Hope: A Tragedy Read Free Page A

cold December night, there being no other symptoms besides a slight cough, Jonah’s temperature suddenly spiked. As it was not uncommon for Jonah to be ill, or for his temperature to spike, Kugel and Bree didn’t take too much notice, but over the next two days, Jonah’s lungs quietly filled with fluid, he lost weight, and finally, after being rushed through the night to the nearest hospital, he was placed in an isolation unit for almost three weeks.
    Do you see now? Kugel had said to Bree.
    Do
I
see?
    Do you?
    Do
you
?
    Do
I
?
    There had never been a conclusive diagnosis. It was probably, they were told, just a bug, but bugs these days were getting stronger, becoming more resistant. A cold today, said the nurse, is like flu ten years ago; a flu today is like pneumonia twenty years ago.
    What’s pneumonia today like? Kugel asked.
    Like that, she said, pointing to Jonah in his bed, an oxygen mask strapped to his face, monitors monitoring, beepers beeping, tubes running from the tubes running from his skeletal arms.
    We almost lost you there, little buddy, Kugel whispered to Jonah the morning of their discharge, gently smoothing the boy’s hair with his hand. We almost lost you.
    Lost me where? Jonah had asked Kugel.
    It means you almost died, Bree had answered. It’s an expression.
    Jonah was focused on the television, where SpongeBob was doing his best to pacify a furious Squidward. At last the nurse brought their papers and Bree turned off the TV.
    I’d rather be dead than lost, Jonah said to Bree.
    Why? asked Bree.
    Because if I’m dead I won’t know it.
    Well you’re neither, said Bree. Let’s get out of here.
    The experience had taken its toll on their marriage. Kugel sensed that something bad had grown between himself and Bree, or, worse, that something good between them had diminished. He was upset with himself: Why hadn’t he pressed the pediatrician more? Why hadn’t he taken Jonah to the hospital sooner? Why hadn’t he trusted his instincts? And he was upset with her, too—why couldn’t she see how sick Jonah was? Where were her maternal instincts? Why didn’t she get him immunized sooner (against what? against everything, goddamn it)?—and he suspected she felt the same about him, that they were mutually disappointed in the other’s inability to save their child, to protect him, to keep the monsters from the house. The ark of their marriage, charged with delivering Jonah from the tumultuous storm of life, had been shown to be rickety, ramshackle, rheumatic; it had been nearly sunk by the tiniest of bugs. And so they decided to move, to flee. The city seemed filled with danger and disease, and every room of their apartment carried a memory of some disagreement, some argument between them, or, worse, some memory of Jonah’s illness—the couch upon which he lay unmoving, the blanket they had wrapped him in as they dashed to the hospital. Early that spring, a friend told them about Stockton. They visited, stayed for a while and, one fine spring morning, met with a real estate agent named Eve, who showed them a farmhouse for sale just five miles out of town. Kugel hoped the country would be safer; Bree hoped it would simply calm her husband’s nerves. Both hoped it would give them all a fresh start.
    It was a small but charming farmhouse, built in the mid-1800s. It had originally sat on a plot of land over two hundred acres in size, but in recent years parcels of the land had been sold off to builders and developers. Still, the farmhouse came with twenty proud acres of dense woodland, and was in excellent structural condition for a home its age. A few minor upgrades had been done about twenty years earlier—the most significant of which were the installation of a modern forced-air heating system and the addition of four dormer windows to the attic—but it was otherwise original, from its period silver doorknobs to its period oak trim. Out front, two large bluestone slabs led up to a charming