Holly Fever: A Mondamin Court Adventure, #2

Lisa Gabor was a short, plump woman with a mop of red hair and a round face. She wore scrubs, which weren’t exactly flattering—then again, scrubs weren’t flattering on anyone really. She drank from a Styrofoam coffee cup and looked out at the ER waiting room. It was packed this afternoon. Outside, the snow had been falling for nearly an hour. There had been a half dozen car accidents, and there would likely be more as the night progressed.

But that was not what had brought these folks to the ER, she reflected. They had a couple of traumas in the back that were slowing the flow of patients, but no, these weren’t trauma cases. She spied a homeless drunk who showed up for mental health placement like clockwork whenever the weather turned too bad to camp by the river. The rest were mostly students from the university, with complaints so minor it was hard to believe they’d even waste the time. I shouldn’t be judgmental, she reminded herself. I was young once too. Young and stupid. Just triage them, and get them in to see the doctor.

She called for the next patient. The young woman was short and thin with dishwater-blond hair and a round, flushed face. She wore a long-sleeved shirt that came to mid-thigh and tights underneath.

What brings you to the ER tonight? Lisa asked as she gestured at a seat across from her in the tiny triage cubicle.

I’ve got the flu, the young woman said as she plopped in the chair.

Lisa looked her over and restrained the impulse to roll her eyes. What are your symptoms, and when did they start? she asked. She slid the registration chart open and inspected it. Holly Meadows. She was nineteen. A freshman at the university.

Figures. Who else shows up in the emergency room for a cold? Probably her first time away from home, sick, and wanting some tender loving care. Fat chance at a busy university hospital.

It started this afternoon, Holly said. Fever, chills, runny nose, coughing and sneezing fits.

Lisa took the girl’s vitals and sent her back to the waiting room. She slid a green sticker out. The hospital used the standard three-color codes for triage: red for emergent cases that needed to be seen right away, yellow for urgent cases that needed to be seen quickly, and green for those that could wait.

She’ll be waiting a good long while. The university had closed for the winter break today. The first snow of the year had started that afternoon. Students anxious to get home and slippery roads didn’t make a good combination, and the ER had seen a couple traumas already.

Holly sneezed five times in rapid succession. She bent over, practically falling off the hard-backed chair. She blew her nose and fought to regain her breath.

Lisa paused, her hand suspended above the chart. Her lips pursed. The green sticker went back, and she attached a yellow one to Holly’s chart.

CHAPTER ONE

Lydia Scott poured her tea into a large coffee mug and shut off the kitchen light. She walked slowly through the darkened house, careful to avoid the wood stove and the kitchen table. She could have, perhaps, turned on the lights. But she hated to waste electricity.

Besides, once she crossed the dining room, the TV bathed the living room in enough light for her to find a seat on the couch and place her mug on the end table. Lydia didn’t usually watch TV in the evenings. She preferred to read or listen to music while she knitted. But the weather was bad and her only son, Devon, was coming home from college tonight. She had every right to be worried.

He’d hinted on the phone that he had some big news he wanted to discuss. She wondered if he’d met someone, and more to the point, was it a boy or a girl? It was hard to tell with him sometimes. Not that she cared. She would accept him whether he was gay or straight.

The news came up, but it wasn’t the weather. They were talking about the flu. Lydia didn’t recognize the face or the name, Holly Meadows, but she did recognize Devon’s school.

Holly presented to the University Hospital Emergency Department at five o’clock this afternoon, the newscaster was saying. She was pronounced dead at six thirty.

How terrible for the family, Lydia thought.

The news station had a medical expert on now. It’s unusual for the flu to kill a healthy adult, or to act this quickly, but Holly’s symptoms were definitely consistent with the influenza virus. And we must not forget the Spanish flu of 1918, which not only did act with frightening speed, it primarily affected young adults. So the precedence is there.

So what should viewers do to avoid the flu? the newscaster prompted.

Lydia stopped paying attention. It was the same old advice anyway: wash your hands, cover your mouth when you sneeze, get your flu shot. She turned to the window and stared out into the darkness. It was snowing again, big fluffy flakes. Should she text him? Or would he be angry about her overprotectiveness?

She sighed. He wasn’t really due home for another fifteen, twenty minutes. She just needed to be patient and wait.

The coffee shop door binged three times in rapid succession as customers filed in. The buzz of conversation from the line rose that much higher.

Usually, Holly Wheatsfield managed to convince herself the door’s bing was the sound of money. A perky smile, leading to another small tip. With dark hair, a thin athletic body, and a bright face, Holly was reasonably good looking. And she wasn’t above putting that to work if it got her tips. But it was five thirty p.m., and the late afternoon rush was in full swing, commuters looking for a quick pick-me-up on the way home. The early afternoon crowd and the evening crowd were both good tippers. Commuters’ heads were filled with bills, work, and what they were going to do for supper, not tipping their barista.

Holly pushed the thought down and tried to concentrate on the pile of orders in front of her. It was a hopeless mess. Bill was here helping out. Or he thought he was helping. He’d forgotten to throw out the completed receipts, and now Holly had no idea which drinks had been made and which hadn’t.

William Bill Frederickson was one of those owner/bosses who thought insisting on first names and showing up at the shop occasionally to help out made him a good boss. But he was hopeless as a barista, and all the staff prayed fervently that he showed up during a quiet stretch and didn’t do too much. No such luck today.

She looked up across the counter at the next two women in line. They were both older women with white hair, wearing fashionable sweater tops and pearl necklaces: rich socialites. Did you order the soy lattes?

The woman appeared affronted. Soy?

Holly should have known. The hipster-looking couple in the corner had taken the two soy lattes and were already seated.

Oh, here, nonfat latte grande and small black decaf, Holly said. Despite this, the women recited their orders again. As Holly started to work, one of the women checked her watch to show they were in a hurry and then started chatting with her friend about a political fundraiser they were headed to.

The mention of the politician’s name soured Holly’s mood even more. Asshole wants to take my rights away, she stewed. Iowa had had marriage equality since 2009, good anti-discrimination laws, and an almost continuous string of conservative politicians who wanted to undo it all.

She made the coffees quickly and slid them across the counter. To add insult to injury, the older of two extended her hand, bypassing the tip jar, to pass Holly a handful of change. Probably thinks she’s being generous. Then again, in her day, a quarter might have been generous.

Holly offer the woman the brightest smile she could and said, "Thanks, I can get my wife something real nice for Christmas with that." She waited long enough for the words to sink in and enjoyed the women’s shocked appearance before turning her attention to the next order.

She found herself staring at Bill’s chest. She looked up at his thin face. You know repeat customers are vital to a small business, he said. Let’s see if we can keep politics out of the work place, please. Bill was what Holly dubbed a faux liberal, one of those people who go out of their way to tell you how accepting they are.

His own politics went no further than his bank account. He hemmed and hawed about recognizing Holly’s marriage to Nicky, until he found out that Nicky’s job had better benefits. So, you’ll get your health benefits through her company? He’d even offered a quarter raise.

She blushed but refused to look away. What? she said, keeping her tone innocent. She held out the change. Nicky loves gumballs. Knowing he didn’t care about tips, only what went in the till, she added. And all she ever orders is a decaf coffee. She scrambled to find the next receipt before he could think of a reply.

Bill checked out before six p.m. rolled around. The commuter rush was already tapering off when Holly’s evening relief arrived around six thirty. By seven, she had hung up her apron for the day, after making two last drinks, a soy chai latte for Nicky and a chamomile tea for herself. She had snagged a couple of scones as well. She set them down on the last table before the front doors, zipped up her coat, and stared out the window. The sun had set, and the snow had been blowing in since late afternoon. Already the streets were thick with it, and they’d heard a few screeches from the nearest intersection, but thankfully no crashes yet. She wondered briefly if she should find something more substantial than scones, or if she should wait and see what Nicky wanted for supper. You could never tell with that one.

Coat zipped, hat and gloves on, Holly made for her car. It was going to be a hard winter, she reflected. The news all said so, something about a big polar vortex thing up in the Arctic, forcing cold air down on the Midwest. Not that the old lady and her precious politician would do anything about the climate change causing that.

Her battered, old Nissan roared to life as she turned the key. That was one of the things she loved about the car: it was always reliable. She wished sometimes she had one of those fancy things that started your car for you. She wondered whether she should just sit and let the car warm up, or get out and scrape the window.

She checked her phone and discovered two missed messages. One was from Nicky. Ordered a pizza, not a fit night to go out. :-) Love you. See you when you get home. Good, supper was taken care of. The next message was from Melissa. She was a young barista, a part-timer who did weekends while taking college classes. Stuck in Iowa City. Got the flu. Can you cover the weekend? Please and thank you!

The last weekend before Christmas. It could be ugly, especially doing double shifts. Then again, the holiday crowd tended to tip well. She stripped off one glove and responded to both messages. Then she climbed out to scrape the windows.

Zoey’s anxiety peeked as Sarah turned down her street. Snow crunched under the tires. Sarah must have caught Zoey’s look. Your mom sounds super cool, she said. I’m sure she’ll accept you.

Yeah, Zoey agreed, trying to convince herself. Mom’s great. She’ll be okay. I just gotta work up the nerve to say it. ‘Mom, don’t call me Devon anymore. I want to be a girl named Zoey. Heck, I’ve always been a girl, trapped in a boy’s body.’

From everything you’ve told me, Sarah insisted, if anyone in Des Moines can handle having a transgender kid, it’s your mom. And if for some odd reason she can’t, you have my number, right? I’ll come get you straight away, and you can stay with my parents for the holidays.

Zoey smiled. Thanks. She pointed at the corner. Where the road bends here? That’s the house. The road makes a U and goes back to Clark, so you might as well keep straight on.

Sarah nodded and slid to a stop. It looks dark, she said hesitantly.

Mom hates wasting electricity, Zoey told her. She’s there.

Devon? Oh shit, sorry, Zoey. Good luck, Sarah said.

Yeah, thanks. And thanks for the ride. I’ll call you, and we’ll get together over break, okay? Sometime after Christmas.

Yeah, that’s great.

Zoey watched the car drive away. She made her way through the ankle-deep snow toward the porch. The wind whipped around, sending chills through her, but once she was on the porch the wind died back. She stared at the door. Did she knock or just go in? It was an awkward decision. It was her house, the house she grew up in. She should just walk in. But she was in her second year of college, and she didn’t really live here anymore. She’d knock and then go in, she decided.

The door opened before Zoey could knock. Lydia stood framed by the dull glow of the TV. Devon? she said.

Zoey cringed at the name. She doesn’t know. And whose fault is that? Mine for not telling her. Zoey stepped forward and gave her mom a hug.

Come in, Lydia said as she let Zoey go. Did you have any trouble? I was worried sick, with the weather and all.

It’s not as bad as it looks, Zoey said. Sarah’s a good driver anyway. Just inside the doorway, Zoey stopped and sneezed. Sorry, she said.

Bless you, and don’t worry about it. So Sarah? You two close?

Zoey gave Mom a look. She’s a friend. Why?

Lydia shrugged, a little too innocently.

Is that what she thinks my big news is? That I’m dating?

Zoey sneezed again, twice. Her nose ran, and her face felt hot.

Let me get you some tea, dear, her mother said. Take off your coat and have a seat.

Feeling woozy, Zoey did as she was told.

CHAPTER TWO

Michael Crighton crossed the ER. His stethoscope banged against his shoulders as he walked. Both pockets of his scrubs were packed with gloves and other supplies. It was a busy night, one of the busiest he’d had in a long time. At the door to room two, he paused and pulled the chart from the wall. Respiratory distress, he read. The patient was an eight-year-old girl with rapid onset of flu-like symptoms. Cold-induced asthma?

He opened the door. There was a sneeze, not from the patient but from a young woman sitting on one of the stools to the side. Michael took in the scene with a dispassionate air. On the cart was a young girl, his patient. She was sitting up, breathing heavily. Even from his position in the doorway, he could hear the girl wheezing. The three stools to the side were filled with a middle-aged couple and the young woman who’d sneezed.

So what brings us in? he asked, pulling out his stethoscope and going to the girl’s side.

Her sister came home from college today, the middle-aged woman said, gesturing at the younger woman. With the flu. Now Kaylee’s got it, but much worse.

I think . . . Michael started, hitting the call button. When it beeped, he turned and finished, . . . that we could use a breathing treatment in here. Officially, a breathing treatment required a doctor’s order. But Michael had been a nurse in the ER for a long time, and he knew Dr. Hausfender trusted his judgement.

Michael’s mind told him that the flu didn’t start this quick. But it sure looked like she had the flu. The girl started coughing. She doubled over, unable to catch her breath.

The respiratory therapist entered the room, carrying a nebulizer. Behind her, one of the aides was walking by. Annie, Michael called out to her, could you go find Dr. Hausfender? I need him in here. Now.

Annie caught the sharpness in his voice and disappeared. The respiratory therapist had a nozzle attachment set up on the nebulizer. Get a mask, Michael ordered.

She gave him a look, like she was going to contradict him. Then she looked down at the girl, who was still fighting for air, and nodded. She switched to a mask. Michael set the head of the cart up as high as it would go, so Kaylee could lay back but still be mostly upright. It’s going to be okay, he lied to her, willing it to become the truth somehow.

Jeanie, one of the other ER nurses, peeked in at them. Is there anything I can do?

Let’s get an IV started, Michael said. She nodded and pushed past the family to where the IV equipment was stored.

Michael looked down at his patient. She was still breathing heavily, her eyes rolled back in her head. Her skin was a pale, bluish color.

Dr. Hausfender stepped into the room. He glanced once at the girl on the cart and stepped back out into the hallway. Code blue, he yelled down at the secretary. Turning back inside, he said, Let’s get her moved to one of the trauma rooms. We’re gonna need room to work.

As Michael and Jeanie pushed the cart out of the room, the father sneezed.

The next forty minutes passed in a blur and were the longest of Michael’s life. They did everything they could. They intubated her and suctioned the mucus from her lungs again and again. Her lung filled with fluid as fast as they could suction it out. Michael got an IV started, and they ran drip after drip.

After they had called the code off and Dr. Hausfender declared Kaylee dead, Michael slumped in a chair in the ER staff room, his head in his hands.

I’ve never seen anything like it, Dr. Hausfender said. Such a strong reaction. Never seen anything like it. He sighed. One more chore. Annie, the aide, walked by. Dr. Hausfender gestured her over. The girl, where is her family?

Annie’s voice shook, and her face was drawn. Her mom and dad are in the waiting room, she said. She pointed. The sister is in room three. She handed Dr. Hausfender a chart.

Zoey was hot. She felt distant, like she was floating. If it weren’t for the racking cough, it might even be pleasant, like being high. She lay on the couch, wrapped in a crocheted comforter.

Lydia went past, and Zoey caught her arm. Mom, can we talk?

Lydia sat on the edge of the couch. She brushed Zoey’s forehead. You’re burning up, she said. Let me get a cloth. She was gone and then back with a cool cloth that she pressed against Zoey’s forehead.

Mom, there’s something I want to tell you before I die, Zoey said.

You aren’t going to die, she said. Then she looked worriedly at the TV, which had been reporting all evening about the student who had died of the flu. Dozens of cases had been reported since, including several fatalities. She felt Zoey’s cheeks. You aren’t going to die, are you? Maybe I should call . . . She started to rise, but Zoey caught her arm and pulled her down.

Mom, I’m not your son, Zoey said. Mom’s brow furrowed. I mean, I don’t want to be. Mom’s frown deepened. Zoey shook her head, trying to choose her words more clearly. No, I mean. Mom, I want . . . Her voice faltered. I’m your daughter. I’m transgender. I’ve known for a while.

Devon, Lydia breathed.

A coughing spell racked Zoey’s frame, and for a long while, she couldn’t answer. She finally managed to spit out, along with a copious amount of phlegm, Not Devon. Zoey. I want to be Zoey from now on. She lay back, exhausted, wanting to keep talking but unable to catch her breath.

Lydia rose and left. Zoey lay in a panic, wondering if her mom was freaking out, turning her back, what? She was back in a couple minutes. Here, she said. She had a rag doll that she had made for Zoey when Zoey was a toddler. It had been Zoey’s prized possession for years.

A smile spread through Zoey as she clutched the doll. She hugged it tightly to her chest.

You used to carry that thing everywhere. You treated it like it was a real baby. You always insisted that you would have a baby for real someday. I kept trying to tell you that boys didn’t have babies, but you wouldn’t ever believe me. She paused. I can’t say I didn’t wonder. But then you stopped talking about that sort of stuff. I thought maybe it was just a phase.

Zoey shook her head. Junior high, high school, she said. It was too hard, Mom. I couldn’t. I wanted to just be myself, but I didn’t want everyone to hate me either.

They wouldn’t have all hated you, her mom said.

You have no idea, Zoey muttered. It was awful, the bullies . . . God, I hated junior high. But high school . . . Let’s just say it was easier to be this geeky boy who read and went to renaissance fairs. I could ignore them. Pretend I just didn’t care what they thought, live in my own fantasy world.

And now?

I want to live for real, Zoey insisted. She went into another coughing fit. I want to live my life for real. As Zoey. She looked up at her mom.

Lydia smiled and kissed her forehead. And I thought maybe you were going to tell me you’re gay.

I’m bi, Mom, Zoey said. You’ve known that since forever.

Lydia rolled her eyes. Fine. You want to be Zoey, be Zoey. I love you, Devon, Zoey, gay, bi, or transgender.

Thanks, Mom.

But for tonight, just get better, she said. Are you sure I shouldn’t call the doctor?

It’s just the flu.

But that girl . . .

That’s one girl, Mom. I’ll live.

CHAPTER THREE

Lydia walked into the living room and looked at the couch. Devon, no, she reminded herself, Zoey, was lying there, curled up, watching some anime show on TV. He, she, hadn’t left the couch