Ghost Writer(27)

He gave my hand a squeeze. “It's given.”

Reluctantly, I retrieved my hand from his grasp so could I open the satchel and pulled out the bagged journal and re-sealed it.

“These are photographs and personal letters,” I said, tapping the satchel. “I have the permission of the families involved to scan the items for the purposes of the book and documentary, before they are returned to the survivors of the deceased. Can you make sure Dr. Leland gets them in the meantime?”

“Yes.”

I unzipped the front of my coverall. Tucked in my bra, in the valley between my breasts was my smartphone.

“All my notes are backed up here. I'm going to be unconscious soon. I need to know they'll be safe.”

I closed it, put it on top of the journal, and held them out.

He wrapped both of his hands around my hand, the journal, and the case. His clear grey eyes found mine and locked them in his gaze. “They'll be safe.”



I was put to bed with an IV drip with prophylactic antibiotics. A pleasant young woman with the insignia of a medic sat with me until I fell asleep, maybe longer. She introduced herself. Her name didn't register. If I dreamed that first stretch, I don't remember. When I woke, the woman was gone. Instead, a faint, ghostly figure stood looking down at me. I knew I wasn't asleep; I did wonder if I was crazy. Now I was no longer trapped, I wondered how much of what I experienced was real.

“Lieutenant Minton?”

The ghost nodded.

“You followed me?”

He gave a half nod, half shake and held up a ghostly copy of his journal. He tapped it meaningfully.

“You come with the book?”

He nodded.

“Am I going crazy?”

He grinned and shook his head.

“Well, that's a relief.”

“Ms. Kirby?”

The medic walked through Minton's shade and he disappeared.

“Do you need something?” she asked.

“Something to drink would be nice. That juice was good. It tasted like orange juice and felt like the elixir of life.”

She chuckled. “The Doc's special blend,” she said. “I'll go get some.”

After she left, I whispered, “Will Minton?”

Nothing.

Maybe I was crazy.

The next time I woke, Dr. Stern was standing over me, removing my IV.

“Good morning, Ms. Kirby. May I call you Jen?”

I nodded.

“Call me Doc, everyone does. Of course, some call me Grumpy behind my back.”

I smiled.

“That's better,” he said, smiling back. “How do you feel?”

“Achy and tired, but better than last night.”

“That's a good start. We need to make sure you don't succumb to pneumonia. The air quality down there wasn't as good as I hoped and you were chilled to the bone when you got to me.”

“You've given me antibiotics. So, the next thing is bed rest alternating with short walks to keep my lungs clear.”

“You know the protocol.”

“My mother had chronic pneumonia due to emphysema. I spent a lot of time with her, in and out of the hospital.”

“Smoker?”

“Yes.”

“You?”

“No.”

He heaved a sigh. “Good for you. Still, we'll be extra careful, won't we?”

I agreed and let myself be led around the room, though I felt as limp as a dishrag. It was a bit creepy. This is what I had done for my mother, walked her around gently, supporting her when she felt weak.

After my walk, I was allowed some food. Since I had slept through breakfast, I had lunch. A little while later, the captain stopped by for a visit.

“You look healthier. Doc said I should walk you. I pointed out that you were not the family dog. Still, I agreed to take you for a stroll if you feel up to it. I thought you might want to get some fresh air.”

I was wearing scrubs as pyjamas, not the ubiquitous hospital gown. All I needed were shoes and a jacket. Petty Officer Briseau, my Florence Nightingale, provided a pair of running shoes. The captain had anticipated the need for a coat and had brought a windbreaker with him.

This was no cruise ship. There was a big gun on the forward deck and a landing pad near the aft deck. Instead of sturdy rails with gates, like the émil Gagnan , there were cables rigged between posts and chains with hook and eye-like closures at egress points. It made me nervous to get so close to the side, but Captain Campbell seemed confident so I grabbed a post and looked outward.

From the frigate, the émil Gagnan seemed tiny. The Scranton looked a bit surreal, large straight on and yet so narrow like a cardboard cut-out of a submarine. The three vessels made a lopsided triangle around the station which was visible as a dark patch in the water.

I felt a presence on the opposite side of the captain. Faintly, I could see Minton's outline. Though the light of day made him seem more transparent, he also seemed more there than when he visited me earlier.

“You have the book with you,” I said, making an intuitive leap.

“Yes,” Campbell replied, surprised. “And your phone. I thought you might want them now that you were awake.”

He handed them over.

“Have you looked at this?” I asked, holding up Minton's journal.