“I need a bigger room. And you’re going to give it to me.” Gabriel peered intently at the administrator of Bright New Day, a man named Irving… Brown? Bosworth? Bloemker? Was that it? Yes, Bloemker sounded right.
Irving J. Bloemker’s prematurely balding head sank down into his shoulders, making the man look like a turtle retracting into its shell. He was a short, squat man in a tailored brown suit. An old-fashioned pocket watch on a gold chain hung from one pocket. He was the sort of a man who felt too conscious of his diminutive size, and his office showed his insecurity. His massive oaken desk sat on a high platform, which allowed him to tower over anyone who chose to speak to him. The Picasso painting—“The Old Guitarist”—had been placed in an oversized wooden frame. But Gabriel wasn’t intimidated.
“Um…” Bloemker fidgeted. “Why?”
“Because I need space to set up a makeshift lab,” Gabriel stated. “I need test tubes. Make them plastic if you’re worried about me breaking things. I don’t care. I need space for files, papers, and notebooks. My current living quarters on South Wing won’t cut it anymore.”
“This is the sort of issue you should discuss with social services. The policy is—”
“I don’t care about the policy. I’m discussing it with you.” Gabriel’s blood was rushing through his body in a tidal wave. His back was straight, not bent. He felt as if he could go skydiving.
“This… I’m very busy, Gabriel.”
“As am I.”
Bloemker sucked in his cheeks and glanced at the heart-rate monitor on his wrist. Gabriel suspected that the arrhythmia probably wasn’t as bad as Bloemker made it out to be. He was also pretty sure that Bloemker had vitiligo, given the small white patches on his already pale skin, most notably the splotch that covered the left side of his neck. Vitiligo wasn’t a life-threatening disease, but it tended to make people self-conscious about their appearance.
“Gabriel, what you’re asking for here, it’s… well…”
“I understand. I know that nursing home residents with an Alzheimer’s diagnosis don’t barge into the administrator’s office, demanding a bigger room and laboratory equipment. Yes, it’s unprecedented, but so is this superbug, which you and I both know isn’t just the flu. Consider this. If I could find a cure and you prevented me from doing so, then any resulting deaths would be on your shoulders.”
The administrator shrank into his chair like a scared roly-poly. “Gabriel, you have to understand. Please. It’s nothing against you, but the thing is, if we did this and if the state were to catch wind of it, we’d be liable.”
Gabriel leaned against the wall, taking the pressure off his bad side. “Not necessarily. Not if I sign a release form. I called my old lawyer today. William Grant. He prepared a special release form that holds me for full liability. I’ll also sign a patient confidentiality form. I want access to the charts of current victims.”
Bloemker frowned. “I’m not a trained counselor, so I don’t know the proper way to say this, but don’t you think you’re being a bit solipsistic? I’m sure the government has scientists working on a cure. What makes you think that you’re the only one who can find one?”
“I’m the Nobel Prize-winning immunologist who created the Schist vaccine, which your own facility gives to every resident. If anyone can find a cure for this virus before it gets worse, it’s me.”
“Gabriel, I respect you. I respected you long before either of us ever entered this facility. But you’re cognitively impaired now. You’re on medication that can affect your processes. Your situation… I feel like a complete ass saying it this way, but at some point, you’re going to start declining.”
“Yes, I will. But right now, Mr. Bloemker, people are dying. Nobody’s helping us. Nobody wants to cure the infected residents here; they want to cover it up. That’s why they made everyone sign those forms. That’s why all of you have to pretend it’s just influenza. And just like with AIDS, they’re leaving the doors wide open for a massive, widespread contamination. I know you’re a compassionate man, a good man. I believe that’s why you chose to work in healthcare. But open your eyes. Don’t you see what’s happening?”
Bloemker sucked in his cheeks. “Yes.”
Gabriel sighed. “I don’t have much time. You’re right about that. My Alzheimer’s will get worse. But right now, before my condition declines, how can either of us possibly waste what little time I have left arguing, instead of saving human lives, the only thing that either of us are any good at?”
Bloemker fidgeted and stared up at the Picasso. He muttered something in Latin that sounded like one of the prayers Father Gareth used to say, but Gabriel couldn’t hear it clearly. Then, the administrator nodded as if he’d made a decision. He opened a drawer and pulled out a plastic three-inch binder. He began typing on his computer keyboard, occasionally looking back at the binder. Gabriel waited, clutching the handle of his cane, afraid to say anything more.
Minutes later, Bloemker looked up at Gabriel. “Fine. I don’t buy it but fine. Legally, I can’t stand in your way. So let’s set some parameters and then… give it your best shot.”
Gabriel could’ve jumped in the air with joy if doing so wouldn’t have resulted in broken bones. He knew Bloemker was merely humoring him, but Gabriel didn’t care whether anyone believed him or not, as long as he got what he wanted.
Bloemker eyed him. “You’ll be under close observation.”
“Fair enough.”
“Now, I’m giving you the window side of Room 116 in North Wing. It’s the biggest room in this facility that isn’t currently occupied. You’ll be sharing the room with Bernard Ulysses Huffington the Fourth, who has been in the room for nearly two years.”
“I don’t think I’ve met him.”
“Probably not. Getting Bernard to leave his room is like pulling teeth. A man of habit, that one.”
“The Fourth?” Gabriel chuckled. “Interesting. Is he from some sort of aristocratic family?”
“Nope. He was a trucker in Alaska, very interesting guy. Anyway, I’m giving you the room, but as I said, you’ll be under observation. I want nothing flammable, nothing that could hurt anyone. I’ll have that smart Brenton kid watch you closely on that point. Also, I did read that recent behavior report from Natty. If your behavior starts worsening, or if you somehow become a danger to others, don’t think I won’t yank all of this away from you in a heartbeat. I will.”
Knowing that Harry Brenton would be his observer only heightened Gabriel’s elation. “Sure.”
“Oh, and there’s no way I’m giving you the charts for all the virus victims. That would be a severe HIPPA violation.”
“Understood.” Gabriel figured he could convince Harry to sneak copies to him.
“Now, no offense, but get out of here. You’ve just given me a mound of paperwork to do, so I’d like to get started.” Though Irving didn’t smile, his tone held good humor.
Gabriel stood, buttoned his coat, and headed for the door.
“Oh, and Gabriel?”
Gabriel turned around. “Yes?”
“Good luck.” Irving winked.
Gabriel tipped his hat, then spinning around with more energy than he’d possessed in nearly a decade, he returned to the maze of corridors he’d wandered so often in the last five years that every inch of wallpaper had become as familiar as his own hand. Tap. Tap.
Mickey Minkovsky saluted him. Edna gave him a curious stare. Even the ever-cranky Bob Baker, sitting before his plate of hotdog cubes, shot him a perplexed look. A startlingly familiar melody accompanied Gabriel’s cane-tapping journey. And after several moments of disoriented confusion, he realized that the tune was coming from his own lips, which hadn’t produced that once-signature sound in nearly a decade.
With a smile, Gabriel marched back to his room with a gusto he’d forgotten he had, whistling the entire way.
Chapter 15:
Found
Summer 1974
Yvonne had no idea why Gabriel was whistling. It was a nice little melody, but totally out of place. She’d never seen a person so intelligent, yet so oblivious to his surroundings.
She sipped on her Merlot as a handsome waiter presented her with a Caesar salad decorated as luxuriously as a Christmas present. The restaurant, with its flickering candles, perfect china, white tablecloths, and white adobe walls, was the fanciest place she’d ever been. In her flowing gypsy dress, dreadlocks, wooden earrings, and lack of makeup, she felt utterly weird. Her backpack full of college textbooks was slumped against a table leg.
But she looked normal compared to her date. Gabriel was clad in a stained white T-shirt and worn-out sneakers. He was drinking a bottle of beer instead of wine.
She had no idea why he had brought her to a place where the two of them looked like freakish out-of-towners. Perhaps he was following a perceived rulebook for first dates, and in his mind, that restaurant was where normal people went for dates. Maybe Gabriel, the alien from Mars, wasn’t sure how to do a regular human date, and so he was instead offering her his best interpretation of a date.
“Is the salad good?” he asked.
“Oh yes, it’s wonderful. Thank you.”
