The Line Between Here and Gone. Andrea Kane
of the above? She didn’t know. All she knew was that the vision incited a new dark energy inside her—one that was in addition to the eerie vibe she was already trying to make sense of.
Around dawn she sat up in bed, arranging herself in lotus position—her automatic pose for keeping her mind and her body open to whatever energy surrounded her. She loved the serenity of her East Village studio—her little oasis away from the Manhattan madness outside her window. Everything in her home was the antithesis of the congestion, wild pace and loud noise of the streets below. Her apartment was perfect—one spacious living room/bedroom, a galley kitchen and a bathroom. The large room was done in muted pastels, and consisted mostly of uncluttered space. Claire was a minimalist. It gave her room to breathe and to be. Even her furniture itself was open and airy, all natural wicker with pale aqua and sand-colored cushions. Ditto for her bedding. The walls were that same soft sand color, and they were adorned only by a few of her favorite landscape paintings.
She shut her eyes, letting the morning energy flow through her, hoping it would ease the tight knot in her stomach.
It didn’t. Too much wasn’t right. Something had definitely happened to Paul Everett. But it wasn’t death. It was something that conveyed mixed energies—positive and negative—to no energy at all. Maybe he’d barely escaped death? Maybe he’d briefly experienced it? No. Neither of those things felt right. Nor did they explain the perpetual binary energy surges she was experiencing. If Ryan hadn’t all but stated beyond the shadow of a doubt that the man standing on that street corner was Paul Everett, she’d wonder if perhaps he was in a coma, drifting in and out of consciousness.
But she wasn’t visualizing a hospital setting. Then again, she wasn’t visualizing anything at all. Damn, it was frustrating.
The shadowy figures unnerved her equally as much as the eerie flashes of Paul. Danger factored into this equation. She had to zero in on the how, the why, and, most importantly, the who.
Abruptly, another, more painful energy shot through her—and this energy was as clear as glass.
The baby. Oh, no, the baby.
Amanda was dozing beside Justin’s crib when his whining and restless shifting awakened her. She was on her feet in an instant, and she knew something was wrong the minute she touched him. He was hot. Very hot. And his breathing was raspier than it had been. His tiny chest made a rattling sound each time it rose and fell with a breath.
She raced for the door, nearly running down a nurse who was on her way in.
“Get Dr. Braeburn,” Amanda said frantically. “Justin’s worse. He’s burning up with fever. And his breathing is bad. Please. Get the doctor.”
Not two minutes later, Dr. Braeburn strode into the reverse isolation unit and straight over to Justin’s crib.
He examined him quickly, took his vitals and listened carefully to his chest. “It looks like we’re dealing with a new infection in addition to the others,” he told Amanda, gesturing for the nurse to come in.
“What kind of infection?” Amanda asked in a high, thin voice.
“That’s what we’re going to find out. It could be anything from bacterial sepsis or pneumonia to a fungal infection.” He turned to the nurse, issuing instructions. “I’ll need blood cultures drawn, as well as chest X-rays…” A pause. “Make that a chest CT. We’ll start broad spectrum antibiotics. If I don’t like what I see on the CT, I’ll want a bronchoscopy.” Seeing the terrified look in Amanda’s eyes, he explained. “A bronchoscopy sounds far worse than it is. It’s only a test to check Justin’s lungs. We’ll insert a flexible tube through his nose into his lungs and take some tissue and fluid samples. He won’t feel a thing. He’ll be asleep. We’ll do the procedure in the ICU. Once we know what we’re dealing with, we’ll know how to treat it.”
“You’re already adding more antibiotics. How else would you treat it? What is it you’re looking for?”
“I suspect that Justin has bacterial pneumonia on top of the parainfluenza pneumonia,” Dr. Braeburn replied as gently as he could. “In which case I’m going to put him on a pediatric ventilator to ease his breathing.”
“A ventilator?” All the color drained from Amanda’s face.
“Yes. But it’s likely to be temporary,” Dr. Braeburn hastened to add. “Once we get the infection under control, we might be able to remove the ventilator support.”
“Might.”
“Let’s take this one step at a time, Amanda. First, let’s run the tests, find out what we’re dealing with. Then we can proceed.”
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