Gabriel slumped over his desk, his lamp casting a yellow rectangle upon the wooden surface, which only solicited more questions. He was exasperated. The answers that earlier that day had seemed as easy to pluck as a newborn flower had grown deep tangled roots, clinging to the ground and resisting his grasp. He pushed his new microscope away, unable to stand the sight of it.
He needed a break. It was frustrating to aspire to such an ambitious goal while working against the clock of one’s own mental degradation. He was constantly sidetracked and distracted, especially by the antics of his insomniac roommate, who apparently never slept.
It was eleven thirty at night, and throughout the evening, Bernard had treated the call button like the trigger of a submachine gun. Though oddly likeable, he was possibly the most distracting roommate Gabriel had ever had. The man’s constant I-want-this-no-I-want-that-yes-no-not-that dementia symptoms were like a postmodern exaggeration of the human condition. The entire night had been a chorus of Bernard’s requests, repeated over and over, as nurses raced in and out of the room to advise him to take it easy on the sugar.
“Fruit punch.”
“Pain pills.”
“Fruit punch.”
“Chocolate pudding.”
“Two chocolate puddings and two vanilla puddings.”
“Pain pills.”
“Scratch my back, please.”
“Fruit punch.”
Gabriel leaned over the microscope again. He examined the constantly mutating black cells in the blood sample, but his eyes had become droopy. Back when he was younger, that would never have happened. He had often spent entire days so invigorated by his work that sleep and food seemed like vague notions, but age had changed him. He’d stared at the blood sample for hours, bewildered by the way that the virus completely changed properties from one moment to the next. He had nothing to show for the day’s work, and he was sleepy, hungry, and thirsty.
“Hi there, Bernard,” Harry Brenton said from the doorway. “Sorry it took me so long to answer the light, sir. Would you like some ice water, maybe? I’m passing it out to everybody right now.”
“Fruit punch!” Bernard cried.
“Um, sir. You know that diabetes is—”
“No, not diabetes. Fruit punch.”
“Bernard, if your blood sugar is—”
“Okay. Ice water. Thank you.”
Harry pushed his cart into the room. As the wheels rolled along the linoleum floor, the ice inside each of the pink plastic cups on the cart clinked in a way that made Gabriel’s mouth water. He noticed that Harry’s white scrubs had several dark stains, which was odd since Harry’s uniform was normally spotless. The boy’s face was damp with sweat, and he was breathing heavily.
“Hello, Harry,” Gabriel said.
Harry held out a pink cup. “Good evening, Mr. Schist. Would you like some ice water?”
“Okay.” Gabriel smiled. “Thank you, Harry. But, honestly? What I could really use is some… uh, some company.” Gabriel choked a little on the last word. He felt humiliated at having to admit that he, the man of science, the introvert of introverts, actually felt lonely. Loneliness made him pathetic.
“Yo, Harry!” Natty Bruckheimer bellowed in her high-pitched battle cry. “Get back out here, ya nerd!”
“Sorry, Natty,” Harry called back. “I’m just—”
“Stop wasting your time chitchatting, dude. We’ve got work to do!” Natty stomped away, her footsteps causing the walls to shudder.
Harry bit his lip, and his shoulders slumped. Even in the dead of night, the sound of multiple call bells rang through the corridor, glowing in the dark hallway like flashing Christmas lights. “I’m sorry. I have to get back out there.”
Gabriel rubbed his eyes. “Busy night, I gather?”
“Yes, sir. You could say that.” Harry blew out a breath. “It’s insane. We’re so short staffed. Over thirty folks live on North Wing alone, and they have only one nurse on the medcart, while only two LNAs do all the personal care for every resident on this floor. And when my only help is someone like Natty, who just doesn’t care about anyone but herself, it’s like working alone. It’s like—” Harry stopped and shook his head. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be talking like that.”
Gabriel peered at the doorway, worried that Natty might reappear. “Harry, you’re one of the best people they have here. Don’t let anyone make you think differently. It’s the hard work of people like you that keep this place together.”
“Thank you, sir.” Harry blushed. “But you folks deserve better than this.” He waved toward the hall then left the room.
Gabriel took a sip of his ice water. Before he could resume working on his research, the telephone rang. He lifted the receiver, anticipating the cold greeting of an investment banker from an earlier time zone, or maybe Medicare, or a life insurance agent who didn’t respect other people’s bedtime hours. “Hello?”
“Dad?” she said.
Melanie. Gabriel’s heart leapt to his throat. His eyes filled with tears before he even breathed a word. “Hi, Melanie. God, it’s so good to hear from you.”
“Hi, Dad.” She let out a gentle, nervous little laugh, the same laugh she’d had since she was a girl. “I’ve missed you, old man! Sorry it’s been so long since I stopped by. I feel guilty. Sorry for calling so late. I know you’ve always been a night owl, but—”
“I miss you too, Melanie. How are you? How’s Bill?”
Silence. Gabriel checked to make sure the line wasn’t dead. Then, a realization hit him. A tender ache passed through his chest. “Oh. You and Bill are divorced. I forgot. I’m sorry, Melanie.”
“It’s not your fault. How are you doing, Dad? Are you okay?”
He stared at the dark window. In the reflection, he watched Bernard shuffle to the bathroom. Realizing that he might be taking too long to respond, he blurted, “Busy.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yes.” He cleared his throat. “I’m researching the Black Virus. I’m trying to find a cure.”
