”
“No, Paul.” The words were quick and sharp, stopping him halfway out of his chair. He hovered there, his brows peaking under tangles of hair. I closed my eyes, tried to gather my thoughts. “I just . . . You’ve already done enough. You can’t take more time off work for us.” Watch out, the voice in my head was whispering. When people give something, they want something back. What is he after? What does he want? The voice surprised me, although it shouldn’t have. I’d understood that push-pull all my life. I’d lived by it, learned the lesson over and over and over again. When people showed unusual interest —teachers, neighbors, other kids’ parents, foster parents —they wanted to get close to you for some reason, and those reasons usually led to pain. Those people wanted you or they wanted your secrets. Either way, you were safer on your own.
“I don’t mind.” Paul’s eyes were so earnest, the welcoming brown of damp earth. I could sink my feet in, fall right into him. But this, exactly this, was how I’d gotten in such a mess with Trammel —a crisis, a desperate moment, a slow building of dependence. After the accident, Trammel had been so kind, so helpful and generous, I couldn’t say no.