Pandemic (12 page)

At the sound of the voice, the baby quieted for a moment. Then the sobbing began again, louder and more distressed.

Standing by the front door, I shifted my weight from one foot to the other. I considered dialing 911. But what would I report? A cranky baby?

“Mrs. Goodwin?” I called.

Still no answer. I turned, then took a few steps away from the house.
This is none of my business.
The wailing rang in my ears.
It is not my problem.
I counted to thirty, willing the frantic cries to stop. They didn’t.

Taking a deep breath, I returned to the door, opening it slowly. A flash of tabby stripes ran out past me, making me jump.

“Mrs. Goodwin?” I called. “Mr. Goodwin?”

The kitchen was empty. I waited for someone to come out, to ask me what I was doing. No one did.

I moved stealthily down the hallway, feeling like an intruder. But I couldn’t leave the baby now. The howling guided me into a bedroom on the right. The baby stood in the crib, his face mottled and red, his jumper damp. Behind his crib hung a sign with animal-shaped letters that spelled out his name: Tobias Kutchner.

“Hi, Tobias Kutchner. I sure hope you’re not sick. The flu doesn’t affect many babies, right?” I didn’t want to hold him, to come into contact with him, but I couldn’t exactly leave him alone again.

“We have to find your mommy. This room smells like you need a diaper change.” Summoning my nerve, I put my hands under his arms to lift him. Something squished under my fingers as I reached his back.

Poop. And lots of it.

Disgusted by the grossness, I put him back down. His screams reached a new decibel.

“It’s OK, it’s OK,” I said, more to myself than the baby. Grabbing a blanket from the crib, I created a barrier between his dirty body and my own. “We need to find a bathroom to clean you up, TK. Do you mind if I call you TK, little buddy?”

I started to carry him out. Two steps toward the door, I stopped babbling and froze.

Oh dear God.

In the corner of the room, Mrs. Goodwin sat slumped over in a rocking chair.

C
HAPTER
13

Our emergency plans can handle an unexpected absenteeism rate of roughly 40–50% in critical sectors. We’re currently at 75%.

—Blue Flu interview, senior manager of the NJ Water Association

I
stared at TK’s mother. The angle of her head and the bluish tinge of her ears told me she wasn’t napping in the rocking chair.

“Mrs. Goodwin?”

I thought about touching her wrist, checking her pulse, but even if I were willing to risk the germs, my hands were covered in poop. Unnerved, I backed out of the bedroom, then spotted the bathroom. Thankfully, there were diapers and other supplies away from the body. I laid TK on top of the blanket on the changing pad.

Mrs. Goodwin was dead.

I fought the urge to run, concentrating on the snaps holding his terrycloth outfit closed.

Dead across the hall.

I opened the box of wipes.

Dead like Megs. From the killer flu.

The stench soon obliterated any other thoughts. It took the whole box of baby wipes and a large bath towel to finish the job. I bundled the entire mess in the towel and dropped everything into the garbage. In all my hours of babysitting the Sullivan twins last summer, I’d never seen such a mess.

TK’s skin looked pink and irritated so I quickly slathered diaper ointment on it. A spare outfit was folded neatly next to the sink. While I dressed him, he started to cry again and the sound unnerved me. I couldn’t ask his mother for help.

Think, Lil, think.

He was clean but still miserable. Probably hungry.

After washing my hands for as long as he would let me, I carried him into the kitchen where a bowl of creamy soup congealed on the counter. That could have been today’s lunch or dinner from last night. How long had TK been stranded in the crib with Mrs. Goodwin sick? Inside the fridge, three filled baby bottles were lined up in a row next to a can of cat food covered in tin foil. I took a bottle out intending to warm it, but TK wailed as soon as he spotted his meal.

“All right, don’t get a stomach ache.”

He slurped loudly while he drank in my arms. I sat on the edge of a kitchen chair, ready to jump up if . . . if what? I wasn’t sure, but after seeing Mrs. Goodwin, I didn’t want to get too cozy. We needed a plan, one that included getting away from the dead body as soon as possible.

A stroller leaned near the front door. After a few tries I was able to unfold it while holding TK. He cried for a minute while I readjusted him and the bottle, but soon he was strapped in and ready to go.

I had the door open with TK in the stroller when my planning mind kicked in.
Take
supplies
, it said.
Leave
contact information
.

Right. I scribbled a quick note so Mr. Goodwin would know I had TK at my house and I could avoid kidnapping charges. Then I rummaged through the kitchen cabinets, shoving a canister of powdered formula in the stroller basket. A navy blue diaper bag leaned near the front door, and I crammed the pre-made bottles in it, and some baby food, too, along with the list of emergency numbers stuck to the fridge.

I snatched the rest of the supplies from the bathroom and loaded up the stroller. All I needed now was an extra outfit for him, in case he had another explosive poop before Mr. Goodwin picked him up.

My shoulders slumped as I realized his clothing would be in the nursery with the body.

Before I could change my mind, I dashed toward his room, but my courage failed me and I paused in the doorway.
You can do this. You have to do this.
Holding my breath, I hurried in, jerked open the dresser drawers, and grabbed the baby clothes without looking at Mrs. Goodwin. A tiny pair of socks fell to the floor near her blue feet. I left them there. With shaky legs and a pounding heart, I pushed TK away from his home.

I parked TK’s stroller in the middle of our kitchen. He was a beautiful baby, about ten months old, with chunky cheeks and pudgy little arms and legs. When I unpacked his stroller, he eyed the bottles ravenously. But looking healthy was no guarantee he wasn’t actually sick. What was I going to do with a potentially infectious baby?

Before feeding him again, I carried him to the garage where Dad stored paper masks for yard work. I wore a mask for about ten seconds before TK grabbed it with his chubby hand and pulled. Then he let go, smacking it against my face. Fascinated, he mask-smacked me four or five more times.

“Epic fail,” I said, tossing the mask onto the workbench.

Back in his stroller, TK conked out after a second bottle and a big burp. I washed my hands for several minutes, praying he wasn’t contagious. Would the antiviral be enough to protect me?

I had been taking the medicine after dinner each day. With TK in the equation, I decided to forget the precise schedule and take the pill earlier. A tension headache was building, so along with a big glass of water, I also took an ibuprofen.

The least amount of time exposed to TK, the better. Contacting his family became my top priority. I hoped it would only be a few hours until someone came to get him. The pre-filled bottles, the cheerful nursery, even his mother dying nearby showed TK was well-loved. Mrs. Goodwin didn’t want to leave her baby, even at the end.

While TK napped, I checked the emergency phone number list I’d snatched from the fridge. I called Mr. Goodwin’s cell. It rang and rang until his voice mail message kicked in.

“Um, Mr. Goodwin, this is Lily Snyder, your neighbor. Mrs. Goodwin is . . . is not feeling well so I’m watching TK at my house. I need you to call me as soon as you get this.” I left my phone number and address. As for his poor wife, I wasn’t about to mention her death in a message.

Next, I tried calling the other numbers on the list, like Mr. Goodwin’s work phone, “Aunt Shirley,” and “Aunt Rachele,” but no one answered.

This was not promising. I bit at a ragged cuticle, then tried all the numbers again. Still no success.

While I waited for someone to call me back, I turned on the TV. Instead of the bad weatherrelated closures that appeared during the winter, the news reported “business shutdowns” in a scrolling ticker across the bottom of the screen. Newark Airport, the Short Hills Mall, and the Livingston Mall were closed, along with multiple school districts. A “breaking news” banner flashed.

“The water supply in Morris and Union Counties may have been affected by employee absenteeism and work stoppages,” a woman in a black suit reported. “There is a Boil Water Advisory in place. Although contamination has not been confirmed, all residents are advised to boil water for a full minute before consumption. Boiling is a precaution to kill any possible bacteria until further pathogen tests can be conducted.”

Water contamination? No way. I drank some less than five minutes ago. My stomach churned at the thought.

“Tap water should be boiled before drinking, cooking, washing produce, or brushing teeth,” she continued. “Dishwashers should be run on the hottest cycle. Washing machines and showers can be used as normal. Consumers are advised to throw out any ice cubes, food\, or beverages made with tap water in the past twenty-four hours.”

Agitated, I turned off the TV and tossed the remote on the coffee table. I made myself a note that said
BOIL
and taped it to the faucet as a reminder not to drink tap water. As I stared at TK’s empty bottle in the sink, dread settled over me. How long ago had Mrs. Goodwin mixed the bottles?

Was TK contaminated? Was I?

I put a pot of water on to boil, deciding to save the jugs stashed under my bed. The nausea came so quickly I convinced myself it had to be hypochondria instead of bacteria. I rested on the couch until the water bubbled.

Queasy, I made my way to the kitchen and turned off the stovetop. While the pot cooled, I checked the water company’s website. There were instructions about boiling, but no information about the possible consequences if you didn’t get the warning in time.

I couldn’t take the chance with TK’s last premade bottle. I hated to waste the formula, because the remaining tin was only one-third full, but it was too risky. I made three fresh bottles with the boiled water.

Still nauseated, I called TK’s dad again but kept getting his voice mail. I needed to speak to him by dark, because TK wasn’t about to spend the night sleeping in a stroller. I called Mr. Goodwin’s work number, let it ring three times, and hung up. Then I called back for three rings and hung up, again and again and again. If there was anyone else near his phone, surely I would annoy them into picking up. I was rewarded on the ninth try.

“Hello?” an older woman answered.

“Hi, I’m trying to reach Mr. Goodwin. It’s an emergency.”

“Mr. Goodwin? I’m sorry, dear. He’s no longer with the company.”

“Do you have his new number?”

“No . . . what I mean is, they took him to the hospital for that dreadful flu yesterday, but not in time to save him.”

“Oh.” I closed my eyes for a moment. Poor TK. “Is there any other family? His wife died, too, and someone needs to take care of their son. I’ve got him with me for now, but—”

“I’m sorry, honey. I didn’t know Mr. Goodwin that well. Tragedy has hit a lot of families.”

“But his son is only a baby and—”

“Do the best you can, dear. That’s what we’re all doing.”

The pain in my stomach worsened. There was no Mr. Goodwin, no Mrs. Goodwin, no Mom or Dad to help me. For now, it was only me and TK. He whimpered in the stroller next to me.

“Hey, buddy.”

He opened his eyes, looked at me, and started to wail.

“I know, I know. I’m not your momma.” My practical attitude cracked. Holding TK against my shoulder, I cried into his baby blanket. But I had to compose myself. “We’ll find your family soon. Are you hungry again?”

I fed him and shook a few rattles. Right as I convinced myself that babies were a nine out of ten on the boring scale, he started to throw up. Repeatedly.

After changing our clothes and cleaning the mess, I checked his forehead. He didn’t feel feverish. A night of endless worry stretched ahead of me. Would he become dangerously ill? Would I?

My stomach rumbled as if it were possessed. I strapped TK in his stroller so he’d be safe, then ran to the bathroom. He screamed but I had no choice. There was nowhere else to put him.

Please let it be the water making us sick. Not the flu. Anything but the flu.

It took forever until I moved again. Our stomachs finally settled and TK rubbed his eyes. I realized there was no place for him to sleep, unless I returned to his house. But Mrs. Goodwin was in the room with the crib. I couldn’t face the corpse ever again.

The corpse. I couldn’t let it stay there.

When the cop came to the door about Megs, he’d given me his contact info. I carried TK around the house searching for it, finally finding the number in Mom’s sweater pocket.

I wasn’t sure how to report a dead person. I dialed slowly, hoping for a machine.