She and Travis held each other.
After a few minutes, the vet stood up. He looked worried, and he did not make his usual effort to smile or try to lift their hopes. “I’ve given him additional anticonvulsants. I think… he’ll be all right now.”
“Has he gone into the second stage?” Travis asked. “Maybe not,” Keene said.
“Could he be having convulsions and still be in first stage?” “It’s possible,” Keene said.
“But not likely.”
“Not likely,” Keene said. “But… not impossible.” Second-stage distemper, Nora thought miserably.
She held Travis tighter than ever.
Second stage. Brain involvement. Encephalitis. Chorea. Brain damage. Brain damage.
Travis would not return to bed. He remained in the surgery with Nora and Einstein the rest of that night.
They turned on another light, brightening the room somewhat but not enough to bother Einstein, and they watched him closely for signs that the distemper had progressed to the second stage: the jerking and twitching and chewing movements of which Jim Keene had spoken.
Travis was unable to extract any hope from the fact that no such symptoms were exhibited. Even if Einstein was in the first stage of the disease and remained there, he appeared to be dying.
The next day, Friday, December 3, Jim Keene’s assistant was still too sick to come to work, so Nora and Travis helped out again.
By lunchtime, Einstein’s fever had not fallen. His eyes and nose continued to ooze a clear though yellowish fluid. His breathing was slightly less labored, but in her despair Nora wondered if the dog’s respiration only sounded easier because he was not making as great an effort to breathe and was, in fact, beginning to give up.
She could not eat even a bite of lunch. She washed and ironed both Travis’s clothes and her own, while they sat around in two of Jim Keene’s spare bathrobes, which were too big for them.
That afternoon, the office was busy again. Nora and Travis were kept in constant motion, and Nora was glad to be overworked.
At four-forty, a time that she would never forget for as long as she lived, just after they finished helping Jim deal with a difficult Irish setter, Einstein yipped twice from his bed in the corner. Nora and Travis turned, both gasping, both expecting the worst, for this was the first sound other than whimpers that Einstein had made since his arrival at the surgery. But the retriever had lifted his head-the first time he’d had the strength to lift it- and was blinking at them; he looked around curiously, as if to ask where on earth he was.
Jim knelt beside the dog and, while Travis and Nora crouched expectantly behind him, he thoroughly examined Einstein. “Look at his eyes. They’re slightly milky but not at all like they were, and they’ve stopped actively leaking.” With a damp cloth, he cleaned the crusted fur beneath Einstein’s eyes and wiped off his nose; the nostrils no longer bubbled with fresh excretions. With a rectal thermometer he took Einstein’s temperature and, reading it, said, “Falling. Down two full degrees.”
“Thank God,” Travis said.
And Nora discovered that her eyes were filling with tears again.
Jim said, “He’s not out of the woods yet. His heartbeat is more regular, less accelerated, though still not good. Nora, get one of those dishes over there and fill it with some water.”
Nora returned from the sink a moment later and put the dish down on the floor, at the vet’s side.
Jim pushed it close to Einstein. “What do you think, fella?”
Einstein raised his head off the mattress again and stared at the dish. His lolling tongue looked dry and was coated with a gummy substance. He whined and licked his chops.
“Maybe,” Travis said, “if we help him-”
“No,” Jim Keene said. “Let him consider it. He’ll know if he feels up to it. We don’t want to force water that’s going to make him vomit again. He’ll know by instinct if the time is right.”
With some groaning and wheezing, Einstein shifted on the foam mattress, rolling off his side, half onto his belly. He put his nose to the dish, sniffed the water, put his tongue to it tentatively, liked the first taste, had another, and drank a third of it before sighing and lying down again.
Stroking the retriever, Jim Keene said, “I’d be very surprised if he doesn’t recover, fully recover, in time.”
In time.
That phrase bothered Travis.
How much time would Einstein require for a full recovery? When The
Outsider finally arrived, they would all be better off if Einstein was healthy and if all of his senses were functioning sharply. The infrared alarms notwithstanding, Einstein was their primary early-warning system.
After the last patient left at five-thirty, Jim Keene slipped out for half an hour on a mysterious errand, and when he returned he had a bottle of champagne. “I’m not much of a drinking man, but certain occasions demand a nip or two.”
Nora had pledged to drink nothing during her pregnancy, but even the most solemn pledge could be stretched under these circumstances.
They got glasses and drank in the surgery, toasting Einstein, who watched them for a few minutes but, exhausted, soon fell asleep.
“But a natural sleep,” Jim noted. “Not induced with sedatives.”
Travis said, “How long will he need to recover?”
“To shake off distemper-a few more days, a week. I’d like to keep him here two more days, anyway. You could go home now, if you want, but you’re also welcome to stay. You’ve been quite a help.”
“We’ll stay,” Nora said at once.
“But after the distemper is beaten,” Travis said, “he’s going to be weak, isn’t he?”
“At first, very weak,” Jim said. “But gradually he’ll get most if not all of his old strength back. I’m sure now that he never went into second-stage distemper, in spite of the convulsions. So perhaps by the first of the year he’ll be his old self, and there should be no lasting infirmities, no palsied shaking or anything like that.”
The first of the year.
Travis hoped that would be soon enough.
Again, Nora and Travis split the night into two shifts. Travis took the first watch, and she relieved him in the surgery at three o’clock in the morning.
Fog had seethed into Carmel. It roiled at the windows, softly insistent.
Einstein was sleeping when Nora arrived, and she said, “Has he been awake much?”
“Yeah,” Travis said. “Now and then.”
“Have you… talked to him?”
“Yeah.”
“Well?”
Travis’s face was lined, haggard, and his expression was grave. “I’ve asked him questions that can be answered with a yes or no.”
“And?”
“He doesn’t answer them. He just blinks at me, or yawns, or he goes back to sleep.”
“He’s very tired yet,” she said, desperately hoping that was the explanation for the retriever’s uncommunicative behavior. “He doesn’t have the strength even for questions and answers.”
Pale and obviously depressed, Travis said, “Maybe. I don’t know… but I think… he seems… confused.”
“He hasn’t shaken the disease yet,” she said. “He’s still in the grip of it, beating the damn stuff, but still in its grip. He’s bound to be a little muddleheaded for a while yet.”
“Confused,” Travis repeated.
“It’ll pass.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, it’ll pass.”
But he sounded as if he believed that Einstein would never be the same again.
Nora knew what Travis must be thinking: it was the Cornell Curse again, which he professed not to believe in but which he still feared in his heart of hearts. Everyone he loved was doomed to suffer and die young. Everyone he cared about was torn from him.
That was all nonsense, of course, and Nora did not believe in it for a moment. But she knew how hard it was to shake off the past, to face only toward the future, and she sympathized with his inability to be optimistic just now. She also knew there was nothing she could do for him to haul him out of that pit of private anguish-nothing except kiss him, hold him for a moment, then send him off to bed to get some sleep.