March clears his throat and darts a look at me. “Perhaps we can check . . .”
We, in this particular case, means me, since March only just cleaned his hands, and I don’t miss the way his fingertips twitch at the prospect of picking up Frederick. So, I delicately extract the lifeless rodent from its shuttle and bring it closer to my ear, listening for a heartbeat while March wears his best poker face for the sake of his audience.
I glance up at him; his brow furrows in response as he reads the silent message in my eyes: there’s no pulse. I never knew Frederick, and I don’t particularly like gerbils, but the sight of his closed eyelids and the quiet sobs of the boys make my chest ache in response. I press my forefinger gently to the soft, tiny stomach. It’s still warm; Frederick can’t have died long ago.
“Let me try something,” I mumble, feeling the pressure of everyone’s gaze on me. Now I know exactly what it’s like to be a doctor in the ER with family members watching as you try to save your patient.
Frederick’s body is still lax as I pry open his mouth with infinite care, but it’s not easy doing that with only my right hand as the left one serves as Frederick’s ER stretcher; I could use a third hand to hold his head in position.
March leans closer. His throat bobs, before he says, “I’ll assist you.”
Leveling wide eyes at him, I whisper, “Are you sure?”
There’s the slightest twitch of his eyelid as he considers Frederick’s small body and replies, “Yes.”
He’ll never know what this single act of valor means to me. I’ve seen March readily engage in car chases, boat chases, gunfights, or even bloody, bare-knuckled brawls, but he’s never been braver in my eyes than right now, steeling his nerves with a slow intake of air as I transfer Frederick onto his upturned palm.
Once our patient is in place, I bend down and seal my puckered lips over his, mentally doing some quick math. The average weight of a gerbil is fifty to sixty grams, roughly the same as the hamster I owned for three weeks when I was eight until it escaped its cage and presumably went to forge its own destiny in the streets of Shanghai. I cried for days until my mom pretended she had seen him in Huangpu Park, where he had a burrow and a girlfriend now. Anyway, if we extrapolate Frederick’s biology from that of Don Salluste—that was my hamster’s name—we can estimate Frederick’s Total Lung Capacity (TLC) at two point five milliliters, to be compared to the average human TLC of . . . six liters.
What I’m saying is anything more than a breeze will blow up my patient’s ridiculously small pulmonary alveolae. Think of an elephant farting in the tiniest balloon in the world. I allow a tentative puff to filter through my lips, but dammit, he’s so small and fragile that I scarcely dare to exhale at all. I alternate with quick taps on his chest with trembling fingers—I read about that technique in a blog post about avian CPR. Five breaths, ten compressions. Come on, Frederick. Don’t give up so close to the finish line. You’re probably the first gerbil in history to escape the UAE!
March’s palm remains perfectly still through it all, but I can feel his breath on my cheek, just a little faster than it should be. He’s rooting for Frederick, too, I can tell. I’m about to give up and call the time of death when something tickles my cheek. Frederick’s leg just twitched. Two boyish squeals confirm that it’s not just my fertile imagination at work. He is risen from the dead! There’s more leg kicking against my lips as Frederick regains consciousness and attempts to fight me off. Fire up some epic music in the background: Raptor Jesus and Island Chaptal just performed a miracle!
Meanwhile, Frederick’s eyes remain half-closed, but he has unquestionably crossed the Styx back. My eyebrows pinch when I notice a tiny brown speck peeking under his tail. By the time I figure out what’s happening, it’s too late already: Frederick celebrates his return to life by excreting a single, squishy dropping.
In. March’s. Bare. Palm.
The kids giggle innocently because pet diarrhea is always funny when you’re six, even when you just brushed death. Their parents smile and shake their heads. None of them pays attention to the sudden rigidity in March’s posture or the way his throat works silently as he looks straight ahead, his eyes refusing to acknowledge the fecal matter in his hand. I wish I could laugh, too, but I know March isn’t okay. I can tell he’s already picturing the millions of bacteria transferring to his skin. He’s thinking they’ll slip through his pores and contaminate him no matter how many times he washes his hand. There’s no point in rationalizing, in trying to wrestle his sudden whirlpool of obsessive thoughts back under control. Only a thorough cleaning ritual will relieve him.
“Here,” I say quietly, reaching in my front pocket for a small foil packet. Since moving in with March, I’ve taken to always carrying mini sanitizing wet wipes with me, just like he does.
His jaw clenched so tight I can make out the contraction of his masseters under the skin, March holds out his hand for Mrs. Rotwang to pick up Frederick’s quivering body. She smiles down at the little rodent like a benevolent goddess, allowing her sons to caress it shyly. Meanwhile, March has taken my proffered wipe and carefully removed the dropping. He wraps it several times in the soiled wipe. Ignoring the Rotwangs’ curious side-eyes, he spins on his heels and heads straight to the Ekranoplan’s only lavatory with a muttered, “If you’ll excuse me.”
I follow him and lean against the wall outside, listening to the sound of water running behind the door, punctuated by telltale splashing. Once, twice, thrice. A bare minimum considering the severity of Frederick’s offense. Dammit, I feel so powerless when his OCD takes over and sends him into a tailspin like that. All I can do is sanitize my own hands and lips in solidarity with the remaining wipe: I know the chemical scent will comfort him.
When March comes out after several minutes, he’s regained his near-unflappable cool. There’s no discernible expression on his features as he motions for me to follow him into the small cabin adjacent to the lavatory. “Miss Chaptal. A word with you if you please.”
I don’t take offense at the douchebag CEO vibe he exudes in that precise moment. I know he likes to maintain that sort of artificial distance when we’re working. I trot after him into the Ekranoplan’s only proper sleeping quarters—a tin box with a single window and a narrow cot. Droplets of surf trail across the glass on the other side of the window while March turns to lock the door. At last, we’re alone, bathed in the dim glow of a single LED lamp on the ceiling.
March’s shoulders slump in a weary exhale. “Biscuit, I’m sorry, I . . .”
“It’s okay,” I console him. “I’d have freaked out too.”
“No. You’d have laughed.” There’s no reproach in his voice, rather quiet amusement. He knows me too well.
I huddle closer, needing his warmth. My eyes close when his arm reaches around my waist to bring me flush against him. “Don’t worry, I cleaned up too,” I tell him, before reaching on tiptoe to wrap my arms around his neck.
His head dips: he trusts me without question. March accepts me, gerbil germs and all. Our noses brush tenderly, and our lips part in feverish anticipation. Then it’s only the firm curve of his cupid’s bow, the sweet tang of mints—he must have munched through his entire tube to calm his nerves when his carefully timed schedule went off the rails earlier. Our mouths press together with deliciously wet noises; I’m desperate for one more taste, one more stroke of his tongue against mine.