her came from the epidemiologist, the doctor she didn’t recognize. "Do you eat meat?" the doctor asked. Paula said sure. And the doctor, a square-faced woman with short brown hair, asked a dozen follow-up questions, writing down exactly what kinds of meat she ate, how often, whether she cooked it herself or ate out.
At the end of the day they moved Paula into a room with a middle-aged white woman named Esther Wynne, a true southern lady who’d put on make-up and sprayed her hair as though at any moment she’d pop those IV tubes from her arms and head out to a nice restaurant.
Doctor Louden stopped by once more before going home that night. He sat heavily beside Paula’s bed, ran a hand over his gray scalp. "You haven’t been completely open with us," he said. He seemed as tired as she was.
"No, probably not," she said. Behind him, her companion shook his head, laughing silently.
Louden smiled as well, but fleetingly. "You have to realize how serious this is. You’re the tenth person we’ve seen with symptoms like yours, and there are more showing up in hospitals around the city. Some of my colleagues think we may be seeing the start of an epidemic. We need your help to find out if that’s the case."
"Am I contagious?"
He scratched his chin, looked down. "We don’t think so. You don’t have a temperature, any signs of inflammation—no signs that this is a virus or a bacterial infection."
"Then what is it you think I have?"
"We don’t have a firm idea yet," he said. He was holding back, treating her like a dumb patient. "We can treat your symptoms though. We’ll try to find out more tomorrow, but we think you have a form of temporal lobe epilepsy. There are parts of your brain that—"
"I know what epilepsy is."
"Yes, but TLE is a bit ... " He gestured vaguely, then took several stapled pages from his clipboard and handed them to her. "I’ve brought some literature. The more you understand what’s happening, the better we’ll work together." He didn’t sound like he believed that.
Paula glanced at the pages. Printouts from a web site.
"Read it over and tomorrow you and I can—oh, good." A nurse had entered the room with a plastic cup in her hand; the meds had arrived. Louden seemed relieved to have something else to talk about. "This is Topamax, an epilepsy drug."
"I don’t want it," she said. She was done with drugs and alcohol.
"I wouldn’t prescribe this if it wasn’t necessary," Louden said. His doctor voice. "We want to avoid the spikes in activity that cause seizures like today’s. You don’t want to fall over and crack your skull open, do you?" This clumsy attempt at manipulation would have made the old Paula furious.
Her companion shrugged. It didn’t matter. All part of the plan.
Paula accepted the cup from the nurse, downed the two pills with a sip of water. "When can I go home?" she said.
Louden stood up, ran a hand over his scalp. "I’ll talk to you again in the morning. I hate to tell you this, but there are a few more tests we have to run."
Or maybe they were keeping her here because they did think she was contagious. The start of an epidemic, he’d said.
Paula nodded understandingly and Louden seemed relieved. As he reached the door Paula said, "Why did that one doctor—Gerrhardt?—ask me if I ate meat?"
He turned. "Dr. Gerrholtz. She’s not with the hospital."
"Who’s she with then?"
"Oh, the CDC," he said casually. As if the Centers for Disease Control dropped by all the time. "Don’t worry, it’s their job to ask strange questions. We’ll have you out of here as soon as we can."
Paula came home from work to find the door unchained and the lights on. It was only 7:15, but in early November that meant it had been dark for more than hour. Paula stormed through the house looking for Claire. The girl knew the rules: come home from school, lock the door, and don’t pick up the phone unless caller-ID showed Paula’s cell or work number. Richard took her, she
At the end of the day they moved Paula into a room with a middle-aged white woman named Esther Wynne, a true southern lady who’d put on make-up and sprayed her hair as though at any moment she’d pop those IV tubes from her arms and head out to a nice restaurant.
Doctor Louden stopped by once more before going home that night. He sat heavily beside Paula’s bed, ran a hand over his gray scalp. "You haven’t been completely open with us," he said. He seemed as tired as she was.
"No, probably not," she said. Behind him, her companion shook his head, laughing silently.
Louden smiled as well, but fleetingly. "You have to realize how serious this is. You’re the tenth person we’ve seen with symptoms like yours, and there are more showing up in hospitals around the city. Some of my colleagues think we may be seeing the start of an epidemic. We need your help to find out if that’s the case."
"Am I contagious?"
He scratched his chin, looked down. "We don’t think so. You don’t have a temperature, any signs of inflammation—no signs that this is a virus or a bacterial infection."
"Then what is it you think I have?"
"We don’t have a firm idea yet," he said. He was holding back, treating her like a dumb patient. "We can treat your symptoms though. We’ll try to find out more tomorrow, but we think you have a form of temporal lobe epilepsy. There are parts of your brain that—"
"I know what epilepsy is."
"Yes, but TLE is a bit ... " He gestured vaguely, then took several stapled pages from his clipboard and handed them to her. "I’ve brought some literature. The more you understand what’s happening, the better we’ll work together." He didn’t sound like he believed that.
Paula glanced at the pages. Printouts from a web site.
"Read it over and tomorrow you and I can—oh, good." A nurse had entered the room with a plastic cup in her hand; the meds had arrived. Louden seemed relieved to have something else to talk about. "This is Topamax, an epilepsy drug."
"I don’t want it," she said. She was done with drugs and alcohol.
"I wouldn’t prescribe this if it wasn’t necessary," Louden said. His doctor voice. "We want to avoid the spikes in activity that cause seizures like today’s. You don’t want to fall over and crack your skull open, do you?" This clumsy attempt at manipulation would have made the old Paula furious.
Her companion shrugged. It didn’t matter. All part of the plan.
Paula accepted the cup from the nurse, downed the two pills with a sip of water. "When can I go home?" she said.
Louden stood up, ran a hand over his scalp. "I’ll talk to you again in the morning. I hate to tell you this, but there are a few more tests we have to run."
Or maybe they were keeping her here because they did think she was contagious. The start of an epidemic, he’d said.
Paula nodded understandingly and Louden seemed relieved. As he reached the door Paula said, "Why did that one doctor—Gerrhardt?—ask me if I ate meat?"
He turned. "Dr. Gerrholtz. She’s not with the hospital."
"Who’s she with then?"
"Oh, the CDC," he said casually. As if the Centers for Disease Control dropped by all the time. "Don’t worry, it’s their job to ask strange questions. We’ll have you out of here as soon as we can."
Paula came home from work to find the door unchained and the lights on. It was only 7:15, but in early November that meant it had been dark for more than hour. Paula stormed through the house looking for Claire. The girl knew the rules: come home from school, lock the door, and don’t pick up the phone unless caller-ID showed Paula’s cell or work number. Richard took her, she
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