MAGGIE'S STORY

CHAPTER 18 PART II

OLGA RULES

Piling into Wilson's car, we drove to the hospital. The whole time we were in the car Greg was bouncing differentials off of Jim, completely ignoring the fact that I was a doctor and had extensive knowledge of zoonotic and infectious diseases. I stopped listening to the content and concentrated on the tenor of his voice. He was engaged, almost manic, truly delighted to have something to think about other than his leg. When we arrived, he ordered blood, xrays and an MRI.

I waited in Greg's office while several people stopped in to see how he was, also asking about Stacy. Each time I felt horrible for him. But, he always had a quip, "She had an AA meeting," "her hemorrhoids were inflamed," "she went out to find someone else to mangle."

I wanted to take his mind off of their inquiries, "What do you think I have?"

Without missing a beat, "Brucellosis."

I jumped out of my seat, "What?"

"You're sick, not deaf, you heard me. It fits. You have a headache, fatigue, fever, myalgia and you just got back from Africa." He paused, "And what the hell were you doing in Africa? You were supposed to be chasing Ebola vaccines in Maryland."

"I found out I like field work better."

"Anthrax in Africa?"

"You never know." My cell phone rang. I grabbed it out of my purse and looked at the caller ID. It was Atlanta. "Hello?"

"Dr. Malone, this is Jeff Koplan."

I sat up, wondering what the head of the CDC was doing calling me, "Yes, sir?"

"Hello, Dr. Malone. Sorry to bother you while you're on vacation, but you've probably heard about the Anthrax case in Florida?"

I nodded to myself as I answered, "Yes, sir. The Sun 63 year old photo-director, uh… why sir? Sporadic cases do occur in the states?"

"Yes, the Florida State Department of Health and CDC confirmed. We thought it was an isolated case; it may still be. However, we've just received a skin biopsy from Erin O'Conner, an NBC Nightly News employee. She's 38 and the mother of a toddler, wife of an NYPD police officer. She's the assistant to Tom Brokaw. On September 25th she opened a letter postmarked from Trenton containing a brown granular substance. The letter was addressed with crude handwritten block letters, with no return address. On the 28th she ran a low-grade fever and developed a rash on her collarbone. Luckily her doctor suspected Anthrax right away and prescribed CIPRO. I understand you're in Princeton?"

"Yes, sir."

"The postmark on the envelope was from Trenton, New Jersey. We believe the letter was probably mailed from Princeton."

I felt chills go down my spine. "Anthrax? Are they sure?"

"I'm afraid so. We're sending a team to Princeton to investigate."

"Investigate?"

"Well, we need to know where it came from and what strain it is. It's likely to be a lab strain, so we need to figure out what lab it came from. We need an epidemiologist to lead the investigation and you're it. You're the only one with real Anthrax experience."

"We're setting up at the New Jersey Department of Health and Senior Services in Trenton. So for now, you're going to be assigned to Princeton and the Trenton area. There's no need to tell you, but this is going to be a political nightmare if we don't get it right."

"Yes, Sir." Maggie looked at the calendar; it was October 10th, 2001.

"The team will be there at 10:00 am, at the Health Department. I appreciate the fact that you're cutting your vacation short. Goodbye Dr. Malone."

"Yes, sir. Goodbye." I hung up and looked at Greg.

"You look like death warmed over. What was that about?"

"Anthrax. There's been a letter delivered to Tom Brokaw's office with Anthrax. His assistant opened it and now she has cutaneous anthrax."

Greg gave me a sly smile. "Bitchen. And you just happen to be the CDC queen of Anthrax." He thought a second, "Mags, if you have Brucellosis, you're going to be very susceptible to Anthrax. You need antibiotics and rest."

"It doesn't look like I have the luxury of rest."

He turned to his computer and typed. He shrugged his shoulders, "Let's go get you some Doxycycline and Rifampin for your relapse. Then we need to get you home and to bed."

"I can't stay with you! You could get sick from me."

"Brucellosis doesn't usually pass from human to human, you know that. Not unless you're going to breast feed me or have sex with me, both of which I could be up for…"

I let his ramblings go over my head, "Greg! Are you sure? Now that the CDC is paying for it, I could move out."

"Do what you want, but not because of me. If you want to stay with me, that's okay."

I started laughing, "I think that's as close as you're going to come to telling me you want me to stay. I guess I'll stay with you."

"Fine, but remember, fish and company begin to stink after a few days."

"Am I stinking?"

"Not yet."

"I need to call my boss, let them know my condition."

Greg nodded, "Good idea."

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I was told that, until I recovered, to work part time in the field and the rest of the time I could monitor the investigation from the apartment. I spent a lot of time in meetings, on conference calls, instant messenger and email. In the meantime, Greg actually started to do things for me while I was working.

I would be at the computer and he'd slap me upside the head, "Take your nap. I'll scrounge up dinner."

Of course, it was usually take out, but it was an effort on his part and money out of his pocket. He also examined me every day and on the tenth day ran blood tests. I had apparently done well on the drugs and was no longer contagious.

Greg informed the hospital that he would be returning to work November 1st. In the meantime, he helped me organize and conduct a massive investigation from home. It only got worse; we discovered that the postal workers in Hamilton, New Jersey at the U.S. Postal Service Trenton Mail Processing and Distribution Center had been exposed to Anthrax because several letters containing it had been processed through the center. The September 18th envelopes sent to the New York Post and Tom Brokaw were mailed in or around Trenton, New Jersey, processed at the Hamilton, New Jersey, facility, and transported to the U.S. Postal Service Brentwood Mail Processing and Distribution Center in Washington. Within two days, two postal workers came down with cutaneous Anthrax. It was found that one of the postal workers did not have any contact with the contaminated postal centers nor did he have direct contact with any of the envelopes containing the Anthrax. We determined that his contact must have been through cross-contaminated mail. It was one of my jobs to find out where the letters had been posted. Over the next few months, we back tracked the mail to the inside of a mailbag that had been used by one of the mail carriers who worked the Princeton route. We later discovered spores inside a mailbox on Nassau in Princeton, near Princeton University. I shuddered to think that the person who mailed the envelopes had been walking the streets of Princeton at the same time I was.

I did go to several sites and look around briefly, just to get an understanding of the physical layout. We went into the post office in Hamilton, which had now been shut down and about to be "remediated." We heard that it would take an estimated 50 million dollars to shut the processing center down and sanitize it. It actually cost 65 million in the end.

At first I stayed in the apartment, living and sleeping with Greg. We were roommates--familiar roommates that knew each other a little too well. I could tell he was beginning to make the slow climb out of his depression when he started fighting with me about the Catholic Church. We fought on a daily basis about something. But, nothing got under my skin except when he continually called me a second rate doctor.

He sat, legs up on the new coffee table, dressed in his blue jeans and green silk-screen printed shirt. He had started wearing a beard that, looked good full, but looked better when it was closely cropped. I had to admit that he still looked handsome, if not a little more wrinkled, to be expected at the age of forty-two. "If you were a real doctor, you'd be out there practicing medicine, not running around asking people when they first got a cold sore and if they would like a vaccination for genital warts."

I wagged a finger at him, "In Africa I treated more diseases than you'll ever see. So, get off my case. I do exactly what you do, I solve puzzles. Where did the disease come from? It's a puzzle and I solve medical puzzles, just like you!"

"Ha! You could never do what I do. You need a brain to do that." He was still sitting on his leather sofa, holding a glass of whiskey while I was sitting in the easy chair.

"Maybe not, but I do what I can." I yelled back. He had managed to do what he set out to do, get me flustered. I hadn't cried at all since I had been with him, but his attack on my professional abilities was too much. To know that he thought I was a second rate doctor hurt deeply. I let a single tear roll down my cheek and then I sucked it up. But he had seen it.

His face screwed up and his eyebrows knitted, "Mags, Damn it, you're fucking brilliant at what you do, even if it isn't real medicine. I know, I read everything you write. I follow your career like a groupie. I knew you were back in Africa after that article on Dengue Fever you wrote. I just wanted to rile you. You shouldn't listen to me."

I nodded, but still couldn't say anything yet. I finally managed to get out, "Greg, I know I'm your punching bag, but sometimes you hit below the belt. I can take a lot, but sometimes it would be nice if you'd let me know you at least like me."

He sneered, "You're an adult; I shouldn't have to coddle you or pat you on the head and tell you what a wonderful human you are. Get a grip Maggie."

"No, but after a month with you, I know why Stacy left." As soon as it left my mouth, I knew I shouldn't have said it. His face fell and he took a long drink of whiskey. "Greg, I didn't mean that either. I know you're in pain. I know you miss her and I'm a poor substitute. I wish I could bring her back to you.

He said nothing to me. We had both managed to draw blood.

As soon as I had recovered from the Brucellosis, I picked up a government-issued car and made numerous trips to the various sites to assist in the tracing the path of the Anthrax. We found most cases of anthrax to be epidemiologically linked to sites contaminated by implicated envelopes; however, not all cases had direct exposures to targeted worksites, implicated envelopes, or mail-processing facilities along the mail path. We were starting to get frustrated.

Greg had gone back to work in November, resulting in a tired and even crankier Greg, but at least a Greg with a purpose. He was drinking a little too much, but I was so busy, I didn't really monitor how bad it was. Jim called me and told me that House was still miserable and talked daily about Stacy. I didn't realize how much he missed her, because he never talked about her around me. I decided that I needed to monitor his alcohol and see how bad his drinking had become.

The day before Thanksgiving I left Trenton early to get to the grocery store. We had been invited to Dr. Cuddy's as well as to Jack and Theresa's for Thanksgiving, but Greg said no and I didn't argue. I went to the grocery store and purchased the makings for Thanksgiving dinner. When I got home, Greg wasn't there. I tried his cell phone, but no response. Around 10 pm, still feeling the effects of two major infections in one year, I went to bed.

Around 1:00 am, I woke up briefly as I heard the door close. I went straight back to sleep, comforted that he was home safely. I woke up an hour later with a hand going up my pajama top, grabbing my breast. I came out of my sleep flailing my arms in all directions, only to have Greg grab them and pin them back.

"Maggie, it's me, it's me!" His voice was slurred.

"Greg? What are you doing?" I could smell his Talisker breath.

"Shhhh. Just enjoy it."

"Enjoy what?" I barked. I could make out his eyes from the light from the night light in the bathroom. They were glazed from alcohol.

But he said nothing back. He lifted my top while still holding my hands over my head. His lips found my nipple and he started sucking. Lifting his head he told me, "They're still gorgeous you know." He went back to licking and sucking.

I tried to stay calm, but the smell of his hair, the touch of his mouth on my breast and the feel of his chest on me was hard to take. There wasn't a bone in my body that didn't ache for what he was doing, but I knew that this was a huge mistake, "Greg, put the nipple down and let my hands go. You don't want this. You don't want me. It's Stacy you love, not me. This isn't what you want."

Greg lifted up and smiled at me. His lips were about to make contact with mine when I turned my head away. He made contact with my ear.

"Maggie, we don't have to be in love to make love. We're adults, it's just sex."

"It may be sex for you, but not for me. Now get over to your side."

He bolted up, "Jesus Christ, I'm forty-two years old, not ninety. Do you know how hard it is to sleep next to a woman and not f#ck her? Especially one that you know is good in bed? Maggie, if you're not going to screw me, I can't do this anymore."

I sat up in bed, truly shocked at his outburst, "I didn't know." I took a deep breath, looking down at the ground as I swung my legs out of bed, "I'm sorry. I just thought … well, it seemed like you were treating me like a –" I chuckled, "I was going to say, sister, but then I doubt you'd be sleeping with your sister. I don't know; it didn't seem like you were having any trouble."

He turned, his eyes narrowed, his mouth clenched, "Stacy left me, she didn't take my balls with her. I'm not a eunuch."

The venom was potent. I nodded, "Sure, I get it now." Swallowing hard, I just kept nodding my head like a bobble head doll, "I really am sorry. I never wanted to cause you any further pain. I guess this is where I start to stink." I climbed out of bed, turned on the light and grabbed my bag.

He sighed with frustration and shook his head, "You don't have to go tonight."

I continued to pack, "I think it's best that I leave."

He pulled the bag away from me, "Maggie, don't leave tonight. I'd feel like crap kicking you out the night before Thanksgiving. Stay. You can sleep on the couch."

I started laughing at the idea that I'd be banished to the couch. He realized how absurd it was. He began to laugh too.

"Seriously, just stay where you are; go back to bed. I'll get through the night. Okay?"

I reluctantly put my bag on the chair and climbed back in bed.

He looked at me, gave me half a smile, "I don't say it very often, but Maggie, you're one of a kind. I wish that things had worked out differently."

"Yeah, I know. We keep having this conversation. But, you need to concentrate on getting your life back together. I think I'm just a distraction now. It's time that I go. I'll find an apartment in Trenton, nearer to the center."

We had a pleasant Thanksgiving, avoiding anything that was remotely connected to relationships, sex or us. I didn't realize it then, but that would be the last time I would see him, touch him, talk to him, laugh with him, for years. I moved out the next day into the Embassy Suites in Trenton.

I was so lonely. I had forgotten how much I enjoyed sharing a daily routine with a man. Over the last two months, Greg and I would talk to each other once a day on the phone to figure out dinner. I always got into the shower first; he took his as soon as I was out, frequently while I was at the mirror putting on my makeup. We'd discussed the oddest things while he soaped up and rinsed. I admit I occasionally looked at his package, fond memories flooding my body. He didn't try to cover up, but I did. He only managed to see my breasts once (before the night he tried to have sex with me.) I was dressing in the bedroom when he opened the door from the bathroom to the bedroom, took a good look and smiled. I slammed the door closed. We had all those mundane moments when you watch television together, eat dinner, floss before you go to sleep and roll someone over when they snore. I wanted it back, I wanted him back. But it was a fantasy, he wasn't really mine, I had just managed to steal back a little of what we once had. Now it was gone. I was on my own…again.

Even though I was only a few minutes away, Greg didn't attempt to call or email me. I might as well have been in Africa. I went up to Philly quite a bit and Jim came down and had dinner with me a few times. He also called at least twice a week. Around Christmas he gave me good news, Greg had graduated to a cane, but he was still miserable without Stacy.

"Maggie? What are you going to do for Christmas?" Jim asked.

"I'm going home to Philadelphia, spend a few days with my family."

"That's good."

"What about Greg?"

Wilson sighed, "I'll spend it with him; I usually do. Don't worry. "

I hated asking him, but I couldn't resist, "Does he know you see me?"

"Yes, I give him a report each time."

"Does he ask for it, or do you volunteer."

There was a pause; I knew the silence meant that Greg didn't ask. "Maggie, he'd never let himself ask, no matter how much he wanted to know. But, he listens when I tell him about you."

"It's okay. It's better than he doesn't ask about me. I need to let go Jim. He's my past and I desperately need a future."

"Would you prefer that I not contact you?"

I gasped, "Oh no! Jim, I really enjoy your company and it doesn't mean that I don't want to hear news about him. I just want to put a little distance between him and me. Once we're done with the Anthrax investigation, I plan on going back to Africa or maybe South America. If I'm in the USA, it's just too hard."

"That's pretty drastic, can't you find something in California or Atlanta?"

"I could, but it would mean that I'd only be a few hours away from him. I know it sounds stupid, but when I'm in Africa, I feel alive, independent, I don't miss the fact that there isn't someone for me to come home to."

Jim paused and then he spoke with a soft, very sympathetic voice, "I hope you find someone. You deserve it."

I chuckled, "Thanks, Jim. I've got to go. Bye."

"Bye."