Though all four seasons failed to exist in the South Pacific, the end of winter—the warmest season—always brought rains and changing wind currents. Though the island was usually safe from hurricanes, the Castaways did their best to preemptively check the hut walls and ceilings for leaks. Nothing was more annoying than waking in the night due to a constant dripping on one's face.
"How's the roof coming, Gilligan?" hollered the Skipper. He was currently standing on a ladder with a bucket of pitch.
"Almost done, Skipper, I—"
There was a loud creaking noise and the Skipper heard something hit the ground inside the hut.
"Little Buddy? Are you all right?" The Skipper took a step down, trying to peek through the hut window.
"I'm fine, Skipper! I'm still up here." Gilligan waved from the roof. "Mostly. I…I may have found a weak spot. My leg went through the ceiling."
The Skipper sighed. Had he expected anything less, asking Gilligan to climb on the roof?
"What on Earth is going on up there?" MaryAnn came out of the hut, frowning. "I can see Gilligan's shoe hanging above the dresser!"
"It's not just a shoe. My foot's inside it!" Gilligan hollered down to his wife.
MaryAnn crossed her hands over her stomach, looking concerned—and exhausted.
The young parents now had two months until Jonas' little brother or sister was born. Though no one was nearly as worried as before, MaryAnn had been sick on and off during the pregnancy. Of course, the Professor had assured her that nausea and other unpleasant symptoms were normal during the baby's growth, but knowing something was typical didn't necessarily make it easier.
That day happened to be another sick day. One look at MaryAnn's clammy face showed that she wasn't feeling well.
"Joe's not in the hut right now, is he?" asked the Skipper, feeling a spike of concern. Gilligan could've rained down debris on the baby!
"No, he's with the Howells for the afternoon. Mr. Howell is trying to teach him how to count."
"To a million?" Gilligan asked.
Knowing Mr. Howell, the Skipper wouldn't have been surprised. But he waved a hand at Gilligan dismissively. "Look, that doesn't matter right now. You need to pull your leg up and repair that whole section of ceiling."
"He can repair it later," MaryAnn suggested, trying to cover a yawn. "I was trying to take a nap. I'm just so very tired. I've never felt like this before."
"Well, perhaps you should visit the Professor?" said the Skipper, feeling concerned again. "Maybe he—"
"He'll just tell me to sleep it off," MaryAnn interrupted, sounding a little cross. She apparently realized her tone had changed, because she covered her mouth, looking guilty. "Oh, Skipper. I'm sorry. I don't mean to take my frustration out on you."
"No need to apologize, MaryAnn." The Skipper climbed off the ladder and walked over, squeezing her shoulder. "You just take a nice nap and we'll go check the other huts first."
She gave him a thankful smile, then ducked back inside the hut. Gilligan had evidently gotten his foot loose, because he came sliding down the ladder a moment later.
"I'm free, Skipper! You don't have to worry over me," said Gilligan, even as he tripped on his shoelaces and toppled into the Skipper's arms.
The sea captain sighed, helping his first mate stand up. "Gilligan, the day I don't worry over you… Well, that'll be the day."
Half an hour later, Gilligan and the Skipper had just finished inspecting the roof over the Professor and Ginger's hut. Gilligan was actually quite proud of himself. He'd managed to seal all the leaks without spilling the pitch anywhere. He'd even climbed off the ladder without missing a rung.
"Skipper, are we done now?" Gilligan asked, swatting away a mosquito. "It's getting close to dinner. And it's hot up on the roofs."
"Sure, Little Buddy, I—"
The Skipper was interrupted by a cry of distress from Mrs. Howell. "Professor! Oh, Professor, come quick!"
Fear snapped the Skipper to attention. Jonas had been with the Howells! If anything had happened to the little boy… The Skipper couldn't even finish the thought. Some days it felt as if Joe was his own child.
"What's wrong?" The Professor stuck his head out the window, then came around through the door. "Are you all right, Mrs. Howell?"
"Oh yes, I'm fine. But you see, Thurston and I were watching Jonas, and—"
"No, no, not Joe," gasped the Skipper, too distressed to even see straight.
Mrs. Howell waved a hand impatiently. "Oh, don't worry Captain. He only started fussing a little when Thurston showed him a ten dollar bill. Mind you, the little lad was fine with the hundred dollar bills—and even the thousand dollar bills! He's got his head in the right place. After all, Thurston and I never even touch ten dollar bills—"
"Mrs. Howell, is something actually wrong?" interrupted the Professor, frowning.
"Oh, well yes. You see, when Jonas became fussy, I thought he might be missing his mother and I went to see MaryAnn. She was sleeping in her hut, and she didn't wake up when I called her name, so I went in to check on her and well, she seemed rather feverish." Mrs. Howell put a finger to her mouth, looking worried. "The poor dear was practically burning up! And she kept moaning in her sleep like Thurston does when his stocks go down."
Gilligan frowned. "That's not like MaryAnn. I don't even think she has stocks."
"We'd better go check on her at once," said the Professor. "Skipper, will you go fetch some fresh water?"
"Of course." The man wrung his hands together, then hurried off. The others followed the Professor back to MaryAnn's hut. Sure enough, she was still in bed, feverish and unconscious.
"This is not good at all," mumbled the Professor, his frown increasing with each passing moment.
"You mean this isn't a normal part of having a baby?" asked Gilligan. He was crouched by the bed, also looking worried.
"No. MaryAnn's sick with something else entirely. And until we know what's causing this, don't touch her too much."
"Oh dear!" Mrs. Howell hovered in the doorway anxiously. "I touched her shoulder when I was trying to wake her. What if I've been exposed to some tropical disease?!"
"Then I suggest you drink lots and go to bed early," said the Professor. "Though if whatever MaryAnn is suffering from is spread by such simple means, then any one of us is susceptible to falling ill." He frowned. "We've all been around Jonas. And MaryAnn fixed dinner last night, didn't she?"
"She did," Gilligan confirmed. "You were there. We had fish stew and pineapples, remember?"
"Yes, Gilligan. I was asking a rhetorical question."
"Oh."
"My point is, if this is some sort of tropical disease, the fever can be very serious. And since we're not sure how MaryAnn was exposed—or how the contagion is transmitted—we need to be conscientious."
Mrs. Howell tapped Gilligan on the shoulder, then asked in a stage whisper, "Will you remind me what that last word means?"
Gilligan made a face. "I'm still trying to figure out 'rhetorical.'" He scratched his head, but then glanced at MaryAnn again, his expression sobering. He moved closer to her beside and she stirred a little, her left hand still resting on her pregnant belly.
"Can you find a cure for her, Professor?" Gilligan asked, his tone growing scared. "I volunteer to help in any way! Even if you need to sample my blood or something."
The Professor was also watching MaryAnn with a worried look. "Thank you, Gilligan. I'll go consult my book on tropical diseases now. In the meantime, place a wet washcloth on her forehead when the Skipper returns with the water. Then try to keep your distance as well."
"What about Jonas?" Mrs. Howell asked. "Thurston and I can't babysit all day!"
"I'll come get him in a few minutes," Gilligan said, solving the problem. The Professor nodded gratefully and hurried off. Mrs. Howell followed a moment later. Gilligan was the last out, his heart beating nervously as he glanced again at MaryAnn.
He loved her a lot; it was almost physically hard to see her so ill.
She needed to get better soon. Real soon.
At dinner that evening, the anxiety in the air was almost palpable. Not only that, but Jonas wouldn't stop fussing, and so there was a constant crying noise in the background. Gilligan was walking the boy back and forth, trying to console his son, but the continued sobs seemed to be a bad omen.
"Well, Professor. Did you find anything in your books?" asked the Skipper, while Ginger passed out bowls of leftover fish stew.
"I'm not sure," murmured the Professor. He picked at a piece of pineapple. "There are many different diseases that include exceptionally high fevers as a symptom. But the fact that MaryAnn's body has gone into a period of unconsciousness is the most concerning."
"Is there some sort of treatment?" the Skipper asked again.
The Professor's grim frown wasn't reassuring. "Right now, I still don't have any ideas, I—"
"WAAAAH!" Jonas' cries reached a new decibel and everyone turned to glance at Gilligan, who was still pacing with the boy in his arms.
"Hey Professor?" Gilligan called over the crying, sounding worried. "Jonas feels kinda warm. More than usual."
"Oh no," Ginger breathed, almost spilling a bowl of stew on Mr. Howell. While the Professor jumped up to check on Jonas, she leaned over the table and whispered, "I was in this movie once. It was about a small town that got struck with the black plague. The first people to fall sick were always the weakest villagers. You know, the pregnant women, the babies, and the elderly."
"What are you trying to say, Ginger?" Mr. Howell demanded. "Are you saying that if Jonas is sick, Lovey and I will be next in line?" The millionaire frowned. "I resent that. Elderly?! Ha. As if."
"Jonas feels feverish too," the Professor announced a moment later. "Everyone…this is spreading more quickly than I thought. Let's get another cool rag for Jonas' head. Gilligan?" The Professor glanced back at the first mate. "At this point you're already contaminated… Are you all right with holding Jonas tonight?"
Gilligan nodded, not hesitating a moment.
"Good. Try to keep him conscious as long as possible. I'm going to work on something that may reduce a common fever… I'm not sure if it'll help MaryAnn, but it's worth a shot." The Professor was already jogging toward his hut before he finished the sentence.
"Dear me…" Mrs. Howell fingered the pearls around her neck. "What was it the Professor said this afternoon? We should be drinking lots and going to sleep early?"
Mr. Howell finished his soup, then frowned. "If that's the case, goodnight everyone!"
"But Mr. Howell, it's hardly even six-thirty," said the Skipper.
"Well," Mr. Howell cleared his throat, setting a hand on his wife's shoulder. "We may be many many years away from 'elderly'…but a Howell doesn't like to take chances with these things."
With a wave, both the Howells hurried off, leaving Ginger and the Skipper with Gilligan.
Jonas squirmed in his father's arms, continuing to sob.
Around lunchtime the next day, Mr. Howell regrettably informed everyone that Mrs. Howell wasn't feeling well.
"This is horrible news. We may have to look into the senior discount at the athletics club after all."
"Is she feverish, like MaryAnn and Jonas?" Ginger asked.
"Yes, I believe so," said Mr. Howell. "I thought it was strange that she should be so warm on such a cold day." He tugged his suit jacket tighter around himself.
"Why, Mr. Howell…it's probably in the mid-eighties," the Skipper commented. "It's a hot day."
"Is that so?" mused Mr. Howell. "Good grief! Then maybe I'm sick too." He shook his head, muttering under his breath. "The nerve of such a disease…to attack not only one Howell, but two Howells, both in the same day…"
The Professor emerged from his hut, looking tired—and excited. "Everyone, I have good news. I believe I've been able to replicate a basic antihistamine. It certainly won't cure the disease, but it should bring down the fevers on MaryAnn and Jonas. If they regain consciousness, then we can get them to eat and drink something—which right now, is crucial to their survival!"
Mr. Howell raised a hand. "Professor? Can you double your medication batch? Lovey and myself are feeling a bit old today."
"I'll take MaryAnn and Jonas their medicine right now," Ginger volunteered, while the Professor frowned at Mr. Howell.
"Old as in…feverish?"
"Yes, yes. Please say no more of our infirmities!" Mr. Howell looked quite embarrassed. The Skipper patted him on the back.
"All right, well, I suggest you return to your hut, Mr. Howell. Keep drinking, then try to get some sleep. Either Ginger or myself will be by shortly with the antihistamines." The Professor continued frowning. "I only wish I could isolate the contagion… Allergy medications wouldn't cure tropical fevers indefinitely."
"Is there anything we can do, Professor?" the Skipper asked, twisting his fingers together.
"I'm afraid not. Just…try to conserve your energy. I'm sure we'll all be hit within a few days. You'll need your strength to fight whatever this is."
That…wasn't the reassuring news the Skipper had hoped to hear. He wrung his hands together a bit more, then got up and started clearing the table. Even just the simple chore made him perspire in the humid temperatures.
As much as he didn't want more trouble for anyone, he wondered if a rainy storm would make things more bearable. It would at least drive away the infernal mosquitos, thought the Skipper, swatting away the pesky bugs. Ever since the air currents had started changing, the mosquitoes had been worse than usual, and—
The Skipper froze mid-thought, then turned and ran toward the Professor's hut.
Perhaps they'd found the disease's source after all.
By late evening, it was only Ginger and the Skipper at the dinner table. The Professor was still healthy as well, but he'd been working nonstop, trying to find ways to make a cure using the hunch that the mosquitos were responsible for spreading the sickness. MaryAnn, Jonas, Mrs. Howell, Mr. Howell, and most recently Gilligan had all fallen prey to the raging fevers. The antihistamine had helped; MaryAnn had regained consciousness and drank an entire cup of water, but as the Professor had already predicted, the simple allergy medicine didn't take away the sickness entirely.
"So, who do you think will be next?" the Skipper asked the actress, his tone somewhat morbid. "You, me, or the Professor?"
Ginger rested her elbows on the table, frowning. "For all our sakes, I hope it's not the Professor. If he falls ill before he finds a cure, then it's just survival of the fittest. Like it was in my movie."
"And I suppose I'm not the fittest," the Skipper grudgingly admitted. "So let's hope it doesn't come to that."
"I guess we're just getting to see who has the best immune systems," said Ginger. "Or who gets bitten by mosquitoes the most." She rubbed at a small red welt on her arm, trying to stay calm. The entirety of their time on the island they'd been plagued by pesky insects. She'd lost count of how many times she'd been bitten by something. It seemed so silly—and unfair—that simple mosquitoes had the power to end their lives. "Maybe the human race is meant to disappear," Ginger told Skipper, her voice glum, albeit dramatic. "Maybe this is our punishment for working against fate."
"Maybe," mumbled the Skipper. He'd always been a bit superstitious. And in the South Pacific, fate was a real force.
Ginger sighed again, then began dishing up a second plate of food. "I'd better go feed my husband. And I was thinking Skipper, we should prepare some meals for the next few days. If we're all sick, no one's going to want to cook. We could make coconut flapjacks tonight; they won't go bad for a few days."
"Good idea" mumbled the Skipper. "Though I'm not the greatest chef," he chuckled a little, thinking of the last time he'd burned a pot of soup.
"Well neither am I, but if MaryAnn doesn't make it, we'll…" Ginger trailed off, her eyes welling with tears. "Oh, I can't bear to think about anyone dying!" She sniffed a few times, then grabbed the Professor's plate and practically ran off.
The Skipper gulped a little, not wanting to entertain such thoughts either. When they'd first heard news about the world's end, it'd been terrible. But it hadn't been the end of Skipper's world. Even the double-marriages hadn't been so bad. For the most part, everything was still normal and Jonas was one of the biggest joys in the Skipper's life. But if all his companions died… Even if half of them were lost…
Nothing would ever be the same.
When Ginger woke up the following morning, her head felt…strange. Her limbs were weak and she was just so cold.
Oh no, she thought briefly. She rolled over to tell the Professor the bad news, but the other side of their cot was empty.
Wrapping her blanket around herself, Ginger managed to get to her feet. Why was that one action so exhausting? Breathlessly, she made it across the room, where sure enough, her husband was still at his lab desk, working by candlelight.
"Any luck?" she asked, hating the way her teeth chattered.
The Professor glanced up at her; for the first time, Ginger noticed a few strands of gray in his brown hair.
"Not yet," he murmured, his voice tired. "I believe I've managed to separate the pathogen from the insect, but I've yet to start on some antidote to that pathogen. I think it—" he froze, staring up into his wife's face.
"Ginger, are you well?"
"Not very," she mumbled back, feeling colder and weaker by the second. She managed a tight smile, regardless. "But as I told Skipper last night, better me than you."
The Professor jumped up from his chair and helped guide her back to bed. "I'm so sorry, my dear. I'll find something soon. I promise."
And even though it was mosquitoes attacking—rather than cannibals or something more violent—Ginger closed her eyes, trusting her husband's words. She would be fine… The Professor would never let anything bad happen to her…
After dinner that evening, the Skipper paced in front of the Professor's lab desk. The Skipper was fairly sure it'd been the most unnerving day of his life. The island seemed still and eerie. Aside from him, nothing stirred. Even the birds seemed quieter than usual. And Mr. Howell wasn't even around to appreciate that fact…
"Please tell me you've found something," begged the Skipper, as he continued his pacing. "My head is starting to feel oddly fuzzy. I know it'll hit me during the night; I just know it."
The Professor had already wrapped himself in a blanket. He kept rubbing his eyes, which seemed to be having a hard time focusing. "Well, Skipper… this hasn't been tested at all." He tapped a small vial, which he was attaching to a syringe. "It could do nothing. Or it could make things worse."
"But what other choice do we have?" said the Skipper. "We're all sick now. You're practically on the verge of passing out!"
The Professor waved a hand, not seeming to care. "We've got to go check on MaryAnn. She's still the worst off. And if we lose her, we lose the new baby as well."
The Skipper nodded grimly and helped the Professor to his feet. The man made it to the doorway, then stopped, panting. "Skipper…"
"Why don't you go back to bed?" the Skipper suggested quickly. "I'll take the medicine and give it to MaryAnn."
The Professor nodded, then handed over the syringe. "And Skipper…if it works, the rest of the medicine is in the large coconut shell on my desk. Everyone will need it. If it doesn't seem to work…then don't bother. We'll just have to hope that natural selection doesn't…take us all."
Secretly, the Skipper thought it might be merciful if they all perished. To be the only one, all alone on the island… Why, just the thought was enough to make the Skipper want to head for the cliffs.
With the syringe in hand, the Skipper started toward MaryAnn and Gilligan's hut. Though he was expecting it, the Skipper was still shaken at the sight of his Little Buddy—and his Littlest Buddy—so still and clammy. It was hard to move past them and reach MaryAnn.
"I'm sorry," Skipper apologized to the unconscious woman. "This won't hurt too much. It'll help. Hopefully." With a gulp, he stuck the needle into MaryAnn's upper arm.
She didn't move at all. If she felt anything, she didn't show it. The only proof that she was even still alive was the weak rise and fall of her chest. The Skipper watched her for a moment, then turned away, his eyes filling with tears.
These people were his responsibility! He was their captain. And he needed to stay focused long enough to see whether there was an improvement in MaryAnn. But his head felt so dizzy…
A sudden burst of inspiration struck the Skipper and he glanced around the hut for something he could write on. There were MaryAnn's recipe notes! And a charcoal pencil.
The Skipper wrote a short message, then sat down on the floor next to Jonas' crib.
Hopefully MaryAnn would survive. Hopefully the Professor's antidote had worked. There were so many questions hinged on hope.
But the Skipper supposed that hope was better than nothing.
MaryAnn's whole world felt dark and miserable. Shapes and odd shadows of light were dancing through her brain, making her stomach churn. She couldn't even remember where she was.
Very slowly, MaryAnn sat up. Why was that so difficult? It felt like her stomach was swollen…
A faint burst of recollection shot through MaryAnn's memory and she did sit up, a hand resting on her stomach. She was expecting a baby! She was sick. But where was her other baby? Where was everyone?
The hut was dark, but MaryAnn didn't know if it was night, or if her vision was just affected. Again, very slowly, she managed to get to her feet and shuffle toward Jonas' crib. Her poor baby! He'd probably been missing her. Had she been sleeping the whole day?
Her foot bumped something on the ground. It felt soft and…human-like?
Trying not to scream in panic, MaryAnn opened a window and let some light into the hut. There was someone on the floor…and that someone was the Skipper!
"Oh dear…" she bent over the captain, her heart racing. Had something terrible happened? Why was he on the floor with a page of her recipe book on his chest?
MaryAnn scooped up the paper. It took a few moments for her scattered mind to interpret the writing, but she read it a few times and it finally made sense.
So everyone was sick. And the Professor had medicine in his hut—experimental medicine that had apparently worked on her.
MaryAnn managed to sneak a peek at Jonas, who looked far too still for a growing little boy, and then she hurried to the door, willing to brave any danger it took to bring the medicine back to her sweet baby.
And there was Gilligan too… MaryAnn caught a glimpse of her husband's pale face. He was near the door, slumped in a chair.
"Oh goodness," MaryAnn whispered. Perhaps she'd been sleeping longer than just a day.
Outside it was definitely night. The moonlight was faint in the cloudy sky above. MaryAnn took one step at a time, feeling just as weak as she'd felt after delivering Jonas. As Mr. Howell would probably say, that must have been one doozy of a fever.
The Howells! MaryAnn paused to wonder whether they'd been hit with the sickness too, but then figured they must have been. Why else had the Skipper left such a desperate note?
In the Professor and Ginger's hut, MaryAnn found Ginger in bed and the Professor collapsed on the floor. She awkwardly stepped around him, heading for the coconut shell the note had mentioned.
There! It was still on the desk, near a handful of empty vials.
MaryAnn blinked a few times, forcing her brain to keep working. She slowly began filling the vials, wondering how much medicine each person would need. If only she could ask the Professor… But no, he was still slumped on the floor, quiet and pale.
Using her best estimates, MaryAnn finished filling the vials. One step at a time, she started back toward her hut, praying desperately that the medicine worked on everyone else.
When Ginger opened her eyes, there was light streaming through the hut windows. Her head felt foggy and heavy. What in the world…?
She weakly sat up, wondering why her skin felt so prickly and painful. She'd come down with a fever, hadn't she? Was it over now?
Her upper left arm was stiff and sore—for reasons she couldn't understand—but Ginger managed to get to her feet, wrapping her blanket around her. As her eyes adjusted to the light, she caught sight of someone else in the hut, collapsed on the floor…
"Roy!" Ginger crouched down beside the Professor. She shook his shoulders a little, but he didn't stir. So apparently the fever had caught up to him as well.
Ginger exchanged her blanket for a dress, then hurried out into the clearing. To her relief, MaryAnn, Jonas, Gilligan, the Skipper, and Mr. Howell were all at the table.
"You're…you're okay!" Ginger practically threw herself into MaryAnn's arms, laughing. "How—?"
"The Professor found a way to make some sort of medicine," the Skipper replied.
"Yes, but the side effects are still murder," said Mr. Howell, holding his head in his hands. "I feel like someone used my head as a golf ball. Poor Lovey is so stiff and tired she could hardly get out of bed."
"I think those are the remnants of the sickness, not the medicine," the Skipper commented. He glanced at Ginger. "Where is the Professor?"
"He's still in the hut," she said, her concern returning. "He wasn't waking up. Did he get enough medicine?"
"I'm sure he did," said MaryAnn, frowning. "I gave Jonas medicine first, then Gilligan and the Skipper. Then I went over to the Howells, then after that, I gave the medicine to you two." MaryAnn blinked in worry at Ginger. "I suppose the Professor was last…hopefully he'll be up soon." She rubbed her forehead, looking exhausted.
"I'm sure he'll be fine," the Skipper tried to comfort Ginger. Then he turned to MaryAnn. "Just because the fever's over, doesn't mean we all haven't been through an ordeal. Why don't you go back to bed and get some rest."
"Yep. I'll put Jonas to bed in just a bit," said Gilligan, holding his son—who also looked sleepy.
"Let's go get some of that food we prepared," the Skipper suggested to Ginger. "Then if the Professor's not up by the time we finish eating, we'll check on him again."
Ginger nodded and everyone sat down to a quick snack of pineapple rings and flapjacks. By the time they finished though, Ginger was on her feet, hurrying back to her hut. The Skipper trailed behind her, also looking anxious.
"Roy. Roy, it's time to get up," Ginger whispered as she knelt by her husband again. He was just as unconscious as before. "Skipper? Help me move him to the bed, will you?"
The sea captain nodded and together they moved the sick man off of the floor. The Skipper wished for a moment that he had even half of the Professor's scientific knowledge; then he could give an explanation for what was wrong. Without knowing much about medicine or biology, the Skipper could only venture a guess.
"Maybe it's taking him longer to wake up because he was already tired. I mean, we were all well rested when the fever hit us, whereas the Professor had been working for forty-eight hours straight. It'll probably just take him longer to recover."
Ginger couldn't help but feel guilty. The Professor had promised that he would save her, hadn't he? What if he had pushed himself too hard, trying to find something…?
She swallowed tightly, tears filling her eyes. "I'll watch him for a while, Skipper," she told the other man. "Thanks."
"Right." The Skipper adjusted his hat, beginning to wonder anxiously how long the rest of them would survive without the Professor…if anything did happen to the man.
Once the Skipper had left, Ginger let her tears fall freely. She still had hope her husband would recover, but just the fear of not knowing…
She didn't want to think about spending the rest of her life on the island without him. He was the one who comforted her when she cried and chided her when she was being silly. He saw more in her than most people—especially most men. They had only ever wanted to know her in a carnal way, whereas the Professor… he actually knew her. As she was. And she loved him more than anyone.
Ginger almost smiled a little at that thought—to think that she, Ginger Grant, the glamorous movie star—had fallen for an ordinary non-romantic man. A schoolteacher at that! She swiped away her tears and reached for the Professor's hand.
"I doubt you can hear me, but I want you to know something," Ginger whispered. One tear managed to drip off the end of her nose. "Even if we can never have children…even if this whole marriage was pointless… I don't regret a day. So please get better, please—"
Ginger broke off, unable to say anything more. No tragic movie she'd ever been in could properly reflect her emotions. The love, the grief, the fear.
As the evening light began to fade, Ginger curled up beside her husband and whimpered into his shoulder until she fell asleep.
Fortunately for everyone, the dramatic night passed and the Professor regained consciousness the next morning. Ginger was exceptionally joyful, and Mrs. Howell was even able to get out of bed and attend the happy breakfast. By the following day, the Professor was out-and-about as well, and everyone celebrated his medicine—and their survival.
"This is probably the closest near-death experience we've had in years! A toast to the Professor—and to MaryAnn for following my instructions," said the Skipper.
"Hip-hip, hooray!" Gilligan raised Jonas' hands while the baby babbled happily.
"And a toast to our continued recovery," said the Professor. He still had a blanket around his shoulders, and there were lines under his eyes.
"Here, here," said Mrs. Howell, her voice a little weaker than usual.
The disease was indeed a strange one; the lingering fatigue wasn't something anyone could shake off overnight. Even a full three weeks after the ordeal, Gilligan—the most energetic of the group—still had to pause for rest after every walk to the lagoon. Jonas' naps were much longer than usual, and the Howells were frequently found sleeping in their beach chairs. The Professor assured everyone that such symptoms would fade in time, but unfortunately, with no prior studies on the specific disease, he couldn't predict how much time it would take.
Which was most unfortunate for MaryAnn. On a blustery Saturday afternoon, she went into labor two weeks early. By the second hour of contractions, she was on the verge of passing out—not from the pain, but from fatigue.
"This is not good," the Professor kept muttering under his breath. Ginger checked on MaryAnn and had even worse news to report.
"Roy…I'm not sure the baby's even in the right position. I think I'm starting to see a foot?" Ginger turned to her husband, her voice rising. "What does that mean?"
The Professor visibly paled. "If…if that's the case, then this is really not good." He stepped away from his medical books and gave Ginger a scared look. "If the baby's feet-first, the delivery will automatically be considered extreme-risk. Survival is still possible, but the mother will have to expend far more patience and energy."
In unison, the Professor and Ginger glanced at MaryAnn, who was in bed, sleeping for two minutes at a time between her contractions.
As with Jonas' birth, the rest of the Castaways were waiting outside, watching Gilligan pace. The Skipper had quit after thirty-two laps, but Gilligan was still going at fifty-three. However, his laps around the clearing were getting smaller and slower each time.
"Fifty-four…" Mr. Howell yawned from his beach chair. "Lovey, are you counting too? I feel I'm about to start my daily siesta."
"No darling. I've had my eyes closed for minutes! Counting today seems almost like work."
"Ooh, such a foul word!" Mr. Howell shuddered, then took a sip of his coconut milk. "I'm afraid, Gilligan, that I'm forced to agree with the wife. We simply can't count anymore. It's too much effort."
"Wawah!" Jonas babbled from between the Howells' beach chairs. The little boy was nearing toddler-age, and could walk and understand words just fine…but most days he still preferred to crawl in the sand, making baby gurgles and laughing to himself.
"See Gilligan, your son agrees with me," said Mr. Howell.
Gilligan was momentarily distracted. The Professor had just emerged from the hut, looking serious and grim. "Gilligan," he started, making the first mate's heart skip a beat. "May I speak with you inside for a minute?"
"Oh no," Gilligan blurted, his voice higher than usual. "Doctors tell people bad news inside. I'd prefer to stay out here."
"Very well," the Professor didn't have the energy to argue. "Gilligan…MaryAnn might not make it. That's the reality we're facing, and I need you to be prepared." The man ran a hand over his face while everyone in the clearing gasped. Mrs. Howell opened her eyes, then began whimpering softly.
"Of course we'll do all we can to save both her and the baby, but if it comes down to the moment of delivery and MaryAnn doesn't have the strength to make it through…then we'll have to surgically remove the baby, which could quite possibly send MaryAnn's weakened body into a fatal shock," explained the Professor.
Gilligan took a step back, his mouth opening in horror. "Skipper… fatal as in dead? That's what he's saying, right?"
The Skipper's chin trembled as he responded. "I'm afraid so, Little Buddy."
Gilligan tugged at his hat. "No, no, this can't be. Oh Professor, you can't let her die. Please save her! Please!"
The Professor sounded ten years older as he again assured Gilligan that he would do everything in his power to keep MaryAnn alive. Yet with some situations, such as the current medical emergency… even a better-skilled doctor could be faced with an impossibility.
Ginger rapped on the door from inside the hut. "Professor! Come Quickly."
The man excused himself and hurried back inside, leaving the clearing quite somber—except for Jonas' babblings in the background. The infant sounded quite happy, unaware of the horror descending on everyone else.
Inside the hut, the horror was even more tangible. Ginger tried to place a wet cloth on MaryAnn's forehead, but her hands trembled so much, she dropped the rag over the girl's nose.
"Don't suffocate her! She needs every breath," the Professor scolded. His hands were shaking too as he filled a syringe with some sort of sedative.
"What are you doing?" Ginger asked. She let MaryAnn squeeze her hand as the girl suffered through another contraction.
"I'm going to force MaryAnn to sleep for a while. Purposefully. That should give her body a chance to rest and prepare for delivery."
Ginger frowned. "Isn't that awfully dangerous? The contractions will slow down."
The Professor raised his eyebrows, almost proud that Ginger knew that fact. Had she been doing her own reading in his medical book? Perhaps that wasn't too surprising…after all, hadn't she once confided to him that she wished she'd been a nurse?
Whether Ginger had training or not, she was currently living out her dreams. The Professor started to smile at his wife, again feeling proud of her, but then blinked a few times, remembering MaryAnn was the one he needed to focus on. "Er, yes, dear. Probably. But at the moment, MaryAnn doesn't have enough strength to make it through. We'll have to hope that the sedative slows things down."
Ginger only nodded, blinking at MaryAnn. Poor girl. She didn't even have enough energy to whimper through the pain. Her eyes were glazed and her skin was developing a faint gray tint. She was clearly dying, right before their eyes.
The Professor stepped nearer and injected the sedative into MaryAnn's upper arm.
Her clock was running out too quickly. But perhaps if they could slow down the seconds, the tired girl could still win the race.
Several hours later, Gilligan sat on the table with Jonas in his arms. Even though everyone else took turns nodding on and off, they had refused to go to bed, wanting to be with Gilligan for…well…whatever came next.
"It's going to be fine, Joe," Gilligan whispered to his sleeping son. The little boy had black curls and big brown eyes. Gilligan couldn't wait for the day when Jonas would be old enough to run around the island, climbing trees and pretending to ride motorcycles. Of course, they would probably have to explain what a motorcycle even was… Gilligan frowned, thinking that they would have to explain a lot of things. Steak. Cows. Farms. Kansas. How did one explain Kansas without making it sound…boring? Gilligan scratched his head, figuring he would ask MaryAnn that later.
If she survived, of course.
With a gulp, Gilligan continued to rock Jonas until a loud cry split the air.
It was a baby's cry. And it wasn't coming from the infant in Gilligan's arms.
Everyone was on their feet in an instant. Gilligan passed Jonas to the Skipper, and he ran straight into the hut, all dignity aside.
"MaryAnn! Is MaryAnn—?"
Gilligan froze in the doorway. MaryAnn turned to look at him, smiling through sheer exhaustion.
"Congratulations, Gilligan," laughed Ginger. She was standing by the Professor, helping him clean up the squealing baby. "You now have a son…and a daughter."
"And MaryAnn's going to be fine," the Professor added. "After she rests—a lot."
A laugh escaped Gilligan's lips and he glanced again at his wife. "Wow…a baby girl…an actual girl!" Gilligan blinked and then—
As was becoming typical, he fainted.