“Thanks for coming in,” Dr. Montweiler said as he ushered Jason and Linda into his office. He pointed them toward a pair of chairs in front of his desk and sat down. “We have the results back,” he said, “and I am sure you are curious so let’s get right to it. We used what is called an enzyme immunoassay test to examine Jason’s blood for presence of an antigen that is specific to the TL virus. The test is fairly new, but we ran extra safeguards this time to guard against false positives. Then we—”
“Uh, excuse me, Dr. Montweiler,” Linda said, still standing, a sweet smile on her face, “I don’t mean to be rude, and that’s fascinating and all, but we’re really anxious, and we’d just like to know the results.”
Dr. Montweiler looked up at Linda, his countenance hardening. “Very well,” he said. “Your husband has Triptovirus L.”
Linda’s smile faded as she stiffened and swayed, then reached backward and grasped for the chair. Jason grabbed her arm and steadied her, lowering her into the seat.
“That can’t be. That can’t be, can it? He’s so healthy,” Linda said. “I mean, he’s healthy, right? He can still get the insurance, right?”
Montweiler took off his glasses and massaged his eyebrows. “I’m sorry,” he said.
The three sat in silence for a moment, Jason staring out the window, Linda, her head down, eyes fixed on the top of the desk. “So what do we do now?” Jason asked, not looking at Montweiler.
“When this thing first broke, you may remember the news reports recommending that everyone stay inside and wear face masks—they even became a fashion accessory in Paris for a time, as I recall. Anyway, since TL first broke, we’ve realized that while it is contagious, a person with a reasonably healthy immune system like you, Mrs. Kramer, is not necessarily at an increased risk. But because TL does remain fatal if you do get infected, we recommend that you employ reasonable safeguards in your dealing with Jason. Hand washing, good hygiene, safe sex, things like that. And of course, as soon as a vaccine becomes available, you,” Montweiler said, nodding at Linda, “must get inoculated right away. This also all assumes that the virus does not mutate into a more contagious or deadly form, which it could do at any time, just like the flu mutates each year requiring a new vaccine each year.” Montweiler looked into Linda’s blank stare and paused, then consulted a chart in a folder in front of him, brows furrowed. “What’s puzzling,” he said, “is that Jason appears in all other ways to be perfectly healthy. You feel OK, right Jason?”
“Yes, other than some nausea and stomach pain, but I guess that’s just stress.”
Montweiler thought for a moment, and then closed the folder. “So no specific TL symptoms, like lung congestion or bone pain?”
Jason shook his head.
“That’s good,” Montweiler said. “Odd, but good. Maybe TL is already mutating into a less virulent strain. But that’s no reason to relax. I’m going to send you to Craig Marcus.”
“He’s a specialist?” Jason asked.
“He’s the guy who perfected the CDC’s test to diagnose TL, so yes, he’s very good. His company, Porter Pharmaceuticals, also appears to be leading the race for a vaccine, if what I read in the trade journals is any indication.”
Jason nodded and rubbed his abdomen, and Linda stirred and pulled herself upright in the chair. She looked at Dr. Montweiler. “Is he going to die?”
Montweiler’s mouth fell open a half inch. Jason caught the doctor’s eye and offered an apologetic shrug. “Yes, eventually,” Montweiler said, smiling. “But hopefully not before he can pay my bill.” Jason laughed, but Linda stared dully ahead, not seeing or hearing. Montweiler’s smile vanished. “I told my nurse to make an appointment for you with Dr. Marcus.”
“Great, thanks,” Jason said. Montweiler stood, but Jason remained seated. “Worst case scenario,” he said. “How long?”
Montweiler rubbed his hand across the top of his bald head and exhaled, blowing air through pursed lips. He looked at Linda, who was still staring at Montweiler’s now empty chair. “Marcus is the man to give you a prognosis.”
Linda looked up at him. “Take a shot,” she said.
“Based on what we know about TL’s progression, and moderated by the fact Jason appears to be asymptomatic, and if TL doesn’t mutate and he catches a more virulent strain—I’d say six months. But that’s without treatment. And if I know Craig Marcus, you’ll get the best treatment available.”
Jason nodded. He stood and extended his hand. “Thanks, Doctor,” he said. He grabbed Linda by the shoulders and pulled her to her feet, then steered her out the door.
—
The doorbell rang at 6:30 a.m. Jason, bleary eyed, stumbled to the door and looked through the peep hole. It was Scott.
“Go away!” Jason yelled at the door.
“Get dressed!”
“I’m not going this morning. I’m dying.”
“Then a little run can’t make you any worse.”
Jason thought for a moment, but once again Scott’s improbable logic had left him without a retort. He opened the door. “You have to buy breakfast,” he said.
Scott pointed up at Jason’s wayward brown curls. “Hair’s trying to crawl off your head or something there, dude.” He inhaled, then made a face and waved his hand in front of his nose. “Phew. Go brush your teeth.”
Jason staggered back to the bathroom. Scott went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, found a pitcher of orange juice and poured a glass. He stood at the sink drinking it and noticed a piece of paper by the phone. He picked it up and read it.
“Why don’t you read the mail, too, while you’re at it.”
Scott turned around and looked at Jason standing in the hallway, a towel around his neck. He was pulling on his sweat pants. Scott held up the piece of paper. “Xanax. Good stuff.”
“Montweiler prescribed it for the anxiety.”
“Linda can do that to a guy,” Scott said. He finished his orange juice, opened the fridge again and peered inside. “Do you have any fruit? What am I saying? Of course you have fruit. You are the fruit man!” Scott took an apple from a bin and crunched into it with gusto. Still standing at the open refrigerator, his mouth full of apple, Scott asked, “So how did it go?”
Jason pulled his sweatshirt over his head. “Not good.”
Scott closed the refrigerator door and put his apple on the counter. He turned and looked at Jason. “I’m sorry, man. Is it what you thought?”
“I didn’t think it was anything.”
Scott looked down his nose at Jason. “C’mon, man. It’s me.”
Jason remained silent.
Scott nodded and picked up the apple. He took another bite. “I see. Hey, if that’s the game, I can play.”
Jason sat down at the kitchen table and leaned over to lace up his shoes. “It’s Trips Lite.”
Scott remained by the sink, chewing and looking out the window. “Damn,” he said. “Capital ‘T,’ capital ‘L.” Scott continued staring out the window, then turned his back to Jason and rubbed his hand across his eyes and dragged the back of his hand under his nose. “So, how are you holding up?” he said.
“Me? I’m all right,” Jason said. “Not planning on buying any long term stocks, though.” Jason watched Scott move to the refrigerator and put the apple core inside on top of half of an uneaten Pop-Tart. “How’s Linda?” Scott said.
“She was pretty wigged out at first—lots of anger. But now she seems to be more at peace with it.”
“Uh-huh,” Scott said. “Maybe she’ll be nice to you now.” Scott looked around the apartment. “Speaking of which, where is W-Cubed?”
Jason did not rise to the bait. “She went in early to work,” he said. “Said something about not being able to sleep.”
Scott stood up, stretched, and pointed at the front door. “Let’s go,” he said.
Jason shook his head. “Why bother running?” he said. “I’ll be dead in six months.”
Scott jogged over to Jason and began kneading his shoulders and upper arms. “Not if I can help it. With the world famous Scott Durrant program of high-fat foods and alcohol-enhanced beverages, we’ll have you all fixed up in no time.”
Jason chuckled. “What a way to go. Um, by the way, why aren’t you running out of here, screaming?”
Scott laughed. “I read The Stand, man. I am one of the chosen with immunity! That, plus I read online this morning that they don’t think it’s airborne, at least not yet, so just don’t kiss me.”
“No worries there, mate.”