Seven Days of Us(75)

“What, what happened?”

“She passed out, she’s unconscious. Just call 911. We need help.”

Andrew couldn’t seem to move. He stood, staring at Olivia’s upturned back. Her top had fallen forward, so that a strip of creamy skin showed above her pajama bottoms, and her limbs were splayed out like a discarded rag doll. How had the drawing room become an episode of Casualty?

He heard Emma’s sharp breath behind him.

“Emma, call an ambulance now,” said Jesse, looking past Andrew. “Tell them she passed out, breathing, weak pulse.” He was moving Olivia into the recovery position with professional efficiency. Andrew just stood watching as Emma yanked the phone toward her and said: “Ambulance, please . . . Weyfield Hall, NR25 7FB. My daughter’s fainted, I mean, she’s unconscious . . . Yes, she’s breathing. And she has a pulse but it’s—it’s weak.” Her voice constricted. “No, but she’s been in Liberia treating Haag . . . She’s been back seven days. Today’s the last day of her quarantine . . . No, no other symptoms, I think . . . OK. Please hurry.”

“It’s coming,” she said, as she knelt near Olivia. “What happened?”

“I came in and she just literally passed out right in front of me,” said Jesse. “I don’t know if she was, like, sick or what. I walked in, she collapsed.”

Phoebe came in next and screamed, as Olivia began coughing and spluttering on the floor. “Oh shit, she’s throwing up,” said Jesse, levering Olivia up into a sitting position. It was horrible to watch. Her head lolled to one side, as clear fluid gushed down her chin and over Jesse’s hands, which were clasped round her waist. He didn’t move. “Hey, Olivia, you’re OK. You’re all right,” he kept saying. Her head tipped back against his chest, and there was a gargling noise as she seemed to vomit again and began gagging and choking. Jesse laid her down on her side, swiping round the inside of her mouth with his finger and repositioning her head. Her eyes batted open briefly, rolling back in their sockets so that only the whites showed. Andrew felt dizzy. Emergencies were always false alarms, weren’t they? Surely, surely he was not to be the father who outlived their child? He watched Jesse continue to help Olivia, moving her hair out of her face and saying over and over again: “You’re gonna be just fine. The ambulance is on its way. You’re gonna be OK now,” as he held her hand, while Phoebe stood over them, whimpering. “Andrew, go flag them down,” said Jesse, and Andrew jogged down the drive, grateful to be given a task. He was useless, he thought, looking left and right even though the ambulance could only come from the left. Manifestly useless. What would they have done without Jesse—helping Olivia without a thought for the deadly virus she appeared to have?





Emma


THE DRIVE, WEYFIELD HALL, 9:55 A.M.

? ? ?

Emma hadn’t seen inside an ambulance since Olivia’s birth. Her labor had started a week early, while Andrew had been on an assignment in Israel that she’d begged him to refuse. Now, thirty-two years on, she watched as her daughter was swallowed into another ambulance—its neon sides too garish against Weyfield’s muted palette. It seemed impossible that Olivia was lying on a stretcher with an oxygen mask over her face. Emma had spoken to her on the stairs, just an hour ago. Please let it not be Haag, please, she begged silently. She was too terrified to attempt her usual expect-the-worst bargain with fate. Why, oh why, had this had to happen here, when in Camden they were so near the Royal Free—the country’s designated Haag hospital? “Y’all right?” said one of the sweet paramedics. She nodded at him, dazed. She was still in her dressing gown and a pair of too-large wellies. She must look completely bonkers.

Olivia had come round just as Andrew had gone outside, but appeared confused, fainting again when Jesse tried to get her to sit up. Moments later, the ambulance crew had entered the drawing room in ominous white suits and heavy-duty gloves. “Just a precaution,” one of them said, seeing Phoebe’s face. “Case we got any nicks or grazes on our hands.” That was when Emma had first seen Jesse look nervous, gently lowering Olivia’s hand to the floor. He’d been heroic, explaining everything to the paramedics, while Andrew stood back and Phoebe and Emma clung to each other. Then had come a second shock, when Phoebe said: “She was seeing Sean Coughlan, the Irish doctor. I mean, they were in a relationship—she might have caught it from him.” Emma couldn’t believe she hadn’t guessed. It was obvious, looking back. She was also rather stunned that Phoebe knew—she thought her daughters didn’t talk that way. What on earth had Olivia been thinking? she wondered. It wasn’t like her to be so reckless. Or was it? Emma had told the ambulance men that Olivia had shown no symptoms until today, prompting Phoebe to say that Olivia had been feeling sick for days. Now, watching the paramedics flit round her daughter, Emma thought how often Olivia had refused food and stayed up in her room. Had these been signs that she was sickening—signs Emma had missed? She had been concentrating on Phoebe as usual. Poor Olivia hadn’t wanted to worry them. The thought made Emma ache with guilt. She stared at her daughter’s chalky face, and tried to get a grip.

“She’ll be fine, Emma,” said Jesse. “They’ll get her into ER. Everything will be OK.”

“Gosh, Jesse,” she said. “Thank goodness you’re here. What would we have done?”