Intimate Objects

I don’t usually pick up trash from the street. Maybe it was the newness of the little piece of cardboard that made me grab it. It wasn’t rumpled or soiled, and its corners were still sharp. That’s probably why I picked it up—unsullied, it begged to be rescued from the rubbish around it.

The side that caught my attention was entirely blank, its color an unremarkable business-buff. It was slightly bigger than a business card—it would fit in a wallet. Unlike a business card, attached to one side was a small loop of elastic string.

I flipped over the card. Written very neatly by hand was a name: Walters, Edwin. A second line read: Male, 38, USA.

I was in a small French-speaking country, full of Renés and Jean-Bertrands and Sylvains. The chances of the tag referring to another Edwin Walters, 38 years of age, or any Edwin of any age, for that matter, were zero.

I stared at my name, and my head went a little light. It made no sense.

I called Jess. She didn’t answer, so I texted her.

I was stunned. I couldn’t work out what was happening. Why was my name on a discarded scrap of cardboard in this little town in which I’d only just arrived? I was so confused that I forgot what I had been doing—where I was going. I just stood on the side of the street, looking at the tag in my hand.

I’m a journalist, and when I picked up that bit of cardboard, I was working on a big story, an important one. Of course, rule number one for a reporter is to not be part of the news—to avoid becoming even a little part of the big story. But things happen. So here I document my little story.

I continued to stare at the tag, turning it over in my hands, stretching the little elastic loop, as if that would give me a clue. I noticed something else—small typewritten words in a lower corner of the tag: Hôpital Sainte Justine.

That was the town’s hospital. In fact, it was the town’s only health facility of any sort.

The hospital would have a reasonable explanation for what I held in my hand, and I was desperate to hear it.

It was a short ride by taxi, and I was no wiser by the time I got out. I still hadn’t heard back from Jess. I sent her another text. “Call me.”

Jess was a photographer. We were a good team. Putting our words and pictures together was one thing, but more important was that we relied on each to survive, literally. We worked in dangerous places, and we depended on each other to gauge the risks. We set boundaries for each other. On this assignment, it was all about staying out of quarantine.

Our plan was to get close to the outbreak. The town was supposed to be relatively safe. The decimation was happening in the outlying villages, and we were counting on the local grapevine to help us piece together what was happening beyond the town, in what we called the zone.

Before leaving New York, we’d gotten a briefing from a medical expert. Her advice was simple: avoid exposure at all costs. Exposure would mean quarantine. Quarantine wasn’t about getting better, but about protecting everyone else.

I asked her about the odds of survival. “If you contract it?” she said. “If you were here, not bad—better than eighty percent. But there, with resources what they are, a bit less than fifty.”

Why did she have to say a bit less than fifty? Why not just fifty? Fifty-fifty would be tolerable.

Approaching the hospital doors, I realized I was breaking a rule of sorts with Jess. Not a rule, but an understanding. Before going into a place like this, even this far from the outbreak, I should have checked with her. We would have talked it through. Our talks weren’t a matter of making brilliant decisions, but only figuring out whether an idea was stupid, as in deadly stupid. Jess wasn’t answering her phone, though, and clutched in my hand was a terrifying piece of cardboard with my name on it. I went inside.

I shouldn’t have been surprised, but the hospital was grim. It wasn’t a place of white walls and antiseptic smells. It had the feel of a secondary school.

I would be quick. I’d go up to the first counter, point to my name on the cardboard tag, then point to myself and shrug my shoulders. The person behind the counter would laugh and explain the little card, and I’d be back out the door in two minutes, laughing at myself for having taken it so seriously, and yes, for being scared.

Unfortunately, the hospital was busy. The first counter I saw was at the end of a long line of people, so I bypassed it and turned down a quieter corridor. I walked slowly, looking for white lab coats and blue scrubs.

A man walked by me from behind. He wasn’t in a uniform of any sort, but his purposeful walk betrayed that he wasn’t a patient. I called out, “Excusez-moi, parlez vous anglais?”

He stopped and turned. “Oui—yes.”

I held up my little cardboard tag, but before I could speak, he said, frowning, “Monsieur, you should not be here. Please. Restricted. You should go.”

“Okay, just one moment. Please, can you tell me what this is?”

He looked at the tag, then at me. “Yes, it’s a . . . it’s a . . . une étiquette à l'orteil.”

I shook my head. “Étiquette?”

His eyes flashed as he recalled the word. “Label! Yes, it’s a label for the toe.”

Toe tag. The wave that rippled up my back was more than a shudder—it made my head snap back.

Of course it was a toe tag. I knew toe tags. I’d covered earthquakes, and once a tsunami. I could still see the cards—like luggage tags—fluttering on a long row of gray feet sticking out from under sheets in a makeshift outdoor morgue. I must have known it all along.

Trying not to betray my fear, I asked the ridiculous question: “Are toe tags prepared for people before they die?”

My companion had been very serious up until then, but now he smiled, like we were sharing a joke. I must not have smiled back, because he quickly reverted to his frown. “Please, monsieur, you should go.” He pointed back up the hallway.

I wasn’t ready to leave—I needed an answer. “Please, are there toe tags for living people?” I’m sure my voice was trembling. 

He shook his head and turned away. Walking away down the corridor, he barked into the echoing walls, “Bien sûr que non!”

Of course not.

I didn’t feel well. I was sweating like a maniac, and my breathing was going funny. I wanted to sit down, but I needed someone to talk to—someone to explain. I continued down the corridor.

I pushed through a door at the end of the hallway and found myself in a busy area. People sat in chairs that lined the walls, and gurneys were on the move. I remembered that I had to be careful. I was still far from the zone, but there was no reason to be an idiot. I caught the attention of a man wheeling a gurney, and I gestured to the room. “Ce n'est pas Ebola, n'est-ce pas?”

“La situation évolue rapidement,” was his only reply as he pushed his patient past.

Things are changing quickly. That was hardly reassuring, but it wasn’t like people were in hazmat suits. Even face masks were few and far between. And nobody was panicking. Doctors and nurses were going about their regular hospital business, caring for the sick and saving the dying. The danger was minimal. I would solve my mystery, but I wouldn’t be stupid—I wouldn’t linger.

I held the toe tag above my head. I don’t know what I was thinking—maybe that it would catch the attention of the hospital’s toe tag experts, and they would walk over to me and explain everything?

It occurred to me that if the hospital had any toe tag experts, they would be in the morgue. I didn’t want to go to the morgue. I decided to head back the way I had come.

I made for the door, but a gurney blocked my way. I backed up to let it through, and found myself backing through another swinging door. I held it open for the gurney. It held a young girl, her face gaunt and gray. She returned my gaze. The gurney was followed by two litters, carried by hand. I held the door for them but didn’t look.

As I moved back through the door, an attendant of some sort, a young man, was coming my way. I asked, “S’il vous plait, can you help me?”

He nodded, unsmiling. “Oui, monsieur. Venez avec moi, s'il vous plaît.” He led me by the elbow back through the door, in the direction the litters had gone.

I stopped and held my tag up to him. “Regardez,” I said.

My phone rang before he could say anything. It was Jess, finally. As I said “hi” to her, I tried to hold the man’s attention with my eyes so that he would stay, but he walked away.

I turned my attention to Jess. “You won’t believe what’s happening. I’m in the middle of some weird shit.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m not sure anything’s wrong, but something’s creepy—very creepy. I’m freaking out.”

“Okay, calm down. What’s going on?”

“You’re not going to believe it.”

“Just tell me.”

“I found a tag in the street with my name on it. It’s a toe tag. A toe tag for a dead person. For me.”

“A toe tag?” said Jess.

“Yes.”

I waited for her to join my freak-out, but she said, “That’s not so weird.”

“What?”

“I have one, too. We got them last night, remember?”

“What are you talking about?”

“When we crossed into the prefecture—you remember that roadblock—they made us fill out those little cards. They were toe tags.”

There were a lot of roadblocks, but I didn’t remember the one she was talking about. We’d driven most of the previous day and much of the night in a hired car. We went through an endless series of roadblocks. They were set up to screen people going the other way—away from the outbreak. With us, it wasn’t a matter of inspecting anything, and they were always friendly. They asked why we were going that way, toward la zone. They were just curious.

“I don’t remember filling anything out,” I said.

“You were half asleep. I did it for you.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

My mind unscrambled a little. It started to make sense. Maybe it wasn’t so strange to be carrying a pre-made toe tag, given the oddity of heading toward a deadly outbreak. Something still didn’t fit, though. “But then how did I find—”

“You must have dropped it,” said Jess.

“I couldn’t have dropped it. I didn’t even know I had it.”

“You definitely dropped it. What were you doing when you found it?”

I tried to remember, my mind still lurching. “I had just bought a soda. From a little food stand. I was standing there on the side of the street, opening the can.”

“It dropped out of your wallet.”

“I don’t think so.”

“You opened your wallet to buy the soda, right? The tag was in your wallet. I put it there last night. It fell out—it must have fallen out.”

It made sense. Jess had put it in my wallet. My mood flipped.

“A bit morbid, right?” said Jess. “Preparing your own toe tag.”

I laughed. “Ghoulish!”

Jess said, “I guess it’s not so different from soldiers with their dog tags. Imagine having to wear it around your neck night and day, every day. Imagine a friend having to retrieve it from your body. Imagine your parents receiving it in the mail.”

The subject of dog tags was clearly not an uplifting one for Jess, but I couldn’t hide my good spirits. “At least they have a quality piece of metal. My parents would be embarrassed displaying this piece of cardboard on their mantel.”

Jess didn’t laugh. After a moment she said, “Where are you?”

I didn’t really want to tell her.

“Eddie, where are you?”

“The hospital.”

“The hospital? That’s probably not the best place.” It was hard to tell whether she was concerned or pissed off.

“I know. Sorry. I shouldn’t have come here, but I was freaking out about this thing—this stupid toe tag.”

Jess took a breath. “Okay. No big deal. Let’s meet at the hotel. Let’s get a beer.”

I relaxed. We’d have a beer and then dinner, and we’d talk over our plan for tomorrow. “Okay, see you there in thirty?” I asked.

“Yep, see you then.”

I shoved the phone in my pocket and looked around. I was in a large infirmary. The walls were lined with beds, most of them filled. Some patients were on their feet, leaning against the walls or walking around. Nobody was talking, and there were no background beeps or hums of medical machinery. It was just beds and people. It was not the smartest place for me to be.

I turned and headed for the door. It didn’t open to my push. I pushed again, harder. I tried pulling. A twinge of panic fluttered in my chest. Not again. I told myself not to lose my shit. I think I said it out loud.

Somebody would help me. I got the attention of a man bending over a bed. When he turned to me, I could see he was the young man who had led me into the room. I tried to smile. “Excusez-moi. The door is locked. C’est ferme.” He shook his head and turned back to his patient.

I looked around. A woman in a white coat stood alone by the window. I approached her. She stood with her arms crossed, looking out the window as if she had nothing better to do. “Excusez-moi,” I said.

She turned, and I could see by her name tag that she was a doctor. I asked, “Parlez vous anglais?”

“Yes, I do.”

Nodding toward the door, I said, “It’s locked. The door’s locked.”

She looked me in the eye for a few moments. “Yes.”

Her English was clear, but her answer was odd. “Yes?” I asked. My voice was small. I felt like a child.

“Yes, it’s locked.” Her face was completely blank—no annoyance, no sympathy, nothing.

I was afraid to ask any more questions. I felt light-headed. A bit less than fifty-fifty.

The doctor looked down at my hands—I was fiddling with my toe tag. Her eyebrows went up in surprise.

Standing there stupidly, I tried out my new French. “Étiquette à l'orteil.” A moment later I added, “It’s mine.”

She nodded and gave me the faintest of smiles.