his eyes were wild, glaring with a vehemence that seemed to Claire like madness. At 7:30 PM , the children telephoned to say good night. Still alert enough to be self-conscious, he struggled to control his voice. “Good night.” He wheezed the words. “Good night. Good night,” his voice escalated. “Good night ,” he shouted.
Nurse Brockett wrenched the receiver from his hand and gave it to Patsy.
“Daddy was playing a game,” she told her children.
At eight o’clock, the fever was 104.9. Mr. Reese’s breathing turned raspy. He sank heavily into the pillows, weak, defeated, drifting in and out of consciousness.
Claire waited for Patsy or Cindy, or even James Stanton, to tell her to leave, but no one noticed her. She’d achieved her professional goal: she was invisible. No doubt later, Patsy and Cindy would regret that they’d allowed her to stay, would demand to review her photos before they ran, would question the permission form that Patsy had signed. In the meantime, Claire shared Edward Reese’s death. Patsy sat on a stool at the bedside, holding her husband’s hand, resting her forehead against his arm. Cindy stood in the corner, her face an impassive mask. Claire tried to maintain an emotional distance, to narrow her concern only to the technical work at hand, but she felt a dread within her chest.
Blood tests revealed a surge in the bacterial level, over 100 colonies per milliliter. At 8:30, the fever was 105.3. Dr. Stanton tracked the vital signs every fifteen minutes. He ordered more blood tests, and when he received the results, he put the sideways figure 8 in the chart, the sign for bacterial levels at infinity. He’d made his peace with himself. He was supervising an experiment. Soon he would supervise another experiment. He would double the first dose, he would raise the other doses, somehow Tia and David would provide the medication—over and over he told himself this, and the repetition brought him comfort and hope.
Mr. Reese looked both sunken and swollen, glowing with the heat and force of the fever, at the mercy of the infection. Gradually he became delirious. “Lights, lights, turn off the lights,” he called. The room was dim. Frantically he thrashed his head and shoulders back and forth, back and forth, to escape the nonexistent lights that cut intohis eyes. His back arched. His breathing was a tortured rattle. Patsy tried to grab his hand, his shoulders, to calm him, but he twisted away from her.
At 9:51 PM , Edward R. Reese Jr. age thirty-seven, died. His brown eyes stared at the ceiling in a vacant, frozen gaze.
Dr. Stanton wrote on the chart and in his notes that the cause of death was staphylococcal septicemia, resistant to sulfa drugs but responsive to penicillin. He left the room to get a death certificate.
This was Claire’s final shot: Nurse Brockett leaning across the bed, pressing Edward Reese’s eyelids firmly closed with her businesslike palms.
CHAPTER FOUR
C laire, it’s Mack.” From the gruff voice, she knew it was Mack the moment he said her name on the phone. “I already told them it was a go,” he said to someone else. She heard animated voices in the background at his end. It was Saturday afternoon, a week after Edward Reese’s death. Claire sat at her desk at home, writing out checks to pay bills. The magazine closed on Saturday nights, and the final hours before each issue was put to bed were frantic. She wasn’t surprised Mack was at the office. “Claire. Just found out—you made the cover with the army wives story.”
“No, I didn’t.” The cover closed several days before the rest of the magazine, so when she hadn’t heard anything on Thursday, she’d assumed the editors had gone with something else.
“Would I kid you?” From his good-humored banter, she understood that he wasn’t kidding. With the rush of developments in the war, Mr. Luce must have delayed his decision on the cover until the last possible moment.
“This is a
Nurse Brockett wrenched the receiver from his hand and gave it to Patsy.
“Daddy was playing a game,” she told her children.
At eight o’clock, the fever was 104.9. Mr. Reese’s breathing turned raspy. He sank heavily into the pillows, weak, defeated, drifting in and out of consciousness.
Claire waited for Patsy or Cindy, or even James Stanton, to tell her to leave, but no one noticed her. She’d achieved her professional goal: she was invisible. No doubt later, Patsy and Cindy would regret that they’d allowed her to stay, would demand to review her photos before they ran, would question the permission form that Patsy had signed. In the meantime, Claire shared Edward Reese’s death. Patsy sat on a stool at the bedside, holding her husband’s hand, resting her forehead against his arm. Cindy stood in the corner, her face an impassive mask. Claire tried to maintain an emotional distance, to narrow her concern only to the technical work at hand, but she felt a dread within her chest.
Blood tests revealed a surge in the bacterial level, over 100 colonies per milliliter. At 8:30, the fever was 105.3. Dr. Stanton tracked the vital signs every fifteen minutes. He ordered more blood tests, and when he received the results, he put the sideways figure 8 in the chart, the sign for bacterial levels at infinity. He’d made his peace with himself. He was supervising an experiment. Soon he would supervise another experiment. He would double the first dose, he would raise the other doses, somehow Tia and David would provide the medication—over and over he told himself this, and the repetition brought him comfort and hope.
Mr. Reese looked both sunken and swollen, glowing with the heat and force of the fever, at the mercy of the infection. Gradually he became delirious. “Lights, lights, turn off the lights,” he called. The room was dim. Frantically he thrashed his head and shoulders back and forth, back and forth, to escape the nonexistent lights that cut intohis eyes. His back arched. His breathing was a tortured rattle. Patsy tried to grab his hand, his shoulders, to calm him, but he twisted away from her.
At 9:51 PM , Edward R. Reese Jr. age thirty-seven, died. His brown eyes stared at the ceiling in a vacant, frozen gaze.
Dr. Stanton wrote on the chart and in his notes that the cause of death was staphylococcal septicemia, resistant to sulfa drugs but responsive to penicillin. He left the room to get a death certificate.
This was Claire’s final shot: Nurse Brockett leaning across the bed, pressing Edward Reese’s eyelids firmly closed with her businesslike palms.
CHAPTER FOUR
C laire, it’s Mack.” From the gruff voice, she knew it was Mack the moment he said her name on the phone. “I already told them it was a go,” he said to someone else. She heard animated voices in the background at his end. It was Saturday afternoon, a week after Edward Reese’s death. Claire sat at her desk at home, writing out checks to pay bills. The magazine closed on Saturday nights, and the final hours before each issue was put to bed were frantic. She wasn’t surprised Mack was at the office. “Claire. Just found out—you made the cover with the army wives story.”
“No, I didn’t.” The cover closed several days before the rest of the magazine, so when she hadn’t heard anything on Thursday, she’d assumed the editors had gone with something else.
“Would I kid you?” From his good-humored banter, she understood that he wasn’t kidding. With the rush of developments in the war, Mr. Luce must have delayed his decision on the cover until the last possible moment.
“This is a
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