AN ARIA FOR CAMI
“Verstossen sei auf ewig”
– Mozart, Die Zauberflöte, Der hölle Rache (Aria)
Mount Vernon, New York, March 20
I was pouring water for tea when Rob knocked on the door. Tea for two. I’d gotten my caffeine fix, and given the fact that my taste buds weren’t functioning, I might as well drink tea. I let Rob in.
He was wearing classic business casual – khakis and a white button-down shirt. To all appearances he was fine. He was giving me the same appraisal.
“You don’t seem to have fallen apart – yet,” I said. “Do I pass?”
“So far, so good.”
I gave him his tea and we sat at the table.
“Are your taste buds working?” I asked him.
He put the tea under his nose, sniffed, and then took a sip. “They seem to be okay.”
“In that case,” I said, “do you actually want tea? I only drink it for therapeutic reasons, or to be sociable. Or, in this case, because I can’t taste anything, so what the hell.”
He smiled. “Henry mentioned that you’re a coffee snob, and he would know. I usually prefer it myself, during the day. But the way my throat feels, the concoction you made is a lot better.”
I had added honey and lemon to his tea; I remembered my mother using it as a home remedy.
We sat silently for a few minutes, sipping our tea. Then he said, “I sent emails to the people I met with yesterday already; I’ll need to call them soon. But I’m also going to need to notify the people I was in physical contact with in Boston the last two or three days before I left. That will include Henry. So your sister’s going to know very soon. I’m guessing you haven’t told her yet?”
I shook my head. “And I really, really wish I didn’t have to. She didn’t give me a hard time for dropping everything and coming, but she thinks it should have been her job. If Iain doesn’t make it, she’ll never forgive herself. And . . . .”
I hesitated.
But he finished my thought. “And if anything were to happen to you, it would destroy her, right?”
I nodded, feeling miserable.
“I’m sorry, Cami. But I really do have to tell Henry. And if he quarantines himself like he’s supposed to, Fiona will certainly know. Anyhow, no way he’d keep this from her.”
“I know.” I sighed. “And I understand. But I told her I would look after Iain, and I failed, and I told her I would keep safe, and I failed there, too.”
I held up my hand to stop his protest. “I’m not not saying I did things wrong, Rob. I did it by the book, as far as I know and as far as there is a book. But it’s objectively true that I was unsuccessful. Fi is going to want to come down here and fix everything, even though she is desperately needed where she is. And whatever choice she makes is going to tear her apart.”
“I know. I get Fi. Believe me, I do. But you can’t shield her from this.”
I nodded.
He asked whether I had been in close contact with anyone.
I shook my head. “You and Iain are the only people I’ve been within ten yards of since coming here six days ago. I’ve got lots of people to call, but not for that reason.”
“Okay. Why don’t we make our calls, then get together at, say, 11:00? I think we’re going to need a plan to get through this, and two heads are better than one.”
“I’d like that. I don’t mind telling you I’m less worried about this – a lot less – than I would be if I were alone here. Not that I wish this on you!”
He stood. “Likewise, on both fronts. Uncle Chip doesn’t hand out compliments cheaply. Or, really, at all. And he says your ability to think under pressure is . . . commendable. Yes, I’m sure he said ‘commendable.’ We’re going to need that!”
Becoming more serious, he said, “It’s a great comfort to me that you’re here, Cami, even if I’d have spared you, if I could have.”
He left and went next door.
Fiona first. She probably wasn’t in a position to take a call, but I would text the essentials and ask her to call when she was free. So I typed, “Fi, Rob and I both woke up with mild symptoms. He has a sore throat and I’ve lost taste and smell. Otherwise fine. We have to stay in place anyway, so we’ll look after each other. DO NOT WORRY. Call when you’re free, but no rush. We’re not going anywhere.”
So easy to write. But I knew what devastation those few words would cause. Just as I felt I had failed, Fiona would feel it even worse. She would kick herself for not dropping everything to take care of Iain. For not telling me to just drop him off at the ER as soon as I’d found him. For any of the many choices we had made, the calculated risks we had taken.
Sometimes, all you can do is place your bets and spin the wheel.
The next call wouldn’t be easy, but it would be better than Fiona. I decided to use FaceTime. Nicole’s image appeared. I took in her breathtaking smile and cheerful “Good morning!” I felt like I’d gotten a huge hug. I wish I could bottle that smile and have it forever.
I smiled back, cheered. “Hey, Nicole!”
Maggie poked her head into the camera’s field of vision and waved. “Hi Cami!”
My smile got bigger. “You two are a sight for sore eyes! God, I’ve missed you!”
They assured me the feeling was mutual, then Nicole asked how Iain was doing.
“I’m afraid he’s worse. I had to call 911 last night – this morning, technically. He’s at the hospital, waiting to go into the ICU.”
“I’m so sorry,” Nicole said. “You were both fighting so hard. Are you okay?”
Well, nothing for it. “I’m still holding together. Mentally. And Rob” – I had mentioned him to Nicole when I had spoken with her the prior morning – “has been a big help. But, it turns out we’ve both got some COVID symptoms. Nothing much.”
Nicole froze; I might have thought it was a technical glitch, but Maggie didn’t freeze. She just looked like she’d been sucker-punched.
No one said anything, so I decided I had better. “Nicole. Maggie. I’m twenty-seven years old. I’m healthy. Unlike my older brother, I haven’t spent ten or fifteen years weakening my body with recreational drugs or living on poverty rations. COVID is serious, but it’s not like it’s an automatic death sentence. Okay?”
Finally, Nicole moved. “You’re right, Cami. I know you are – we know you are. But we’re worried for you – scared – and . . .” She paused, took a breath, and continued, “. . . and we’re not there. We can’t help. We can only wait. And worry.”
I knew how I would feel if our positions were reversed, and I ached for her. “I’m sorry. I really am. I know this is hard. But please don’t come up here, Nicole. New York may be the least safe place in America right now.”
She looked miserable. “I know, I know. Even my parents are going to go stay with my aunt in the Berkshires. They were hemming and hawing about it and I told them that if they didn’t do it I would come and stay with them in New York. The threat worked, but if I come up now, they definitely won’t go. And, I want them out of there!”
“Too right!” I said. “So listen. I’ll keep you posted, but there’s no sense worrying about it. We’ll follow the doctor’s orders, and do everything that can be done. So enough about that for now. Tell me what you’re up to.”
They looked at each other and Nicole seemed to slump.
Then she nodded, reluctantly. “Okay. I have a bit of a hard time talking about a podcast while you're dealing with everything that’s going on up there. But maybe it’ll help us all if we do.”
So we spent fifteen minutes or so doing that, and it actually did help. I thought the ideas were really creative, and I did my part, asking stupid questions that neither of them had thought about because they know too much.
When we had wrapped that up, I said, “Great ideas! Great energy! This is going to be fun! And I can’t wait to get down there to help!”
They smiled bravely.
I smiled back. Fantasy Island, and "Smiles, everybody." We signed off.
It was now 9:45, and the next person on my list was Eileen. I explained how my situation had changed.
“I’m so sorry. So, your plan is just to stay at the motel and self-quarantine?”
“Pretty much. My sister’s fiancé’s brother – if you can follow all of that – came down in part to do work in the City and in part to help with Iain, and unfortunately we’ve both got COVID symptoms now. The silver lining is that we’ll at least be able to look after each other and, ah . . . pull the rip-cord if things go south.”
“That certainly seems like the best of a bad set of options,” she agreed.
“Eileen, I know I’m approved for leave through the end of the month. And, I don’t know what this is going to be like. If I get as sick as Iain, I won’t be good for anything, and if Rob does, I’ll probably need to do the same sorts of full-time care that I did this past week. And God help us, we could both get that sick.
“But, it’s also very possible that we’ll both have mild to moderate symptoms and I’ll just be sitting in my motel room going mad with boredom. If there are any projects I can work on – maybe ones that aren’t time-sensitive, I would love to be useful.”
She chuckled. “That’s a lot of ‘if’s’ – but I’ll see what we can come up with.”
After I signed off with Eileen, I stared at the phone, gritting my teeth. No call was going to be harder than this one, but it had to be done. Iain was critically ill and I had to face the possibility that he very well might die. I had to call his father.
My father.
I got a recording, so I left a message. “It’s Cam. I’m calling about Iain. It’s urgent, so please call me right away.”
I put the phone on my lap and closed my eyes. Who else should I call? I hadn’t talked to Liz in a while. And Liz would want to know. She would probably have some hard-headed notions on how to straighten out my crazy life, too! I smiled. But it was Friday and she would be working. It wasn’t urgent. The same was true of Al and Javier.
And wouldn’t I just be worrying everyone to no purpose? Like Nicole, like Maggie, like Fi, even, there wasn’t anything they could do. I thought, I’ll call Sarah. She can pray for us, at least, though I tended to think Sarah prayed through action. But she could ask my sisters in our small community to add me to their prayers. They would normally meet tomorrow evening. I wondered if they would cancel.
The whole country seemed to be grinding to a slow, uneven halt. Like a train that’s jumped the track and is in the process of burying itself, car by car, into an avalanche field of tumbled snow and ice.
My phone buzzed with an income text. “What is it?” The number was my father’s cell.
“Iain has COVID. Please call me.”
The response, a minute later, was another text. “What is it that you want me to do?”
I thought about that. Texts were hard to interpret; his could be read as either a genuine inquiry or a snide rebuff. So I wrote, “I want you to CALL me.”
Two minutes went by, then three. Then I got a longer text. “If there is anything we can do for his physical care, we will do it. Let me know. Apart from that, Iain chose to leave this family. I can’t unmake his choice.”
My blood was starting to simmer. I typed, “He made that choice AFTER you disowned him!”
The reply this time was instant. “He severed himself from our family by his actions. Our later words just acknowledged that reality.”
I was getting really steamed, and I knew that was counterproductive. I took a deep breath to calm myself, then tried calling him again. He didn’t answer.
I texted, “Please pick up the phone. This isn’t a good way to communicate.”
He texted back, “I have nothing more to say on this subject, Cameron.”
I was incredulous. He hadn’t even asked how Iain was doing. I texted, “You could at least pray for him. Or, would that be too much to ask?”
Introducing religion had been a mistake. He replied, “The Lord’s purposes will unfold in time. I pray every day that all of you will be numbered among the elect. I fear, in Iain’s case, that the course of his life reflects reprobation.”
Now I was furious. To hell with being productive, to hell with trying to build bridges. And to hell with him.
“When you meet your maker, old man, you will not recognize Him!”
“It suffices that He recognizes me.”
I shot back, “Your own CHILDREN don’t recognize you!”
But he made the obvious retort. “My soul is not in their keeping.”
I was getting drawn into a fight very much on his turf, and it was stupid. But I thought of his son, gasping for each breath, shivering in my arms as I desperately listened for the sound of the ambulance. I thought of my sister, weeping bitterly that her daddy had disowned her and labeled her an ingrate.
I was too angry to even consider pulling back.
Furiously typing, I wrote, “Jesus CELEBRATED humanity. He fed the hungry, made wine for a wedding, broke bread with sinners. Cared for the sick. You turned your back on Him and created a god more to your own liking. One who looks like YOU. Have you traded your humanity for your bankrupt theology? YOUR SON MAY BE DYING, YOU PRICK! DON’T YOU CARE?”
His response, equally hot, was almost instant: “Blasphemer! You are no son of mine.”
There. This time he’d said it. But I chuckled nonetheless. I might be wearing jeans and a T-shirt, but I was also wearing panties, a bra, lipstick, light morning makeup and nail polish in a really fetching shade of rose. His precise statement was accurate, discounting, of course, his self-serving accusation of blasphemy.
But I agreed with him on a deeper level too. I typed back my response, as formal as a judicial decree. “On that point we agree. I will no longer honor you as a father, nor will I bear your name in this world. As the Lord says in Matthew’s Gospel, ‘I do not know you.’ Goodbye.”
I paused, reviewed it. Took a deep breath. Thought about it. Was this really what I wanted to do? What purpose would be served?
I hit send.
“Io ti darò valore”
– Verdi, MacBeth, Nel di della vittoria (Aria)
Mount Vernon, New York, March 20, immediately following
I put down the phone, feeling strangely tired, like I had been wrestling with a demon. Maybe in a way I had been. I had known that Dad would never accept me as a woman, but I hadn’t told him, or my mother, what had been happening in my life. We hadn’t been speaking to each other at the time, and that had suited me just fine.
But, like all children, I carried my parents inside me at all times. Bore the weight of their silent judgment. Well, I’m done with that.
My phone rang. I thought, You should have called me earlier, you bastard. Too late now.
But it wasn’t Dad. It was Fiona. Please God, I prayed, help me to do better with this call! I gathered myself together, put the last few minutes behind me, and accepted the call.
“Good morning, Fi,” I said, projecting all of my love into the words. All the warmth in the world, to unfreeze the chill I had put in her soul. The warmth of sunlight dancing on ripe wheat, or of a merry fire on a winter evening. The warmth of a fuzzy blanket, shared with your dearest friend. Any warmth I could imagine.
“Cami, you’re killing me!”
Doctor Savin was gone; it was just my sister, devastated, wounded to the core of her being, torn between her duty and her family.
I wanted to weep. I wanted to apologize to her for failing, but the last thing she needed was to bear my guilt along with her own. I wanted to tell her everything would be okay. But she would know, even better than I did myself, exactly what those assurances would be worth. What comfort did I have? What possible solace could I give? Because right now, the world needed her.
Even more than I did.
“Fiona. Fi. Listen to me. We did everything right, just like you would have done if you’d been here. We did. You have always told me that in medicine, doing everything right doesn’t mean nothing will go wrong. That’s what happened here. You couldn’t have prevented it.”
“You don’t know that, Cami!” She was weeping.
“Maybe not, but I know I followed your instructions, right up until I had to make the 911 call. Are you telling me I screwed up?” Maybe that would do it.
“No,” she said quickly. “I don’t mean that. I don’t! Don’t think it! I’m just saying I have more experience. Maybe if I’d been there . . . .”
She faded to silence, and I finished for her. “. . . And maybe not, too. We don’t know, and we’ll never know. We did the best we could. You, me. Rob. Iain too. We can’t do more than that.”
She absorbed that for a moment before responding. “Okay, but now you’re both sick. I need to get down there . . . now.”
This was the thing I worried about the most. “No, Fi. We’re both in good shape, and we’ll give you regular reports. You’ve said it yourself: there’s nothing you can do for mild symptoms that we aren’t doing. And you have a crapload of people you are responsible for right now that don't just have mild symptoms.”
“They aren’t my family, God dammit!” she broke in. “They aren’t you! It’s . . . It’s . . . Christ, it's too much, Cami. Too much! I can’t!”
Okay, I thought. Time for steel. It had worked with Nicole. It had even worked with Tina. I didn’t want to hurt Fi, but I couldn’t think of another way to reach her right now.
“Yes, you can. You can. They are your family, just as much as I am, and they need their doctor. Right now, today, their need is greater. You would be appalled if Iain’s doctors just vanished because they had family to deal with. So would I. So get back in there and save your patients!”
The line was suddenly silent, and I prayed . . . prayed . . . that someday she would forgive me for that. When she finally spoke, she sounded like she had been hollowed out.
“I know, Cami. I do know. And, I’ll do it. I just don’t know how long I can keep this up.”
“Fiona. I love you more than I can say. I would give anything to keep from hurting you. Anything. I will be careful, and we’ll give you regular reports. Set your mind at rest. You are exactly where you need to be.”
“Okay,” she said, sounding flat. Resigned.
“You’ve always been my hero, Fi. I’ll stay as safe as I can; you do the same, okay?”
“I will, Sweetie.”
We ended the call.
Rob arrived exactly on time and gave me a critical appraisal. “The tire tracks are back. Big damn truck, this time. Your calls must have been worse than mine.”
I handed him a fresh cup of his doctored tea. “Yeah, I’ve had better mornings. I think I prevented my roommate and my sister from coming to save me, at least for the moment, but they weren’t very happy about it. Oh, and I disowned my father. I mean, he disowned me first, but I made sure mine would count.”
“Oh, sweet Jesus.”
I sat down at the table, but he came around behind me. “Lean forward for a moment, Cami. You look tight as a snare drum.”
He put his hands on my shoulders and started digging his fingers into my taut muscles, starting softly but increasing the pressure until they went deep. I leaned forward, put my forearms on my thighs and lowered my head. He worked silently for a while, down my shoulder blades and up the back of my neck to the base of my skull.
After a few minutes he stopped, then walked around to the other side of the table and sat down. “A little better, I hope?”
I straightened up slowly, moved my head left and right and shook out my arms. “I didn’t realize how tense I was. Thank you. I’d return the favor, but I don’t think I’ve got that kind of strength in my fingers.”
He smiled. “I’ll show you sometime. It’s not all about power, though that helps. Mostly, it’s about applying increasing levels of pressure in the right places, and in the right sequence. But I’m good just at the moment.”
He took a sip of tea, then another. “Thanks. This really helps; my throat is seriously raw.” Another drink, a bit more liquid this time. Then he put down the mug and looked at me. “Do you want to talk about it?”
I thought about that, and shook my head. “It’s a bit raw still. But thanks. I appreciate the offer.” I had a sip of the odorless, tasteless, thin, hot liquid in my own mug. “I’d rather think about something else. Almost anything else. COVID, even. So . . . I was able to use you as a bit of a shield against Fiona and my roommates. I said we could look after each other. I hope you don’t mind?”
He shook his head. “It’s pretty much what I said to Henry as well. And to Mom.”
“I think we won’t find a better place to hole up. I’m still close if Iain needs me, and the set-up works. In fact . . . .” I stopped, and then blushed.
His eyes twinkled. “In fact, yes. I was thinking that, too, but wasn’t sure how you would feel about sharing the space. It really is the smart thing to do. If either of us has an episode like Iain did last night, we’re going to want someone close.”
I nodded, still embarrassed. And not entirely sure why.
“Then it makes sense for me to check out of the room next door,” he said. “May I suggest that you move into Iain’s room? The attached bathroom will give you a smidge more privacy.”
“Okay, that makes sense. I’ll get everything properly cleaned before you move in, and you need to make sure you thoroughly disinfect the room you’re currently in before you vacate it. I’ve got everything you need for that.”
It was his turn to nod. “I hadn’t even thought of that, but of course you’re right. The cleaning staff won’t be protected.”
It was part of the reason that Nicole had selected the “no intra-stay cleaning” option when she booked my room. It had also saved a few dollars.
Just then my phone buzzed – Nicole was FaceTiming. I hoped we had no new disasters to worry about. “Let me take this.”
Rob stayed where he was and I swiped accept. “Hey, Nicole! Rob and I are strategizing on how to get through this. Is everything okay?”
She smiled – warm, genuine, but still worried. “Yes, but I’ve got an idea. Mom and Dad are leaving tomorrow. They can drop supplies on your doorstep on their way out – you are very much on their way. Would that help?”
“Absolutely!”
Rob was nodding an emphatic agreement.
“There’s one other thing, too,” I said, “if they would be willing. I extended my car rental, but it’s stupid to hang on to it now. If they could drop it off at National Car Rental, that would be a big help.”
Nicole’s smile got wider. “I’ll ask. I’m pretty persuasive!”
“True!”
We spent a couple minutes discussing details; I promised to send her a supplies list, and we rang off.
“Your roommate sounds like a lovely person,” Rob said.
I agreed wholeheartedly. We talked about logistics and decided Rob should check out of his room Saturday morning as originally planned. He was going to spend the afternoon in conference calls with the people he had intended to meet with today, and he would do that next door.
“I’ve felt better,” he acknowledged. “But I don’t think I’m in any imminent danger, and that’s what we have to be concerned about.”
We decided to start our own logs, just as I had kept for Iain, so we would be able to chart what was going on. “It will help keep Fiona sane,” I added, “and that ain’t nothing.”
We started with our initial symptoms. As of 8:00 am, loss of taste and smell for me. Same at noontime, coupled with unusual fatigue. Temperature at noon was 99.1; elevated, but barely. I didn’t even know what my baseline temp was; 98.6 is average, but people have natural variability.
Rob woke with a sore throat at around 7:00 am; it was worse by noon. In addition, he felt some deep muscle pain and some fatigue. His temperature was 99.7.
We had some instant soup (or to be more accurate, Rob had soup and I had a flavorless, hot, viscous liquid substance which I ate with a soup spoon). Then we each took Tylenol and Rob went off with some throat lozenges and Gatorade.
For almost the only time since I arrived in New Rochelle six days before, I was actually alone.
I called the hospital. Iain hadn’t been admitted to the ICU and I could not speak to him because he was sleeping. They weren’t willing to tell me anything else, because I didn’t hold his durable power of attorney and he hadn’t signed a waiver of his confidentiality protections under the Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act, also known by the acronym HIPAA. I asked if I could email a HIPAA waiver to them and have him sign it when he was awake.
They hemmed, hawed, and agreed, while cautioning that they weren’t certain he would be in any condition to execute a valid waiver.
“Please try,” I said. “My sister and I are all he’s got.”
So I spent a bit of time doing some research, then drafted a HIPAA waiver that would allow hospital personnel to discuss his condition with Fiona and me and emailed it to my contact.
It was 1:30 and I was feeling weary. I decided the best medicine would be rest. Even if I wasn’t sick, my daily sleep deficits this past week had cumulatively created a sleep debt that would give the Chairman of the Federal Sleep Reserve nightmares, if such an official existed. I set an alarm for 3:30 and laid down.
My phone went off a bit after 3:00, however, so I fumbled around groggily for a moment and grabbed it.
“Hello?” I said.
“Hello, this is Sylvia Thomas from the Westchester County Health Department. I’m calling for Cameron Savin.”
I sat up, suddenly very awake. “This is Camryn.”
“Good afternoon, Cameron. I’m calling to follow up on a 911 call you placed at 2:12 am this morning. You had an ambulance sent for your brother, Iain Savin, and reported that he had COVID-19. Is that correct?”
“Yes, that’s correct. Has something happened to him? Is he alright?”
“I’m sorry,” she said, “we don’t have any information about his current condition. I’m actually calling as part of an effort to track your brother’s close contacts so that we can try to get them isolated. Do you have a couple of minutes?”
I thought, sourly, that in fact I had nothing but time, but what I said was, “Of course.”
“Well, you know that you’ve been exposed to the virus. Have you been experiencing any symptoms?”
I decided I could speed this up. “I’ve kept my brother in isolation since this past Saturday. I was joined two days ago by Robert Hutchinson, who came to help out. Both of us began experiencing symptoms this morning; so far, they’re mild. I have had no other contacts since last Saturday. Mr. Hutchinson has, and he has contacted them this morning. We’re both planning to isolate in place while the virus runs its course”
I heard the sound of typing as she took down my information. She asked whether any of us had been tested, and I said we hadn’t.
“There is a drive-through testing facility in New Rochelle,” she offered. “We’re encouraging people who have been exposed to get tested.”
“I understand that. But it’s pretty clear that Mr. Hutchinson and I are infected, so it probably doesn’t make sense to risk other people in order to confirm it.”
“Hmm,” she said thoughtfully, typing in more information. “Can you give me contact information for Mr. Hutchinson, please?”
“If you give me your contact information, I’ll ask him to call you. I’m also aware of two individuals who were in contact with Iain in the days before he became symptomatic; I’ll give them your information, too.”
Sounding a bit put out, she said, “It would really be better if you just gave me their information; we can contact them.”
“The hospital doesn’t want to tell me my own brother’s medical condition because of privacy concerns.” I kept my tone pleasant . . . but firm. “I need to be at least as careful. I promise I will give them your information, I will urge them to call you, and I will stress that this is a public health emergency. They’re all good people. You’ll get more cooperation from them this way.”
She grumbled, but didn’t have much choice.
I got her contact information and ended the call.
“io l'ombra d'un sorriso”
– Puccini, Turandot, Signore ascolta! (Aria)
Mount Vernon, New York, March 20, immediately following
I called Iain’s roommate and his boss, filled them in on Iain’s status and asked them whether they were okay. Neither of them had experienced symptoms, but neither had quarantined either. Mahmoud’s job was still going, but Mike Peters said the restaurant had closed, for now.
“We weren’t told we had to, but no one was coming in. This place is a ghost town. I’m on half pay and all the staff have been laid off so that they can get unemployment.” Mike sounded lost. He didn’t know of anyone else at the restaurant who had gotten sick.
I urged them both to call Ms. Thomas and they both said they would. Given that neither of them had developed symptoms, it seemed likely the contact tracing effort would not go past them.
It was now almost 4:00 and I was still in bed, still feeling tired. But not out for the count, yet, so I got up, put on my slippers, and went into the common room. I grabbed a Gatorade (thin, cold, tasteless colored liquid) and decided to take another temperature reading. 99.6. Directionally incorrect, but not surprising. I added general achiness to my list of symptoms and wrote it in the log.
I had an email from Eileen indicating that she had spoken with Russ Gardner, the head of the insurance practice group; he would have an assignment for me to work on by Monday, but I shouldn’t feel any pressure.
“Getting better is the most important thing," she wrote. "If some work will help take your mind off things, do it. Otherwise, rest!”
I sent back an acknowledgment and thanks. I had an email from my colleague Daviana as well. Eileen had passed along the news that I had COVID; Daviana’s email was lovely and supportive. I responded to that one as well.
I was tired, but not really sleepy; achy, but not debilitated. I was annoyed at the hospital. Worried about Iain. I was tired as all hell of the four corners of this motel room that had become my whole world.
I groaned. This is just day one! Like, mile one of a marathon, I thought. I needed an attitude adjustment.
But I had no brilliant ideas that way, so I decided to take my mind off my woes by researching the process for changing your name under Maryland law. Westlaw is my friend. I was deep into case law interpreting Rule 15-901 of the Maryland Civil Code when I got a text from Robert asking if it was a good time for him to come over.
“Please do,” I texted.
He knocked on the door a minute later and I ushered him in.
“How was your day, dear?” I asked, jokingly.
He smiled. “Oh, you are booooored!” But he looked tired; much more tired than he had five hours earlier.
I took pity on him. “Here, sit in the comfy chair and put your feet up. You’re acquiring your own tire tracks.”
“Thanks, Cami,” he said gratefully. He sank down into the chair, slowly put one foot, then the other, on the ottoman that went with the chair, and momentarily closed his eyes. “I haven’t done anything more stressful than talk to people all day, but I’m beat.”
I put a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. “Let me take your temperature. And tell me where your symptoms are at. I’ll do your log entry, then we’ll see about getting you some food and rest.”
He didn’t fight me.
“You’re at 100.4, so up a bit. How’s the throat?”
“Still sore. My joints definitely ache, my head aches and my muscles feel fatigued, like I’ve been exercising them hard. My eyes are sore, too.” He thought a minute. “That’s about the full list, I think.”
I wrote all that down. “I’m doing a bit better, and I got some sleep. Why don’t you just rest there a bit. I’ll get you some Tylenol and a Gatorade. Are you hungry?”
He shook his head, eyes still closed.
I got him to take the pills and he leaned back in the chair. I went around behind him and very gently massaged his temples with the first two fingers of each hand. The look of pain and tension in his face began to ease.
After around ten minutes he said, “Thanks. That’s helped a lot. I have a really hard time functioning with a headache.”
I patted his shoulder. “We’re even. Stay here and I’ll make some soup. Our bodies will need the fuel, even if we don’t have much appetite.”
“Okay, boss,” he said, with something a bit closer to his normal smile.
Nothing fancy; just more chicken and vegetable soup that might as well have been dish water as far as I was concerned. But we both ate with more appetite than we expected. I made Rob some tea with honey and lemon and, on a whim, made myself a cup too. Naturally, I needn’t have bothered. It just tasted hot and wet.
Rob nursed his tea and looked a lot better.
I said, “The fever will drive some of the fatigue and achiness. If we can keep it down, it’ll help with everything else. So let’s do Advil doses between the Tylenol, like we were doing for Iain.”
“Makes sense. It doesn’t feel like it worked in his case, but we really don’t know what would have happened if he hadn’t been getting the extra doses.”
I nodded. Then I told him about Ms. Thomas’ contact tracing call.
“I talked to Henry this afternoon,” he said. “Apparently one of the guys I work with had been feeling a bit under the weather most of the week but didn’t think anything about it. He went home early yesterday and called in sick this morning. Based on his current symptoms, it sounds like COVID.”
His uncle’s response to the news had been to send all non-essential personnel home at noon and to tell everyone who worked with Don that they should isolate.
“If no one else develops symptoms over the weekend, we’ll open up on Monday, but Henry said the leadership team is discussing ways to have people work remotely for a while.” Rob shook his head in wonder. “You know, I don’t think Hutchinson Investments has ever closed its doors.”
He told me that Henry had hired someone local to give us assistance when needed. “He’s going to come tomorrow at 8:00 and drop off new sheets, towels, and blankets that match what we have – I sent brands and photos. He’ll give us heavy-duty plastic bags for our laundry, including all the current bedding. We’re to fill them, seal them, and disinfect the outsides of the bags. He’ll be by an hour later to pick everything up, and he’ll handle getting everything properly cleaned and disinfected. He’s got the right gear so that he can do it safely.”
I gawked at him.
“Cami,” he said, very gently, “I’ve grown up stupid rich. We have resources that most people don’t have. I try – really most of us who have any self-awareness try – not to let it warp us too badly. Not to flaunt it or rely on it too much. But in an emergency, it’s there and we use it. I think this qualifies; Henry does too. And, for what it’s worth, I think it will ease Fiona’s mind to know that help is nearby.”
I nodded, slowly. “I hope so. I’ve never heard her so distressed. . . . Well . . . one other time.”
Rob decided he was going to crash early, so he went back to his motel room armed with Tylenol, Advil, Gatorade, and something for his throat.
It was only around 7:00 and I decided I would hold off sleeping for a bit and clean. I stripped Iain’s bed and put my sheets and blankets on it for the night. After cleaning and disinfecting Iain’s room and its attached bathroom, I moved my stuff over. Then I cleaned and disinfected the room I had been staying in.
By that point I was dragging. But I took a moment and sent Fiona an email with a copy of Rob’s and my log entries. I checked my temp; it was holding steady.
In my new bathroom, I stripped, removed my breast forms and cleaned the area where they attach. I paused and looked at myself in the mirror. I’d only been taking estrogen pills for just over a week and it was too soon to see any changes, but that didn’t stop me from wishing for it. Longing for it. I gently ran an index finger over one of my nipples, yearning for some sign, some increase in sensation. Some sense of progress.
Nothing.
On the bright side, I hadn’t noticed any unusual mood swings, though I wasn’t exactly living in a period of calm. I sighed, lifted my light green nightie over my head and let it slide down my body, a silky caress, a hope for better days. The bed beckoned and I dove under the covers.
A headache, a raging thirst, and a full bladder forced me awake in the middle of the night. I blearily took care of all three and went back to bed. For once, I was not troubled by dreams.
“Mi piaccion quelle cose che han sì dolce malìa”
– Puccini, La Bohème, Sì. Mi chiamano Mimì (Aria)
Mount Vernon, New York, March 21
I woke up at my normal time – normal, that is, for when I was working, exercising, and doing voice lessons. 5:00. I smiled sadly, thinking of how many things I had let go over the past week, forced to focus all of my energy on the emergency at hand.
The aches in my body told me I would not be able to exercise right now even if I had the space, and even stretches would be painful. For all that, I didn’t feel horrible. I had slept well and my headache was gone.
I raised myself in the bed, a bit more gingerly than usual. My skin felt sensitive. Getting out of bed, I was steady, but definitely felt a little weak. I pulled my thin lingerie strap back to my right shoulder where it belonged, slipped into my dark green dressing gown, and went into the common area to take my temperature. 99.8. Well, it had been five hours or so since I’d had any medicine. So, not too bad.
I was thinking about my last night out with Nicole. How we had gone shopping at the mall and had a nice dinner out, knowing that we might not be able to do such commonplace things again for some time. Maybe I should spend some time this morning taking care of my appearance. I was strong enough to do it, right now. Steady enough. I had the luxury, at that moment, to care about it.
Who knows when I might feel good enough next?
I used Nair liberally. I showered, slowly, luxuriously, taking time to use the moisturizing soap all over my skin and even followed the shampoo bottle’s injunction to lather, rinse, and repeat. Applied conditioner and simply let the hot water massage my body while I waited for the conditioner to do its thing.
Out of the shower, I put mousse and curlers in my hair, turbanned up, then sat on the toilet and rubbed baby oil all over. When that dried, I reapplied my breast forms, concealed the seams, put on my robe and went into my bedroom. My toenails, then my fingernails, got treated to a warm, rich shade of brown.
While they dried, I sat, sipped some hot liquid beverage, and listened to Chopin.
Nor was I finished. I styled my hair, parting it slightly to my right and allowing curls to spill down my back and over my left shoulder. Imagining Javier beside me, giving me lessons in the mysteries of cosmetics, I took unusual care of my makeup, and applied the barest hint of scent behind each ear and in the hollow of my throat.
Rather than the practical underwear, jeans, and T-shirts I had been wearing, I pulled a pretty pair of lacy boy shorts over my panty gaff, with a matching bra and a pair of nylons. I had one skirt – my favorite, full skirt in a red wool — and Nicole had packed one cute top that was neither utilitarian or work-related, a soft white cashmere sweater with a v-neck and half sleeves. A pair of drop earrings, my watch, and a pair of pumps finished the look.
It was a completely inappropriate, wildly impractical outfit for the day, and it lifted my spirits tremendously.
Fiona called promptly at 6:30. She had calmed down after yesterday’s shock, but the detached professional of the past week was still not much in evidence. I told her that I had not heard from Rob yet this morning, but that the virus had been hitting him harder, especially by the evening.
She warned me not to get too confident: “CIVID’s weird, Cami. People’s symptoms are wildly different, their incubation periods seem to be different, and the course of the virus is different. He may do better than you today, or not. No telling.”
I told her about the trouble I had getting information out of the hospital. She cursed. “Goddammit, they know better. HIPAA does not prevent giving patient information to next of kin in situations like this, so long as the treating physician okays it.” She promised to call them, again.
“Fi, I should probably tell you that I tried to call Dad yesterday. To tell him about Iain. He wouldn’t take my call, so we had a lengthy text exchange. He said we should let him know if there is anything Iain needs for his physical care, so that’s good. But he otherwise made it clear that Iain was on his own.”
I thought carefully how to say the next part. “We had a bit of a theological dispute which, ah, resulted in our excommunicating each other. So to speak. He said I was no son of his, which I couldn’t exactly dispute. And I said I would no longer consider him my father.”
She was quiet for a moment, then started to chuckle. She was clearly trying, and failing, to suppress the laughter, and eventually it overwhelmed her completely.
Finally she was able to say, “I’m sorry, Cami. Really I am. I certainly know how much that experience hurt when he did it to me. But the mental picture of you texting thundering denunciations at each other . . . . And, he doesn’t even know you're trans?”
“No, we didn’t manage to get to that part,” I confirmed. “But, yeah, we did get a little Old Testament there by the end.”
“I’ll bet,” she said, then added, “But I have to say, good for you. For reaching out, which was more than I thought to do – and for sticking up for yourself and for Iain. He’s been bullying all of us for too long, and I’m glad you spanked him.”
“I told him I wasn’t going to use his name anymore. I’ve started researching how to change it.”
There was a pause before she responded. “Wow. You must have been pissed!”
“I was,” I agreed. “But I’m not now, and I still feel the same way. It’s time to make a clean break.”
“Have you chosen a new name?” she asked, sounding almost shy.
“I’m mulling it over. In the spare time the Lord has seen fit to provide in ample supply.”
She laughed. “Well, keep me posted, sis. I’d hate to not know your name. . . . Look, I’ve gotta go. Again. Rest, lots of fluids. Send regular reports. Text if you need me in a hurry. Okay? If I know you’ll do those things, I won’t go out of my mind or get in a car and come haunt you!”
“I will. And Fi . . . I love you, sis. You’re my hero.”
I had been up for almost two hours, and I was already feeling fatigued. I checked and discovered that my temp was still 99.8, or possibly was 99.8 again. I decided I’d take the Advil dose at 7:00.
In the meantime, I stripped everything off my bed and made a neat pile of the sheets, pillow cases, blankets, towels, and my own pile of laundry. I decided to surrender modesty and added my delicates to my laundry pile. I’d rather not have strangers going through them, but it was more important that the job get done. I might never even meet the person who was going to help us.
I waited until 7:15 before contacting Rob; I didn’t want to wake him prematurely, but he would need to be ready when Henry’s guy arrived.
He responded to my text by calling. “Morning, Cami.” He sounded congested. “How’d you sleep?”
“Pretty well. Temp’s creeping up, and I’m a bit tired and achy, but not too bad. You don’t sound so good.”
“My head feels like someone’s pumped water into it,” he said. “I slept straight through, which is good I guess, but it also means I got behind on the drugs and fluids. The headache’s pretty bad.”
“I’m up and dressed, so come over whenever you're ready. I’d say you’ll love your breakfast options, but you won't. Tea or coffee today?”
“Let me start with some coffee; it’s possible some of this headache is caffeine withdrawal. I’ll be over in ten.”
When I opened the door in response to his knock, he did a double-take and dropped the handle of his suitcase.
“Are we expecting company?” he asked, sounding confused.
I got him inside, grabbed his bag and pulled that inside too, then closed the door. He had come in and turned around, and was giving me a very appreciative look.
“Well thank you, sir! But no. I just knew I could do it today, and . . . and who knows? Maybe tomorrow I won’t have the stamina. So I decided to indulge myself while I could.”
I could see understanding in his eyes. He said quietly, “Yeah. I get that.” Then he slowly sank into one of the chairs in the eating area. “You mentioned something about coffee?”
I handed him a mug of what the Keurig produced. Normally I didn’t care for Keurig coffee, but now it was all alike to me, and I wasn’t going to add a caffeine headache to my woes. I joined him.
I had him go through his symptoms, taking notes. His sore throat was maybe a bit better, but he was stuffed up, had a headache, body ache, and overall weakness. He was at 100.9.
“I really don’t like where your fever is. When was the last dose of medicine, and what was it?
“I had a Tylenol just before I came over. Call it 7:30.” His voice caught and he coughed.
“Okay, Rob. Take the comfortable chair and sit still for a bit. Give the Tylenol a chance to kick in. Meantime, I’ve got something for your stuffed head; it should help a bit with the sore throat, too.”
I handed him a mug of a cold and flu medicine that came in the form of a powder which was mixed with hot water. He took it, looking weary, and started sipping it.
A few minutes later, we heard a car, then a car door, then the thump of something being dropped by the door. There was a sharp wrap on the door.
From the inside, I said, “Mr. Hutchinson is here. We’ll have the laundry ready for pickup in an hour.
A male voice responded, “You got it,” then I heard him walk away.
I opened the door, waved to the man as he drove off, and pulled the bags into the room. There were four large shopping bags with blankets, sheets, pillow cases, and towels that matched what was in the motel, as well as several large bags, in an opaque heavy-duty plastic, that were clearly intended for our laundry.
“The Tylenol is definitely kicking in,” Rob said. “As well as this other stuff. If you can give me twenty minutes, I’ll help you pull everything together.”
“Sure. Take half an hour, even. I’ll be generous. But what I’ll really need help with is making the beds. I can pull the stuff together for the laundry run in the meantime.”
So I did that, and as I was getting back from his unit with a bag of laundry, he got himself out of the chair.
“Hold on a sec,” I said. “I’d like to get another reading.”
His temp was back down to 100 even.
“Outstanding,” I said, relieved.
The laundry was all set, so we sealed the bags, then we both put on our masks and I sprayed down the outside of each bag with Lysol. Promptly at 9:00 we put them outside the door, and they were picked up moments later.
Rob was definitely feeling better, so we went next door, put our masks on, and cleaned and sanitized every surface. We took the new linens out of the bag, put the towels in the bathroom and made the bed. Rob made a last check, then we closed up and he went to turn in the key.
I went back into the unit we were now sharing and took a turn in the comfortable chair. It was 10:00 and I’d been going for five hours. I took off my shoes – why had I decided to wear pumps? – tucked my feet, and closed my eyes for a minute.
Something brushed my cheek lightly. I blinked stupidly for a moment, then saw Rob perched on the arm of the chair.
“Sorry about that,” he said softly. “I hate to wake you, but I think you need more medicine. I’d like to check your temp, too. Then I’d suggest you lie down for a bit. I’ve made the beds.”
“I was supposed to help with that!” I protested.
He looked serious and put his fingers back against my cheek, holding them there. “Each of us is going to need to do what we can when we have the strength to do it. I was useless earlier and you wore yourself out. So it was my turn. Now sit here a minute.”
He got up, invaded my ear with the thermometer, and said “100.7. Okay, Cami. Time for Tylenol, then go lie down.”
I took the pills, smiled and said, “Aye, aye, Cap’n.”
He chuckled. “Wrong service branch, Cadet. Fifty demerits!”
I went to go lie down.
“Mild und leise, wie er lächelt”
– Wagner, Tristan und Isolde, Liebestod (Aria)
Mount Vernon, New York, March 21, afternoon
I woke up at about 12:30 in the afternoon, rolled out of bed and used the restroom. Fixed my makeup. Rob wasn’t in the common room. He had left the door to the bedroom he was using slightly ajar, so I was able to check on him. I thought, I should make a point of doing that, too.
He was sleeping. His breathing was a bit louder than one would expect, but otherwise he seemed like he was okay.
I felt less tired. My temp was back down to 100.1, but the aches were still there. I filed another log entry, opened my laptop, and checked emails. Then I spent some time on my name change research.
At 1:00 I took some Advil and made a log entry. I checked Rob’s log and saw that he would be due for Tylenol at 1:30. If he weren’t awake by then, I would bring it.
I called the hospital. Iain still hadn’t been admitted to the ICU, he hadn’t signed anything, and they remained close-lipped about his condition. HIPAA.
My phone rang. I checked the screen and was shocked to see the caller ID from my contacts pop up. It said “Mom.” She hadn’t called me since just after Halloween.
This one could get loud, I thought. To avoid waking Rob, I took the call in my bedroom.
I answered it with a noncommittal “Hello?”
“Cam? That you? You sound like Fiona.”
“It’s Cam,” I said, though I didn’t make any effort to drop to a lower register. Consistency would probably work better.
“Did it occur to you that I might want to know how Iain is doing?” she asked.
I bit back a retort; instead I said, “Let me tell you.” She didn’t try to stop me, so I plunged in.
“He was living in New Rochelle. Started feeling symptoms eight days ago. I got him into a motel where I could look after him while he isolated. Fiona gave me instructions. He had ups and downs, but he had an attack early yesterday morning where he was struggling to breathe. I called 911, and they took him to the hospital. He’s been admitted. They were giving him oxygen and waiting for a bed to open up in the ICU.”
She was quiet for a bit, absorbing all of that. “You’re still up there? In New York?”
“Yes.”
“You’ll be there if he needs you?”
“Yes.”
Another pause. “Is there anything we –anything I – can do? I want . . . I want to be there. I want to see him. Your father says ‘No.’” She sounded like she had poured out a lot of tears.
I said, gently but firmly, “I think he’s right this time. New York isn’t safe right now, and they aren’t even allowing visitors into the hospital. If you came, you’d be no closer to seeing him than you are in St. Louis.”
She blurted out, vehemently, “I HATE this. I HATE hospitals. I HATE being helpless. I just have to sit here, and wait, and do NOTHING!”
There wasn’t really anything to say to that, other than, “I know. I know.”
She pulled herself together. “All right. I’ll wait. You keep me informed, understand? I’m going out to see your Gammy, so don’t be calling the home phone. Your dad’s not speaking to you.”
“Are you?”
She said, stiffly, “You’re father’s the head of the household. It’s his call. This doesn't count. S’an emergency.”
“Understood,” I sighed. If I remembered my Sunday school lessons correctly, Christ was the head of the household, but I wasn’t going to repeat my mistake of arguing theology with my dogmatic parents. Dad knew a chapter and verse to support whatever he wanted to argue; Mom just knew stubborn. “I'll tell you if I hear anything.”
“You do that.” She hung up.
It honestly hadn’t occurred to me that she wouldn’t follow Dad’s lead on this. But I was glad that I had misjudged her to a degree. She still cared enough about Iain that she was willing to defy the “head of the household” where her son’s life was on the line. Sometimes you take victories where you can get them.
I left the bedroom and got some water heating in case Rob needed an infusion.
When Nicole’s parents came by around 2:30, Rob and I were both awake and doing about as well as we had been since yesterday. His cough was getting a bit worse. They dropped off groceries and got back in their car; Rob and I went out, picked up the groceries, put the keys to the rental car on the stoop and pointed to it. We went back inside; one of them got the keys and got the rental car.
Before they drove off, I went outside and blew them both kisses. They had given the world Nicole; they must be lovely people. Then I went back inside and put away the things they had brought.
Rob was working intently at the table in the eating area; I went into my room, FaceTimed Nicole and thanked her properly. She was relieved that I still appeared to be doing well.
I laid down again at around 3:30, this time leaving my door slightly ajar. Rob was again resting when I got up around 5:00. Our cycles were a bit off, but that actually seemed to work. We were both awake at the same time for dinner.
When we were done eating, I asked Rob if he would witness my signature on an HIPAA release I had prepared. “I don’t want Fiona to have to fight hospital bureaucrats like I’m doing to get info on Iain. In case . . . well. You know. I’ve drafted a durable power of attorney for her as well, but I want to find out if someone in the firm’s T&E practice can look at that one first. It’s trickier.”
Rob watched me sign the document, then added his signature.
“It seems strange – kind of melodramatic – to be thinking about this stuff.” I asked if he had a DPA then blushed when he gave me a strange look. “Of course you do . . . . I had forgotten your deployment.”
He nodded. “Yeah, you do get used to thinking about mortality over there. It takes a while to flip that switch back to normal.”
I toyed with my mug. “I should have gone too. To Afghanistan. 9-11 is almost my first memory of a public event. I grew up venerating service men and women. First responders. But when I was old enough . . . when I could make my own decisions . . . I looked away. Like Dick Cheney, I guess I had ‘other priorities.’”
His expression was impossible to read.
“I’m so sorry, Rob. I’m like all the rest of the people in this country who waved our flags, sent you off to fight for our ideals and our vengeance, and then went shopping.”
He reached over and covered my hands with his own.
I couldn’t help but notice that his hands were larger, strong and capable. Me, with my fine elfin hands, a soldier? Who am I fooling?
“Cami, no one’s ever apologized to me like that. What you said . . . there were plenty of times I thought about it that way. Over there, and even more, after I got back. Where was America? We were trying to do something big and important, and we were losing people. Some of the best people. But back home, it was ‘party on.’ There were moments I was pretty bitter . . . when I wondered what it would take to make people care.
“But I’ll tell you this, just speaking for myself. And speaking with a bit of distance. It was a privilege to serve. A privilege to be with those wonderful men and women who volunteered. And if you had met some of those people we were trying to help, in the towns and villages . . . . the women, the children . . . . Well. It was probably the most meaningful thing I’ll ever do.”
He released my hands and leaned back in his seat. “I know the President’s been eager to pull our guys out. I suppose it’ll happen sooner or later, and I don’t have a good feeling about what’ll happen then. Plenty of people loathe the Taliban, but no one likes the government. Or respects it. Still. Even if all we accomplished was to give people twenty years of something different – hopefully something better – I suppose that’s not nothing.” He was coughing a bit.
I got up and made him an infusion. While the water was boiling, I asked him what had moved him to volunteer.
He shrugged. “Good reasons and less good ones, I guess. There is a tradition of service in our family; we aren’t all syphilitic reprobates!” He smiled, but continued, “Patriotism, certainly. But probably more than anything else a need to prove myself, away from the cocoon of Clan Hutchinson.”
I nodded; that made sense to me. “I guess I went away to law school for similar reasons. But I should have volunteered. Even though I wouldn’t have made much of a soldier.” I found myself looking at my hands again – the soft, smooth skin, the delicate, tapered fingers. Useless.
He snorted. “Don’t be so sure. Remember, I’ve seen you in emergencies. You'd have pulled your weight.”
I gave him the infusion and sat back down. “Well, water under the bridge now, anyway. And, law seems to suit me, so it wasn’t a bad choice. Just . . . just a safe one. A comfortable one.”
“There’s nothing wrong with safety and comfort. And there are lots of ways to lead a meaningful life.”
We talked a bit, about our careers. Law and finance. What was interesting. What was tedious. He had gone into the army at twenty-two after college, served three years, gotten a master’s in finance and then joined the family business. He had only been employed there for three years, or so.
“I like it. We have a chance to help companies that are doing absolutely amazing things. To be a part of the development of therapies, medicines. Vaccines. And, that’s just the area I work in.”
We were both tired and called it a night. My temp was 100.4; his was 100.7. We started the night with Tylenol, and I set an alarm for three hours to take a dose of Advil at midnight.
“Immer lichter wie er leuchtet, stern-umstrahlet”
– Wagner, Tristan und Isolde, Liebestod (Aria)
Mount Vernon, New York, March 22
I still felt cruddy the next morning, but not noticeably worse.
Rob’s condition had again deteriorated somewhat overnight. His headache was back, his cough was more frequent and he had a bit of the chills. I got his information and suggested he take a long hot shower to warm up and to steam his throat and sinuses.
I had my morning call with Fiona. She was satisfied with the steps we were taking and just urged us both to get plenty of rest during the day. “The naps you both took yesterday are really important," she said. "Don’t try to power through this. Give your body all the help you can, okay?”
She was a bit concerned with Rob’s condition, though she assured me that neither his symptoms nor their severity were out of the ordinary. “I’m glad you’re there to take care of each other,” she said. “Robbie’s a really great guy.”
“Yeah. It’s certainly helping to keep us both sane.”
She must have detected something in my voice. “Ahh? And???”
I groaned. “Fiona Campbell Savin, I feel like death very lightly warmed over, Rob feels worse, and you want to play matchmaker?”
She laughed softly, but then she said, “Sorry, Cami. I couldn’t resist. There is nothing at all romantic in any of this. Believe me, I know. It just feels like forever since I was able to think about normal things, like . . . like . . . shopping, or dinner parties, or guys and girls. Or weddings . . . .”
Her voice caught. I remembered how happy she had been when she told me that she and Henry had set a date. Had that really been less than three months ago? But she had been dealing with COVID every day since – first in preparation for what might be coming, then for the reality when it hit.
“I’m so sorry, Fi. So very, very sorry. You’ve been carrying this load for a long time. I wish I could help you!”
“Well, perfect, honeybun, because you can. Get better. And get Rob better too!”
“Yes, Ma’am,” I said contritely.
Rob came out of the bathroom, toweling his thick black hair, wearing jeans and a gray army sweatshirt.
“Better?” I asked.
He nodded. “It helped, for sure. But I’ve got to get this headache under control, if I’m going to function.” He sat down at the table and closed his eyes.
“Do you really need to function today? Might make sense just to rest.”
Without opening his eyes, he said, “Sunday’s really my best day to step back from what’s going on in the market every day and plot a strategy. I read reports, from our people and outside analysts . . . . “ He was pressing the heels of both hands against his head.
I went behind him, moved his hands and started massaging his temples again. “If you know a better technique,” I said, “walk me through it.”
“What you’re doing is great. It really is. But I’ve got pressure at the base of my skull, too. . . . Try putting your thumbs here” – indicating a spot just behind the ear, where the skull connects with the muscles of the neck – “and your ring fingers above each temple. Start light and slowly add pressure and a circular motion.”
I followed his precise instructions and he began to relax.
After a few minutes he murmured, “You have a good touch, Cami.”
I figured he would let me know when he had had enough, so I just kept at it.
Eventually he raised his right hand and lightly covered mine. “Thank you.” He slowly opened his eyes.
I resumed my seat across from him. “Back in the eighteenth century, I think you would have been described as a ‘man of many parts.’ You’ve been a soldier, you’re an investment banker, every woman at that Christmas Party can confirm that you’re an excellent dancer. And now, it seems like you know massage as well. What other talents are you hiding?”
He chuckled. “That’s Dad, mostly. He believed Henry, Sam, and I should be able to fend for ourselves. So we learned to cook, although neither Sam nor I are in Henry’s league. We can do simple sewing. Laundry, of course. Perform routine maintenance on equipment. Things like that. But Dad also believed we should be conversant in arts and literature. Play an instrument. Dance. Play chess.”
“Really? I can’t imagine that went over well!”
“When we were kids, we’d rebel sometimes, as you might imagine. ‘Why should we do this? It’s stupid! It’s boring!’”
He grinned, remembering. “He’d always give us this serious look and say, ‘Because it’s civilized, boys. Without civilization, we’re just a pack of apes throwing dung at each other.’ Sam and I – even Henry, I guess – always thought that throwing dung sounded way more fun, but . . . we didn’t want to disappoint Dad.”
I felt my eyes grow unexpectedly moist. “He sounds like a wonderful man. I bet you appreciate him now!”
“Every day,” he confirmed, “I mean, we always did. We just didn’t want to do things, sometimes. But Dad is the best man I’ve ever met, or ever will meet.”
A tear splashed on the table in front of me and I started to get up. “I’m sorry . . . .” I said hurriedly.
“Cami,” he said, stopping me. “That was thoughtless of me. I’m sorry. Please don’t go. I won’t pry, but if you want to talk about it, I’m here.”
I eased myself back into my chair, closed my eyes and dabbed them carefully with a paper towel. Once I had myself back in control, I opened my eyes and returned his gaze. “I honestly can’t imagine what it must have been like to have a father like that. I really can’t. But I don’t have anything to complain about. My father’s a hard man. Obsessed, in some ways. Still, he kept a roof over our heads and encouraged us to use our brains and be ambitious.”
He drank off the last of his infusion without taking his eyes off mine. “But, you still disowned him. I don’t imagine that’s something you did lightly.”
“No,” I said quietly. “It wasn’t. There was no love left in him, Rob. Not even for Iain. He offered to provide whatever Iain might need by way of physical support, but he didn’t even ask how he was doing.”
I looked away. Looked down at my hands, cradled in my lap. “Fiona remembers him as being very different when she was a little girl, but I don’t. He was always rigid. Rules and obedience and consequences. He didn’t even need to know I was trans to disown me; the fact that I dared to throw his Christianity back in his face was enough.”
“‘If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal.’”
I smiled sadly. “First Corinthians Thirteen. Exactly.”
Moving somewhat slowly, he got up and took our empty mugs into the kitchenette. Then he gave my shoulder a squeeze. “I’m sorry. But it sounds like you are better off free of all that.”
I nodded. “I think so. It hurts, but we’ve both hit the point where the gulf between us is just too wide, deep, and fundamental to bridge. All we’re doing now is hurting each other.”
He decided he was in as good shape as he could be to get some work done, so he brought his laptop to the table and started working.
After I took my own shower and got dressed, this time back in practical jeans, a T-shirt, and a fleece, I put my hair back into my standard loose braid and draped it over my shoulder. I was about to go into the other room when I got an incoming FaceTime call.
“Liz!” I hadn’t seen her in two months, and our communications had been a bit sporadic.
“Hey, Cami!” Then she noticed my background. “Are you traveling?”
I nodded. “Long story though. How are you? What have you been up to?”
Liz, as always, looked vibrant. Red hair, green eyes, lean frame, and a predator’s grin. I could see that she was at her dining room table; morning sunlight was lighting her face, streaming in through the windows that led to her deck. Just seeing her brought back a flood of vivid memories.
“Well . . . work’s a bitch,” she said. “The governor ordered all ‘non-life sustaining businesses’ in the state to close their offices two nights ago. Telecom isn't really “life sustaining” – at least, most of it isn’t, and my part sure as hell isn’t. So we’re closed down. And, my project has been put on ice for now. ‘Not a good fit’ in the current environment. I was on a lot of phone calls yesterday that didn’t go anywhere.”
She shrugged. “It is what it is, I guess. On the bright side, I have been asked if I would do photography for a wedding next weekend. I guess the regular photographer bailed at the last minute.”
“I hope you said ‘No.’
She grimaced. “Tempted to, but . . . it’s Tish’s little sister. I don’t want to leave them in the lurch.”
“This is no joke, Liz.”
“I know, I know,” she replied. “But still . . . .”
“Okay, girlfriend, let me tell you about my week. Maybe it’ll change your mind.”
When I was finished, she looked stunned. “So, Iain’s waiting to get into the ICU, you’ve got it and are running a fever consistently north of 100, and you’re getting long distance medical advice from your sister?”
“That’s about it. Listen . . . I called 911 for Iain because he couldn’t breathe, Liz. I was holding him in my arms and he couldn’t get enough oxygen. He was about to die. This. Is. No. Joke. Please, please be careful.”
She looked at me sourly. “You’re a fine one to talk.” When I moved to say something, she raised her hand. “I know, Cami. You didn’t have any choice, and I do. I’ll . . . I’ll think about it.”
We talked about other things. Her relationship with Derek was getting more serious all the time. Liz confessed that they were talking about him moving in with her. “I know . . . weird, right? For me? But . . . also, not weird. I’m nervous about it. Real nervous. But I’m also excited.”
“I wish,” I said, “that I could give you the world’s biggest hug. Congratulations! I’m so happy for you!”
My call with Liz definitely cheered me up. There was something about her . . . something clean and sharp and bracing. I definitely felt better.
But Rob was starting to flag again. “My eyes just ache reading this stuff,” he said disgustedly, followed by a nasty bout of coughing. “Dammit. I really need to get through it!”
“Rob, if you tell me what I need to look for, I’ll go through the reports and summarize them for you. I don’t have anything to work on at the moment, and I’m reasonably sharp right now. You can grab some rest, and hopefully I’ll be done when you’re ready to think about it some more.”
He closed his eyes and thought about that. “I hate to take you up on that, but . . . it would really be a help. I’m just having trouble with my eyes; when I read, it’s triggering the headache again.” He coughed, sounding weak.
“Okay. The things that I’m really interested in . . . .” He launched into a surprisingly brief list, which included things that I would have expected, like inventory, margin trends, and R&D spend, as well as a half dozen things that would not have occurred to me.
I took his temp - 101.4 – got him some medicine, wrapped an ice bag in a dishtowel for his head, and sent him off to his room.
My own temperature was 100.5; not all that different from what it had been. Muscle ache, general fatigue. Loss of taste and smell. In other words, holding steady. I would take it. I plunged into the reports, taking notes as I went.
Two hours later, I was starting to droop as well, and I had developed a bit of a tickle in the back of my throat. I was just finishing up my notes when Rob came out of the bedroom, looking better but still squinting his eyes against the light. His temperature was back down to 100.8 but his cough was no better.
I got him a fresh infusion, changed his ice pack and had him sit in the comfortable chair for a few minutes.
He had the ice pack on his head and his eyes closed, but he was awake and alert. “Any chance you can give me your summary orally? The less I have to read, the better.”
So I did. It took only about fifteen minutes. He had a few follow up questions about different reports and I was able to answer them from memory.
When I was finished, he said, “That . . . was great. Perfect. Give me a minute.”
He sat still; so still I wasn’t even sure he was breathing. Then he said, “Could you possibly write some things down? Between what I learned in my meetings and your summary, I’ve mapped out the moves I want to recommend on five core portfolios. It’s clear in my head right now, but I just don’t have it in me to move.”
“Of course. Whenever you’re ready.” I sat at my keyboard and waited.
He thought for a minute more, then he started going through a list. For five different portfolios, he had recommendations for buying and selling that were dependent on how the market might move over the course of the next week or two. Long positions, short positions. Hedge buys. Options contracts.
The sentences were brief, like “Pfizer: 10,000 shares if it goes to 27.50.” Or “Long call on Tommosso Pharma, six months with a strike price of 15.” When he was done, he slumped a bit in the chair and coughed. “I think that’s got it.”
I asked if he would like me to read it back to him.
“Please.” He made one correction. He started coughing again, so he drank the rest of the infusion, though I’m sure it had gone cold. He asked me to email him my notes, which I did. He started to get up.
“Wait.” I shut off the lights and drew the shades. “Okay, that should hurt your eyes a bit less.”
He opened them in a gingerly way, then nodded gratefully. “Thanks. That should have occurred to me.” He made his way to his laptop, logged in, and then sent my notes on to his supervisor. “I feel like I’ve just spent an hour in the weight room.”
I closed my laptop. “Me too. I think I need to crash for a bit.”
“Good idea,” he said. “I know I just got up half an hour ago, but I may do the same. Are we all up to date on meds?”
“Yeah. All set.”
We slept most of the afternoon away. I tried calling the hospital. Still no change, and still no detailed information. Otherwise I rested, took medicine, drank fluids, and felt like a banana slug. But I was still moving, and that would do.
I got a call from Sarah, checking up on me since I’d missed the last meeting. When I’d filled her in on the latest happenings of my life and times, I recommended that the group should maybe suspend meetings for a bit.
“Well, shit,” she said. “Don’t worry about us — we’ll think of something. You taking care of yourself?”
“I’ve got the best and most dedicated virtual doctor on the planet. I’ll be fine,” I assured her, hoping it was true. But I probably ruined the effect by asking, “Sarah . . . Do you think God grants our prayers?”
She sighed. “Scholars write whole books on this subject. You know that, right?” Without waiting for my answer, she said, “I’m guessing you’re not looking for a treatise. And anyway, the best answer I ever heard was on an old TV program.”
“And?”
“Yes, God answers prayers. But Cami . . . sometimes He says ‘no.’”
We talked for a bit longer, but her warning rang in my ears, like the sound of a deep and mournful bell.
By the evening, Rob and I were both doing a bit better. We got up to have something to eat for dinner, more because we knew we should than because either of us was hungry. Afterward, we sat in the comfy chair and the couch, respectively, having some Gatorade.
“It’s a shame we don’t have a chess set with us,” I said. “If I’d known you played, I might have asked Nicole’s folks to bring one.”
A slow smile spread across his face. “Oh, don’t tell me you need pieces!”
I thought, Oh, my God! I used to be good – really good, back in college – and I prided myself on my ability to play blind. But that had been a while ago. And, I had just gotten quite the exhibition of Rob’s powers of concentration. Still, a challenge is a challenge.
“White or black?’ I asked with an answering smile.
“Oh, ladies first,” he replied gallantly.
“Pawn to king four,” I said, beginning the Ruy Lopez opening. He countered with the same move, then pivoted into the Berlin defense. Soon we were deep into the game. I was rusty.
But I was still good.
After five or six moves he just closed his eyes, seeing the board better without distractions, a small smile on his handsome face. I kept my eyes open, observing him as we played. Even with his eyes closed, his face displayed a lively intelligence and an active delight in exercising a skill that had clearly gone dormant.
We had been playing for over an hour when I said, “Knight to queen’s bishop six. Mate in three.”
He was quiet for a moment, internally looking this way and that. Then he laughed and opened his eyes. “Concedo. Well done! I haven’t had a game that good in a long time.”
“College, for me. None of my friends in law school were into it. Damn, I’ve missed it. Your dad was right. It’s civilized.”
“It is that,” he said.
We took out final temp readings and medicine and headed for bed.
“Dilegua, o notte! Tramontate, stelle!”
– Puccini, Turandot, Nessun Dorma (Aria)
Mount Vernon, New York, March 25
7:00 p.m., and I was dragging. The past three days had been a series of short periods of activity followed by shorter or longer periods of resting. When working, Rob was on his computer or on calls; I was using the Westlaw database to do research.
Russ Gardner had a team preparing a fifty-state survey of caselaw interpreting the impact of epidemics and government shut-down orders on business interruption insurance. The more states I could do, the fewer his team would need to cover, but they did have people to do it, if I wasn’t able. So far I had finished with Kentucky, Oregon, Ohio, and Wyoming. Light lifting, really.
But light lifting was all I could manage. I got tired after two hours of research, my throat felt strange and I had a mild, dry cough. Body ache was unchanged, but it was getting old. And my sleep was once again troubled and restless, filled with chaos and dark imagery. If I was in a marathon, it was a long way from over, and I wasn’t sure I had the stamina to keep going.
However bad I was doing though, Rob was worse. He managed to work for two hours in the morning and a bit more in the afternoon on Monday, but only managed an hour and a half in the morning and a half an hour in the afternoon on Tuesday. He’d beaten me in chess Monday evening, but we’d just talked quietly before going to sleep on Tuesday. He was too tired for mental gymnastics.
He had been markedly worse this morning and spent most of the day in bed, though he had taken a few calls and sat in on a conference call. No amount of ice, massage, or drugs could beat back his headache; his cough was worse, and his temp was now firmly over 102 degrees.
I had a brief call from Fi around 1:00, telling me that Iain was in the ICU, and that she had been able to speak with him briefly before he went in. “He was pretty out of it,” she cautioned, “but he knew who I was, and . . . well. He took comfort from hearing my voice.”
I thought, I’m sure he did. He’s convinced that Fi will save him. The hospital was not having much luck improving his condition, and they were worried. But at least she had been able to talk to a treating physician, so we had some real information.
Henry’s man had been by again today. Laundry and towels out, fresh towels in, and we had fresh bedding whenever we were ready for it. We also had a fresh supply of medicine, food, and Gatorade. But I’d taken care of collecting the laundry and getting the fresh things where they belonged because Rob had been sleeping.
Rob went straight to bed after dinner and was asleep again within minutes. I went into his room and observed him carefully. His brow was clammy and his sleep did not look very restful. His skin was blotchy, color uneven.
I really didn’t like how he looked or sounded, so I decided to plug the monitor back in. Back in my room, I got myself ready for bed. Brushed my teeth, removed my makeup, moisturized. That was all I had energy for. My green nightie tonight; the flannel was off getting washed. But even that failed to lift my spirits. I was tired, achy, and deeply worried.
However tired I was, I couldn’t get to sleep. A sense of deep foreboding had been growing all day, and as the sun went down it increased dramatically. I felt isolated, alone and terrified. I was still awake at 10:30, so I got up, slipped into my green robe, and got Advil for us both.
Rob barely woke, and looked no better. His temp was 102.2.
I went back to bed and tried again.
Mount Vernon, New York, March 26
At some point I must have dozed off, but this was every bit the mistake I had known it would be. My nightmare returned in full force. Again, I was tossed up, down, and sideways by wild winds, like a damned soul in the midst of a hurricane. The seas raged black beneath me; lighting split the sky, and the wind and thunder were a mad symphony of fury, the soundtrack to the apocalypse.
But I knew worse was coming, and that was what I had dreaded so much it had kept me from sleep.
As always, I became aware of the sound first. The slow, powerful beat. Then, once again, I saw the creature rising from the depths, immense, titanic, lifted up by carrion wings that were vast and dark. The pulsing beat of the creature’s wings became louder, louder, blotting out even the sounds of the storm, the barreling roar and crack of the thunder, pounding at my mind, shredding my consciousness. My will to resist.
I opened my mouth and screamed, terrified but still defiant. “NOT THIS TIME, YOU BASTARD!!!!”
I tore myself from the clutches of the dream and practically fell out of bed. Stumbling forward, getting my feet under me, pushing for the door . . . . I was across the common room and inside Rob’s room in an instant. Only once I was inside did I realize that there had been no repeat of the prior incident. Rob was not struggling for breath. But he was bathed in sweat and shivering.
I stopped long enough to catch my breath and get my heart to stop hammering and the wells of my chest. Then I got water, Tylenol, and the thermometer from the common room, went back and perched on the side of his bed. “Rob. Rob! You need to take some medicine.” I shook him gently.
His eyes popped open and he looked momentarily wild. “NO! GET BACK!” But then he slumped, boneless but aware. “Sorry Cami. Seriously bad dream there.”
“Roger that,” I sighed. “Hate to do it, but we need to prop you up so you can get some Tylenol, okay?”
He shivered, tried to pull himself up, and failed. I cradled his head and shoulder in one arm, and brought both up high enough to manage. With my other hand, I put two tablets on his tongue, then brought the water to his parched lips. He drank deeply, then I laid him back gently onto the pillows.
I took his temp I saw that he had hit 103.2.
“I’m so cold,” he said. “So cold!!!” He was shivering badly.
I set the remainder of the water by the table, pivoted and brought my legs up onto the bed. I propped myself up against the pillows and the headboard, then pulled Rob over, cradling him to my chest. Covering us both under the two blankets, I wrapped Rob in a fierce embrace.
I growled to my inner demon, Not this time, you bastard. Not on my watch!
I fought off sleep. I told myself that I needed to carefully monitor his temperature. Fiona said I needed to bring him in if we couldn’t get it down once it spiked 103. She hadn’t said how long to try. So I held him, and I kept sleep at bay, and I prayed.
At 1:30 his temp was 103 on the button.
I held on, fighting sleep. He was still at 103, but it was moving in the right direction. I sang songs in my head to try to stay awake. Happy songs and stupid songs and anything with complicated lyrics that required concentration.
At 2:00 am, he was still at 103. His temperature hadn’t moved, but at least it wasn’t going up. I would wait longer.
Not tonight. Not on my watch. I tried recalling each of the moves of Monday night’s chess game, to try to figure out where I had gone wrong. There is usually a critical move – one which, in retrospect, is the hinge point for everything that happens afterwards. Usually in mid-game. I thought about it, focused, pushing against the tidal pull of sleep.
2:30. Finally, 102.8. He was no longer shivering, and I eased my death grip. As long as his temperature was not rising, I would wait to give him Advil until the three hour mark. He was below 103!
But now I had to confess to myself that I wasn’t staying just to make sure we could get his temp below the critical mark. I was staying because I knew, deep down, beyond any logic, that the dark angel would come for him if I left, if I slept. Would come for him as it had come for Iain.
And he would be in the hospital, and I would get no word, and bureaucrats in starched white uniforms whom I would never meet would tell me over the telephone that, so sorry, we can’t give you any information. HIPAA, you know.
Not on my watch!
3:00 came. He was holding at 102.8. No change.
I had figured out the chess problem. Now I was trying to think up limericks. “There was a young lawyer from . . . .” Well, where was I from, now? I couldn’t really think of St. Louis as home; it was just my point of origin. And even that was, in a sense, debatable. Cameron Ross Savin was born there, certainly. I had the birth certificate.
But Cami/Camryn – the terrified girl who had no last name – she wasn’t born in St. Louis. There was a young lawyer from . . . Pittsburgh? Well; arguably. And, it scanned. But what the hell rhymed with Pittsburgh? Shitsburgh, I suppose, but that seems a bit unfair . . . and anyway, I would need two rhymes for the limerick to work. . . .
3:30. Still no change in his temperature. I gave up on limericks. I dredged up prayers I had learned by rote when I was very young. Ran through them all. Tried making changes to adapt them to the present circumstances. “But Cami,” I heard Sarah say, “sometimes He says ‘no.’”
Not on my watch!!!
I had an argument in my head with my father about the theology of my modified prayers. Now, that was fun. But it also made me mad, and mad was good, because it kept me awake. Sleep was the enemy. Sleep was the demon’s ally.
4:00. 102.4. Hallelujah! I rolled Rob back into the crook where my left arm met my shoulder, propped him up a tiny bit, and slipped him two Advil. I grabbed the water and again brought it to his lips.
“Take just a little, Rob. Come on. You’re going to make it!” I murmured.
He managed a couple sips, then lapsed back into sleep.
I decided I would wait until 5:00 to get another reading, so I had to get through another hour. I started writing a convention speech in my head. Something that might bring peace to a fractured nation. Something that might give comfort to a frightened girl, fighting sleep and hoping that the Angel of Death might pass over.
5:00, and his temperature was down to 101.8. I positively sagged with relief. Almost there, I thought. Don’t give up now! I was out of mental tricks. I was just pinching myself, biting down on my tongue, my cheeks. Blinking furiously. Moving my jaw; easing my cramping legs. Sleep called, tempted, cajoled. And I fought back, with every ounce of my dwindling strength.
Not tonight, you bastard. Not tonight!
By 6:00 in the morning, miraculously, he was down to 100.7; neither of us had been under 101 since Sunday. I found myself weeping uncontrollably.
He had made it.
Through my tears, I saw him looking at me.
He was alive, and awake, and his keen intelligence was back in his eyes, re-animating his face.
I was overwhelmed with relief. With joy. I bent my head and whispered, “Oh, thank God. Thank God! You made it!” I leaned over and gently, almost reverently, planted a soft kiss on his parched lips.
I straightened. His gaze held my eyes. Touched my heart.
“Oh!” he said. “Do that again!”
To be continued . . . .
Comments
What a wonderful
Chapter this has been. In dark times you think about the essence of Life. Covid has just been that. A dark time but has allowed us to think about what’s really important in our lives. I almost cried at the end. The best ongoing story on this website...
Grazie Mille!!!
Disaster has the capacity to highlight our worst selves, but also our best. Courage, grace, sacrifice, fortitude. Above all, love. Certainly we have seen amazing examples of these during the pandemic.
Thank you for your kind comments, Max. Grazie Mille!!!
Emma
Bit of a slog
I know it's part of the story, but some of the details are rough to get through especially with COVID still being so present in many lives. Loved the interaction with Rob and Cami though, and what a nice denouement for the chapter :) Keep up the good work.
Thanks, Syldrak
I appreciate the feedback. Good to know!
Emma
Reminds me how bad it was for many
Like everyone else I lived through covid and lockdowns, masks and everything else - but as far as we could tell neither I, nor any of my immediate family actually had covid - or had it so mildly we didn't realise. This story makes it more real than my own experience, for which I am very grateful. This is a good example of fiction being better than reality.
These are such real characters that I feel I know them, and I'm afraid that the story will require one of them to die in the coming episodes which makes me sad. Or I could be wrong - I hope so.
Still loving it
Alison
Thanks, Alison!
I’ve gotten pretty attached to these people in my head . . . I’m going to need therapy when I’m done! :-)
Emma
A stirs up a lot of memories……
From two years ago.
Not surprised at the interaction between Rob and Cami - stressful situations either bring out the best or the worst in people. And being stuck in close quarters simply amplifies those feelings.
D. Eden
Dum Vivimus, Vivamus
Thanks, D.
All things considered, Ron and Cami are handling the situation better than I would, I expect.
Emma
Meaty Postings
You had a conversation with Outsider in the Part 14 Comments about posting length. For my part, I really appreciate that you cover and generally resolve the primary issue of the current posting rather than leaving us hanging in the middle because you want to keep the word count per posting and thus the reading time below a maximum number. It's likely the longer postings do cost you some initial readership, but I think a compelling story and great writing (which you have in this series) can overcome much of that. Part 14, only 5 days after being posted, has excellent Kudos, reader comment count, and views given that it is part of a serious adult series. Many of the comments that you're receiving are lengthy and well thought out as are your responses to them showing that you've really drawn your readers into the story.
Thank you for sharing your work here.
That’s very helpful. . . .
I really appreciate the feedback. There’s a balance, I know. I often start a section with a firm idea of where it should end, but the scenes in the middle can sometimes expand as I’m writing them, to the point where I worry that it becomes a barrier to readers.
As what we used to call a left-brain dominant person, I geek out on some of the metrics, which are pretty interesting. Duet, which was much more of a romp (and, though I didn’t think of it that way when I wrote it, a short one), had twice the readership but only about two-thirds the “kudos.”
But I had to tell myself (firmly) not to sweat the metrics. There’s an audience for this story, and they like the characters. And I really, really, enjoy engaging with them in the comments. That’s been the most rewarding part of writing this story, which I probably wouldn’t have started in the first place but for some back-and-forth I had with Alison after I finished Duet (so if you like Aria, thank Alison; if you don’t, blame me. :-) ).
Emma
Metrics
With regards to kudos, half the time I forget to click it the button! So I'm sure I've loved quite a few pieces written here that I've simply forgotten to click as I eagerly consumed the next chapter/etc. I've re-read quite a few stories that I absolutely enjoyed (obviously as I'm re-reading them) and noticed I hadn't clicked kudos and fix my miss! So as you say, don't sweat them too much.
Sometimes I’ve been logged out
And didn’t realize it. So my kudo was counted as a guest, not under my own login.
I’m sure the authors appreciate your support and repeated viewings of their stories.
Gillian Cairns
Wow, that's very... kind of you
I couldn't understand why you had so little response to Duet, particularly as a new writer (here at least), so I tried to give you a little encouragement as I could see that the story was both good and well written.
The credit, however, is entirely owed to you and your creative skills - but perhaps I can qualify as Muse, 3rd class :)
Eagerly awaiting the next part.
Alison
Never doubt . . . .
the power of an encouraging word. If there are classes of Muses, you'll always be first!
Emma
Cami to the rescue
Miles to go indeed. I wondered after the last chapter if circumstances would bring Rob and Cami together. I loved the insight that Cami brought about due to her avoiding service apology. Those feelings that Rob shared about people partying while he was on the front lines were real. But maybe as a nation we are learning to differentiate the actions of our 'leaders' from those of the soldiers who put their lives on the line. It was disgraceful the way our nation treated the soldiers returning from that hell hole that was Vietnam.
My son and daughter are both veterans of the Afghan war and we never forget to make sure they know how much we love them for that. My son recently was married and all of his groomsmen were fellow soldiers. It's amazing how 6 totally different guys bonded together during a dangerous time and remain best friends years later.
Cami showed an amazing side to Rob by her summary of his work not to mention playing chess in her head. That takes an amazing mind and both of them share that in common.
I hope the ending of this chapter shows that you are sparing Rob and Cami from becoming casualties of the pandemic. I can see them joining Henry and Fi in a walk down the aisle later on. Will Cami and Rob unite in business as well as pleasure? Cami has never gotten to second base with a man, and as a transwoman, I'm sure she'll have many doubts. But Rob seems to be in tune with Cami in many ways and perhaps he can lead her past her own self-doubts to become the woman she seeks to be.
As a parent, it's hard to believe there is a person like Cami's dad. It certainly is not Christlike to turn your back on your family. It really was a burden lifted off Cami to excommunicate him. And his wife was not much better. I can see why Iain is the way he is, but it's a miracle that Fi and Cami turned out so well.
This middle part certainly is the fun part of the story for me. In my mind I see the denouement coming, but I'm sure Emma will throw in lots of twists. Great chapter Emma, you have taken the story of Cameron and Liz to places I never imagined. I hope we get a glimpse of Nicole and Maggie's podcast as well.
What a wonderful story Emma!
DeeDee
Thank you, Dee.
That was a lovely read, first thing this morning. I’ll see if I can’t find a few twists and turns for you!
If you have never run across the Memorial Day address by Oliver Wendel Holmes, Jr., I recommend it. Everyone knows him as a famous Supreme Court Justice, one of the best in the country’s history. But he was also the son of a famous writer — very much ‘New England royalty’ — who volunteered during the Civil War and stood behind the low rock wall on the third day of Gettysburg. The language, and even some of the sentiments, seem anachronistic. But he captures something like few other writers could. Here’s probably the most famous snippet:
“[T]he generation that carried on the war has been set apart by its experience. Through our great good fortune, in our youth our hearts were touched with fire. It was given to us to learn at the outset that life is a profound and passionate thing. . . . . But, above all, we have learned that whether a man accepts from Fortune her spade, and will look downward and dig, or from Aspiration her axe and cord, and will scale the ice, the one and only success which it is his to command is to bring to his work a mighty heart.”
Emma
So real, so moving, just wonderful
It's funny how much joy I get from this story that tortures me emotionally and thrills my spirit and amuses at various points. I was weeping during the whole "not on my watch" sequence and kept thinking that Gammy would be very proud of how she handled it. I said last chapter that it's a ludicrous time to be shipping these two, but you clearly see a spark there and shared trauma can be intense, sometimes leading to a lifelong bond. I hope Cami can continue to defy the demons that stalk her (in dreams and in real life), she's a pretty amazing heroine. One with the oddest origin story I can think of for where she is now.
Gripping storytelling Emma, thanks so much for sharing this tale and these (very real) characters. Big, big hugs. Probably look like I have a few tire treads on me after all that crying.
Now you’ve got me crying!
Thanks, Nyssa. Yeah, Cami’s come a long ways since Duet. So glad you’re still here for the ride. Hugs!
Emma
Once again, I postponed reading this instalment
until I had free(ish) time. Once again you have held me engrossed by the way you write, I really thought I was experiencing being there, with Rob and Cami, in the almost-isolation of that motel. As I wrote earlier, Cami is telling the story, so she MUST survive, especially since you have not yet felt the need to invoke the supernatural.
Thank you, I only postponed to allow sufficient time for the reading. Now to put away this morning's shopping"
It is so realistic, how much is your experience, and how much is empathy? Out here in rural northern England, we all just isolated and watched what was happening in the nearby towns. It was only after we had received both preliminary injections of vaccine (followed by a booster for those of us who were age- or other parameters -qualified) that we started to lower our guard. Then some of us were infected (confirmed by some self-testing), but only very mildly with recovery inside a week.
But for nearly two years it has felt like crossing a chasm using a narrow plank! And you have illustrated this brinkmanship so well.
Every one has their own story, some good, some bad, and for an alarming too many, fatal.
I've probably written too much -- basically I remain
Outsider
Empathy
In this landscape I, too, am a Sassenach, an Outlander. My own case of COVID was late, post vaccine, and blessedly mild, and my immediate family has been spared. But there are so many, so very many, who weren't so lucky. So many stories. One cannot be human and not feel the weight of them.
Emma
Perhaps my sons are civilized after all?
I taught my sons to play chess when they were growing up. They played competitively in middle school and one of them still plays occasionally. Although they are more into MMRP online games now.
I don’t know if I could keep up the visualization long enough for a full game of blindfold though.
Caring for someone full time like that can strengthen a bond or strain it. But in this case they both seem to be good patients.
You have a very deft touch at showing how their connection is slowly growing.
At the beginning of April my wife had a few days when she couldn’t keep any food down. I gave her water and let her suck on candy and perhaps a cracker. I wondered if that might be her version of Covid-19 but in retrospect I think not. Part of me hoped I might be one of the ones who had no symptoms and thought I wouldn’t have to worry about it later. But I now know that was naive.
You have a real talent for creating genuine, believable characters that we can’t help caring about.
Thank you.
Gillian Cairns
Chess and sundries
One time a went to a church picnic and met a man who was sitting under a tree with a chess set, taking all comers. We had a game; I don’t even remember who won it. But he told me he had learned to play during years spent in a gulag. The men had played chess to keep a thin, tenuous hold on civilization. I will never forget him.
On Cami and Rob, I think it helps that they are both sick. Patient and caregiver can be a pretty one-sided relationship; we are conditioned to viewing giving as noble and receiving as, well, not. (In my experience, it’s not only better to give than to receive, it’s easier. Magnanimity is easier than gratitude). Here there has been both give and take.
Thanks for your comments, Gillian!
Emma
A most excellent chapter
This chapter could really be an example of what to do in this situation. I feel tired, as though I've just lived through Cami's long night. Really well done with the logs and timekeeping, better bookmark this chapter should I need directions.
BTW, I never forget the kudos button though I will admit to not leaving comments because I'm in a hurry to get to the next posting. I know, as a writer, how the positive feedback gives me the urge to keep at it.
And sometimes it is fun to see, after hitting the kudos button, that I can't leave a comment because my tablet has logged me off. Then I get to hit the button a second time after logging back in. (smile) Your stories deserve that everytime Emma.
>>> Kay
Thanks, Kay
So glad the chapter worked for you. Having the protagonist locked in a two-bedroom motel room for a long period is a challenge; almost everything is stripped down to human interaction. Which is the essence of the story, but changes in scenery and such can normally add color and texture.
Thanks for the comments!
Emma
Really Good Chapter...
Actually, I don't think there's been a chapter since the story started where I couldn't have written that, though the ones since the pandemic hit have really ratcheted up the suspense.
Not sure whether it means anything about how realistic this all seemed, but I started coughing at least twice while I was reading the chapter for a second time, and took my temperature when I finished. (Normal, 98.2.)
When the local newspaper first started running stories about COVID before it really reached the San Francisco Bay Area, that used to happen to me while I was reading them. Fortunately it doesn't seem to have been anything but suggestion; I'm inoculated and boosted -- I'll get my fifth shot two weeks from now -- and have never tested positive.
Eric
The power of our attention
I can remember, early in the pandemic, when there were no vaccines or cures, that I would freeze every time I coughed, thinking, “oh my God, have I caught it?” Eventually I figured out that people cough ALL THE TIME. We just don’t notice it because it’s so commonplace. Until, suddenly, we focus our attention on it.
Emma
Yes!!!
Sucker for love... You go Cami!
XOXOXO
Rachel M. Moore...
I thought you’d like that one! ;-)
Hugs,
Emma
It Happened
Shared trouble, two intelligent people, mutual help and all of a sudden you have mutual attraction. No need for a matchmaker. I sure hope it works for Cami and Rob.
Nope.
Nope, nope, nope. Giving no (more) hints. Sitting on my typing fingers!
Emma