An Ordinary Epidemic (3 page)

The solidarity was broken only by the paint. Heritage hues
of Brunswick green and Indian red on their side abruptly changed to a particularly powdery shade of lavender on Gwen's. Otherwise, they were mirrors.

As she walked through the front door, she could hear the happiness in Oscar's high voice, carried all the way from the back. Sunlight through the kitchen window washed the room in a golden glow. At the stove, Sean leant over a sandwich toasting in the frying pan.

‘You call that breakfast?'

‘I see four food groups here, if you count fat.' He lifted the corner of the sandwich with a spatula and a trickle of melted cheese oozed out. ‘I'll make you one if you're nice to me.'

She planted a swift kiss on his cheek. ‘Will that do?'

‘Payment in full.'

The top half of the room was warm and humid, filled with steam from the kettle, but air from outside still crept in under the back door. Oscar sat at the table in his frog-covered flannelette pyjamas, one size too big, still just young enough not to think they were uncool. He had rosy spots on his cheeks but his naked feet were pinched with cold.

‘Did you see him leave? We wouldn't want him to sneak back.' Sean winked at Oscar, who giggled.

‘He was fine. The bus was late but they eventually left.'

‘And no one was panicking. They breathed in, they breathed out, the world is the same as it was yesterday, isn't it?' She chose to ignore him. ‘Isn't it? Oscar, ask Mummy if the world has changed.' ‘Mummy, has the world...' ‘No, it hasn't, the world hasn't changed.' She begrudged him a smile. ‘No disaster struck, the bus left, everything is the same. Today. But tomorrow...'

‘Tomorrow is tomorrow. Today, nothing has changed.' He slid her toasted sandwich onto a plate and held it out to her. ‘Breathe. You're the only one panicking, he's fine.' He stopped
with the spatula hovering over his sandwich. ‘What date is it?'

‘The fifth.'

‘Are you sure? Crap, I missed my sister's birthday.'

‘It's still yesterday there.'

‘I'll ring her from work. What's the time difference?'

‘I don't know. Day is night, use the internet.'

She got to the hospital just before her appointment time. The main building was new—all glass and exposed concrete. Wide public spaces that meant you might be on time when you arrived on the grounds but were late by the time you walked through the front door.

Her doctor was housed in a side wing, an old building that had somehow escaped being knocked down. Its entrance was homier, less grand than the main entrance but today it was covered by a large red X of electrical tape, holding in place a sign that read ‘Clinic open. Use main entrance.'

The main entrance was impersonal and, regardless of the weather or the signs forbidding smoking within ten metres of the doors, there was always a knot of gowned patients, cigarettes in hand, just to one side. As she reached the edifice, she noticed that the contingent was larger than usual and all gathered around one door, the only door that wasn't covered with more red tape. Thicker smoke to walk through.

The crowd jostled for position in front of a harried individual wearing a hi-vis vest. A disgruntled woman walking past Hannah said, ‘They tell me I can't see my brand new grandchild. What a lot of nonsense over nothing.'

It became clear as Hannah waded into the crowd that it formed a kind of disordered line. The man in the vest held up his hand to the person in front, who seemed to be berating him, and called out, ‘Anyone with an appointment?' Hannah
put up her hand tentatively. ‘Fill in the form then go to one of the desks inside.' He went back to his argument.

The form consisted of a plain A4 page printed in black. ‘Do you have an appointment today? Have you returned from overseas in the last two months? Have you developed a cough in the last week? Have you had a fever in the last week?' She ticked them off.

Inside, the normally spacious foyer was cut in half by a dotted barrier of white desks. They demarcated the normal soup of life and germs she had left outside from an unaccustomedly empty and sterile world of illness. She handed her filled-in form to the woman at the nearest desk. The woman addressed herself to the form, as if Hannah were a bystander. ‘Have you been away in the last few weeks?'

‘No.'

‘Have you been unwell in any way this week?'

‘No.'

‘Is this your signature?'

‘Yes.'

The woman gestured to a pump pack of hand sanitiser on the desk, ‘You have to clean your hands before you go through.'

Hannah hesitated. ‘Has something happened at the hospital? Is that why all the extra fuss?'

The woman looked up. ‘We should be doing this all the time, if you ask me, not just when there's some crisis overseas.'

Past the desks, it was suddenly quiet. In the long corridor through the main building to the clinic wing, she passed only purposeful staff and others like her, late for appointments.

The waiting room was as full as always but eerily silent. Even in normal times, she had noticed, people spoke to each other in whispers. Most came with a companion but they rarely chatted, as if they couldn't find words up to the task of conveying any more than what had to be said. The dominant
sounds were usually the crash of trolleys and nurses calling or laughing, but today even those were muted.

The volunteer was missing from the hot drinks trolley. In her place was a piece of printer paper with a hand-written sign, ‘Help yourself '. Hannah never felt comfortable accepting a drink, especially in recent years. She thought the other patients looked at her, with her head of hair and the spring in her step, questioning whether she qualified for the club. She'd spent so much time waiting in this room that she was no longer a guest—she could make her own coffee. The doctors here gave people great chunks of life, and tithed it back in many small appointments.

The woman sitting opposite wore a bright scarf elegantly. Her fingers were thin and their skin was dry. The man next to her held her hand gently. He looked worried. She just looked tired. Hannah hoped they got called before she did.

The scarf was vibrant, the way Hannah noticed cancer patients' scarves often were. A small act of defiance, a stoic badge of bravery that said, ‘I may look like I'm suffering, but inside I celebrate life'. That was not for her, she hadn't wanted to wear her illness with pride. She had hidden from it instead, trying to pass as one of the ordinary. She hadn't known what to do with strangers' looks of sympathy.

‘Hannah?' A mix of question and exclamation. The doctor was looking around myopically, as they often did if they didn't know you.

As she stood, he half stuck out his hand. She looked at it for a second, confused, considering the relay of germs, one handshake to another. What about his patients on chemo, did he shake their hands? Did he shake hands with other doctors, and did they shake hands with their patients? He morphed it into a gesture for her to go ahead.

A new doctor always meant having to recount every detail of her diagnosis and treatment, almost justify her presence.
The first time, she felt like a friend had stood her up for coffee, that she wasn't important. It was at least reassuring that she was routine enough to be handed off to the trainees. She knew nothing good came from that kind of importance.

He browsed through her notes while she looked around. The same combination of people—patient and doctor—sat in rooms with exactly the same furniture up and down the corridor, and in other hospitals, and in other countries. Her extraordinary experience was common.

‘So, is this a regular check-up, or is there something specific bothering you?'

She pushed aside the mortifying thought that she was almost certainly wasting his time. ‘I was supposed to come in a month, but I moved it.'

‘I'm surprised you could get in, we've been flat out. Everyone thinks they'll miss their appointment if the hospital closes. At worst you'd be postponed a couple of weeks.' He looked back down at her file. ‘How long since your diagnosis?'

‘Eight years.' Didn't he just read the file?

‘I wouldn't miss one completely, but you don't have to worry about a bit of slippage.' Reassuring smile.

‘I found a lump in my armpit. It's probably nothing, I mean, it was sore one day and then the next it wasn't, so it's probably nothing.'

‘When was this?'

‘Last Wednesday. I had a bit of a headache last week. I'm sure it's only a raised gland.'

She sat on the long high bed while he prodded gently under her arm with his fingertips.

‘I don't feel anything.'

She had to rub around the spot for a few seconds before she located it. ‘Here.'

‘Has it changed in size at all?'

‘No.' Now that she was in front of a doctor, the lump was
the same size but felt much smaller.

‘Have you had a cough?'

‘No.'

‘A fever?'

‘No.'

‘Been in contact with anyone who's had a cough or a fever?'

‘They wouldn't have let me in the front door if I had.'

He looked directly and deliberately at her for the first time with a practised reassuring smile on his face. ‘Well, they would have, but you wouldn't be sitting in front of me.' He pulled off the examination gloves and washed his hands efficiently in the small sink. ‘I think we can be fairly confident that you don't have Manba.'

She opened her mouth to object, but he continued along the well-worn groove of his speech. ‘There are plenty of minor germs around and they don't take a break because a big one comes along. If it would help you sleep we can do a blood test, but it's extremely unlikely that you have anything. It's quite normal for someone with your history to feel anxious at a time like this, especially given the constant media barrage. The important thing is not to worry too much. It would be a good idea not to listen to the radio or watch too much television news. And don't go home and hit the internet. I can give you a list of reputable websites for virus information.' He reached the pause for patient reaction.

‘I know I don't have Manba, I just want to be sure it's not a return of the cancer.'

He looked surprised. ‘Cancer? No, I don't see anything to be concerned about. You're,' he looked down at the sheet, ‘eight years and, ah, three months since diagnosis. And while you can never say never, I think you can be very pleased with how well you've done.'

She realised he'd closed her file. There were more important cases, even for him. He had dismissed her.

She threw her keys on the hall table and watched them land on a pile of briefing documents, as if to remind her that they were waiting to be read before she could start on the manual. Soon, if she wanted to be paid for it this month. What the hell, Kate wasn't expecting anything out of her today.

The house could do with a clean and she had to get something for dinner, but right now she needed a coffee. She still had an over-tired buzz and a slight headache but she was home.

They should be here. Not only Zac, all of them. The house was empty.

All the years they had saved to renovate. When she got sick, having the money didn't seem so important anymore. And then she realised it couldn't wait. For some people it was the overseas adventure, others rang everyone they loved but had never told. For her, it was creating this home that would keep her family if she couldn't.

When she chose the paint colour or the size of the pantry, she saw them. The light from the garden fell mottled on the benches and the wall, and the colour was happiness. Everything was as it should be. She could hear the echoes of the boys laughing at the table. Here, she saw them making dinners, sitting around for Sunday breakfasts. Sometimes it was the boys and their friends at the kitchen table, sometimes just Sean. She built it for them, and where were they? Not here. No one was here, the house was empty.