But I really hoped that as long as he stayed away from that virus, he’d be okay.
Which was why I remained vigilant for any sign he was weakening in his resolve. I felt like a jealous wife, except instead of searching for lipstick smears on Matt’s collar, I was finding excuses to touch his hands when he came home. The latex gloves he wore at the lab were dusted with cornstarch, and they sometimes left residue behind.
I had also secretly enlisted a spy: Sheena Aiyagari, Matt’s postdoc. She and I had always been closer than Matt’s other postdocs, if only because she was more socially skilled than the rest—even if that was, admittedly, a low bar when it came to physics PhDs. At department gatherings, which were mostly a bunch of men talking about Higgs bosons, she had always gone out of her way to ask about Morgan or the latest at the library.
Otherwise, she was fairly typical of the breed of physics postdocs: smart, serious, and focused. She was of South Asian ancestry and had grown up in India, though she finished high school at an American boarding school. She had gone to Cornell as an undergrad, then Berkeley for her PhD. And now she was a postdoc, working as a teaching assistant for undergrad classes and doing research under Matt’s tutelage, sharing lab space with him.
Which meant she was around him a lot. And she had promised me that if she saw him working with his laser—or if she was aware of any other sign he was dipping back into his research—she would notify me immediately.
Otherwise, we were slipping along without incident.
Then came the first Tuesday of the month.
And another one of those phone calls from the Dartmouth College Department of Physics and Astronomy.
“Brigid,” Beppe began. “I’m so sorry, but—”
“Where is he now?”
“The ambulance just left.”
It was a few minutes before two.
“Did you find him in the lab again?” I asked.
I could already feel the anger building in me. If Matt had gone behind my back with the virus, I was going to be truly and righteously pissed.
“I’m not sure,” Beppe said. “All I saw was the EMTs carrying him down the stairs. There was a group of us gathered at the landing and I asked, ‘Has anyone called Brigid?’ No one had, so—”
“I appreciate it. Thank you, Beppe.”
“I’m sorry,” he said again. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”
I assured him I would, then started grimly going through a routine I now felt like I could do by rote. I texted Aimee. I told my boss what had happened. I drove to Dartmouth-Hitchcock.
When I reached the information desk, it was staffed by the same gray-faced woman as last time.
“I’m Brigid Bronik, here to see my husband, Matthew Bronik,” I said, digging out my ID and handing it to her before she could ask.
She accepted it and started typing.
And frowning.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “We don’t have a record of a Matthew Bronik being admitted today.”
I stood there, stumped. “Well, is he . . . I mean, if he came here in an ambulance, he’d be taken to the ER, right?”
“All I can tell you is we don’t have a record of a Matthew Bronik being admitted today,” she repeated robotically.
“But how—”
“Maybe he hasn’t been admitted yet. You can have a seat if you like,” the woman said. “Next, please.”
“But he has to be—”
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” the woman said firmly, “I don’t have any information. Have a seat, please. Next.”
Her eyes had moved to the person in line, a man who had already advanced to the desk.
I walked away, muttering an insincere “Thank you,” managing to muzzle the more choice words I may have preferred.
But, really, I didn’t need some icy health care bureaucrat to tell me where my husband was. It was either the ER or the ICU.
Start with the ER. I followed a series of signs until I arrived. The woman staffing the desk there was younger, friendlier.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“Yes, I’m looking for my husband, Matthew Bronik. He was just brought here in an ambulance.”
I held out my license.
She accepted it. But then the same scene repeated itself: typing, followed by frowning.
And no Matthew Bronik.
“Are you sure they brought him here?” the woman asked.
“Well, no, but . . . where else would they take him?”
“It’s possible they went to Alice Peck Day. We’ve been very busy this afternoon. Every now and then the EMTs decide a patient will be seen faster over there.”
I tamped down the brief spurt of panic that accompanied this news. Alice Peck Day was a small community hospital in nearby Lebanon that had been swallowed up years earlier by the ever-expanding Dartmouth-Hitchcock medical colossus. They didn’t have nearly the facilities that Dartmouth-Hitchcock did.
But they would still have the ability to check his medical alert bracelet and then could administer the drugs and fluids he needed to get his blood pressure up, right?
“Aren’t they affiliated with you?” I asked. “Wouldn’t he still show up in your system if he was there?”
“Sometimes they’re a little slower to get people entered,” the woman said apologetically. “Hang on.”
She picked up her phone, dialed. A short exchange ensued, during which it was firmly established that, no, Alice Peck Day didn’t have Matthew Bronik either; and no one matching Matt’s description had been brought in.
I thanked the woman for her time, then immediately began the trek toward the ICU.
Maybe the EMTs had taken him straight there. On account of the bracelet. He just hadn’t been entered into the computer yet because in the ICU they had more pressing things to worry about than paperwork.
But when I arrived, a woman in scrubs told me they had no patients named Matthew Bronik.
Without bothering to do my incredulous double-checking, I just thanked her and went straight to what was always our end destination: Neurology.
I hadn’t bothered to remove my winter jacket, which was filled with down and quite toasty, so I was sweating by that point. I didn’t have a tie to pull back my hair, which was probably going in eight different directions. I’m sure I looked a little deranged. I’m also sure I didn’t care.
The first person I saw in Neurology was Yvonne, the nurse I had befriended on my previous visits. I could tell she recognized me.
When I stopped in the hallway, she stopped too.
“Hi,” I said. “I know this sounds ridiculous, but Dartmouth-Hitchcock seems to have lost my husband. Is he here by any chance?”
She said something in reply, but her head was turned, so I couldn’t hear it. I repositioned myself so I could see her mouth.
“I’m sorry, what did you say?” I asked, feeling stupid.
“I haven’t seen Dr. Bronik,” she said loudly and slowly.
“Would you mind checking the computer for me?”
Maybe someone, somewhere, had finally thought to log him in.
Yvonne went behind a desk.
And no.
Still no Matthew Bronik.
“Maybe check with Dr. Reiner?” Yvonne suggested.
I thanked her for the idea, then found a quiet spot in the corner of the Neurology waiting area. I hated having to make important phone calls on my cell phone. It had the same kind of captioning as my landlines, but I couldn’t read and listen at the same time. I had to stare at the screen, wait until I was sure the person was done talking, then respond. It made it like I was on satellite delay.