Before This Is Over

by Amanda Hickie

  “Two suspected cases that might turn out to be nothing.”

  “It’s here. Manchester was out of control in less than a week.”

  “We’re a much bigger city. Your chance of crossing paths with even one person who met somebody who met them is tiny.”

  “Someone has to be unlucky. I’m keeping Oscar home until this is over.”

  “Fine.” He pulled his eyes away from the television. “He can watch TV and kick a ball around the park, if that’s what makes you happy.”

  “He’s not going to the park. He’s not leaving the house. They’re shutting up kids in hospital.”

  “To stop it spreading, and it worked, it hasn’t spread.”

  “That we know of.” She put the phone back on the cradle. “At least there haven’t been any cases in Canberra.”

  “Well, why would your foreigners want to bring their smelly germs to Canberra when they can see the glorious sights of Sydney Harbor. Very discerning, your foreign germs.” Sean waited for a laugh or at least a smile, but Hannah was distracted by the TV and a photograph of a confident middle-aged man with a reassuring face, a neatly trimmed beard, and glasses, posed as if for a pass card or an annual report.

  “Turn up the sound. Turn it up.”

  He fumbled with the remote.

  “…was one of the team who treated the initial patient and was the first to recognize her symptoms. Until becoming ill, Dr. Gilchrist was closely involved in her treatment and that of several patients at Newcastle Hospital suspected of having Manba. Hopes were high last night that he had turned the corner, but his condition deteriorated suddenly this afternoon…”

  Sean turned the sound down.

  “Hey, why? Turn it back up.”

  “He’s one guy in one hospital that’s two hours away.” The images changed again. Grainy cell phone footage. The backs of people running, somewhere in Asia, a knot of police in riot gear taken from a low angle, one of the police lifting his visor, a paper mask underneath. “I don’t think it helps to watch this.”

  Hannah shook her head. “You think pretending it’s not happening gives you some sort of magical protection?”

  “I think it’s happening whether I know about it or not. It’s just not happening right here.” He looked at her with gentle puzzlement, as if he was unsure how to explain. “You have to live the bit that’s right in front of you. When it’s time for this”—he gestured at the TV screen, and the image of soldiers patrolling a suburban street, maybe Manchester—“we will do what we have to.” She crossed her arms, didn’t say anything. “They think they might have isolated the virus. That was on before. Someone in Melbourne.”

  “So they can look at the little bugger under an electron microscope.”

  “And work out ways to treat it. You said we have to hang on for a vaccine. So they make a vaccine and we’ll be fine.”

  “What about the people in Thailand, England, Newcastle? Those people on the North Shore? A vaccine won’t help them.”

  “They’re not us. You can’t save everyone.”

  She stared past him, at nothing. “Is Zac safe?”

  “He’s safe.”

  “He should be here.”

  “And he will be, Friday. Come on, let’s leave this, do something else.” He tried to pull out her crossed arms.

  “I’ll”—she pulled away from him—“I’ll check on Oscar.”

  “He’s fine. He’s sleeping in his own bed and he’s fine.”

  The early-morning quiet of the sleeping house was broken only by the slowly building hiss of white noise from the kettle and the intermittent hum of the fridge. There was nothing Hannah had to do today, at least nothing with an appointed time. The day was hers to spend.

  She pulled a loaf of bread out of the fridge and with the tips of her fingers folded the bag on itself two, three times to make a barrier between the slices and the outside of the plastic. She washed her hands before taking two slices and dropping them in the toaster, wondering if toasting would sterilize them, then decanted the rest into a Ziploc bag.

  Sean wandered in, looking bleary. “The alarm didn’t go off.”

  “I didn’t set one.”

  “Oscar will be late.”

  “He’s not going, remember?”

  “Oh.” Sean got a mug from the cupboard and poured some coffee from the fresh pot. He stared at it. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.” She took her coffee and toast and sat at the kitchen table looking into the temptingly clear, bright garden. One of those autumn days with no clouds to keep the warmth in. “I read that they’re not letting any planes come from Thailand or the UK. One of the airlines made all their London passengers change planes at the stopover to make it look like that’s where they came from. It got turned around in the air.”

  “See, they are doing something.”

  “A bit late. We’re brewing our own batch of bug here—we don’t need to import an epidemic.”

  He shuffled over in his socks and sat down. “A couple of days off school won’t hurt Oscar. It will fizzle out, or it’ll turn out that one guy had something else and the rest ate a bad prawn, like last week. But whenever someone sneezes, people will jump. Are you going to keep him out of school every time?”

  “He’s staying home until the disease is gone.”

  Sean put his mug on the table and started turning it in circles. “It can’t be gone if it hasn’t got here yet.”

  “I mean gone gone. Gone from everywhere.”

  Sean looked back down at his mug, seemingly fascinated by the irregular coffee ring it had created. His forehead was furrowed and his eyebrows pulled together as if he had a headache. Hannah waited for him to say something, willed him to say something. His heavy silence gathered weight. She wanted him to be the one to break it, to give her something she could argue with. But she couldn’t leave the obvious unsaid, when he was so clearly ignoring it. “We should all stay home.”

  “What if there is never again a time when there are no cases? People get all sorts of things…Toddlers get meningococcal disease, but we didn’t keep him away from daycare.”

  “I want you to stay home.”

  Sean banged his coffee mug, sloshing the contents onto the table, drowning the coffee ring. “I will not stay home today. That’s mad. Just because people I have never met might have some disease.” He stood abruptly and walked to the door, as if the movement could express the words trying to pour out. He paced back towards her. “It’s not bloody voodoo. You don’t get sick by bad vibrations through the air.”

  “Gwen will hear you.”

  “Gwen is a deaf old lady who wouldn’t hear us shouting ‘fire.’”

  “I didn’t make this situation. Don’t get angry at me.”

  Sean rubbed his forehead with his fingers. “The only situation is the one you’re imagining.”

  “It wouldn’t matter what I say. You’ve decided nothing is wrong.”

  “Nothing is wrong. Here. You think it’s wrong because you can see it going wrong somewhere else. I get that you don’t want to take risks, but I can’t live by your paranoia.”

  Her instincts were pushing her to walk away, but she needed something, at least a small something, from him. She slowed her breathing and lowered her voice. “Could you at least stay home for long enough for me to go to school and get Oscar’s books?”

  “I have a meeting at eleven.”

  She was very calm. “Then I’ll be back by ten thirty.”

  “Hon…”

  “Don’t wake Oscar, he can sleep as long as he likes.” She walked awkwardly across the room, marshaling her eyes to keep them from drifting in his direction—straight into the protection of the bathroom and the privacy of the shower.

  In the deep distance, a tinny piano started the national anthem. The light, raw voices of the kids dragged behind. A loud and warbling woman’s soprano led the piano by half a beat, trying to push them forward without success.

  Here Hannah was, s
tanding in the school office, facing a woman who asked questions that she hadn’t thought of answers for, when all she wanted to do was sign in and get Oscar’s books. She was trying to construct a coherent sentence about the disease and shutting the door, but when she ran it through her mind, it came across as a little bit nutty.

  “Oh no, he’s not sick.” The truth sounded unconvincing, even to herself.

  “You’ll need a doctor’s certificate if he’s away for more than three days. If you’ve seen any symptoms at all, you should be taking him to the doctor.”

  Just stick to what you came for. “I only want to get his books.”

  The woman looked at her with determination, an implacable obstacle. Hannah returned the look. Say as little as possible, press on through. She could feel her cheeks redden.

  “You’re not doing him or the school any favors if he’s sick.”

  “He’s not sick. I’m just keeping him at home.”

  “If he’s not sick he has to be at school.”

  “He’s taking a break for a few days from school for”—be nonspecific—“personal reasons, and I want to keep him up to date with his schoolwork.”

  “Any non-urgent absences from school need to be preapproved by the principal.”

  Acknowledge what she said, don’t argue or justify. “I’ll remember that for next time.”

  The woman dismissed her with a gesture to the sign-in book. As Hannah left the office, she tried to walk softly, to avoid drawing attention to her victory won through obstinacy.

  Oscar’s classroom was on the first floor, in a functional fifties-era wing that had been grafted on to the original Victorian building. As she started up the tight, airless concrete staircase that had been wedged in between, she heard a clatter of small feet on the hard treads above.

  Around the bend of the stairs, a stream of tiny children jostled each other, descending towards her. She took the last few steps to the landing and tried to press herself into a corner, in the hope that their turbulence would flow by. Their teacher followed at the rear, issuing random instructions in a booming voice. “Jason, don’t run ahead. Two lines now. Clementine, turn around and keep walking.” She gave Hannah an apologetic smile. The buzz and chatter of high voices reverberated on the hard walls, leaving Hannah to smile back mutely while a procession of black-smudged hands, grimy from schoolwork or the playground, Hannah couldn’t tell, brushed against her.

  In the corridor on the first floor, stripped of the camouflaging cacophony, her heels clacked on the wooden boards, certain to draw the attention of the whole school. A pair of little kids hurried by, one jiggling with the involuntary twitch of an urgent toilet need, and stared at her in curiosity. She hadn’t planned to crash into Oscar’s classroom like this—she’d assumed that the woman at the desk would send up for his books and they would appear.

  She stopped at the door of Oscar’s room. The children were working, books open. Some stared off into space, some purposefully filled an answer into each box on the page. One girl diligently colored all the capital letters, chewing on the end of each pencil as she thought, then returning it to the communal tub before exchanging it for another. At the front, Mrs. Gleeson bent down to help one of the children with his work. As Hannah wasn’t in a hurry, it seemed polite to wait for her to look up. She scanned the room. One of these chairs must be Oscar’s, one of the three or four that were empty.

  Already several kids were staring at her. From close by, she heard a very audible whisper, “Oscar’s mum’s here.” A couple of the kids tittered. One of the boys at the back turned around to look at her. “Is Oscar coming to school today?”

  “Not today.”

  “Is he sick?” Now the whole row was looking at her.

  “No, he’s not.”

  “So why isn’t he at school?”

  “He’s just not.”

  She made her way towards the teacher, along the narrow gap between the children’s chairs and the wall. Occasionally she had to shift one and its unexpectedly heavy occupant to get through. She tried to make sure she touched the chairs and children with only the cloth of her sleeve. Her nose started to itch.

  The disruption of the chairs made Mrs. Gleeson at last glance up. “Can I help you?” she said sharply.

  “I’m Oscar’s mum.”

  “Oscar’s not sick,” came a voice from the back of the room.

  “Thank you, Mitchell.” She said the name with two distinct syllables. “Get on with your work now.”

  “I’m sorry to interrupt, but Oscar’s going to be away for a few days and I want to pick up his books so he can keep up with his work.”

  “Has Oscar got the flu, Mrs. Gleeson?” came another voice.

  “It’s not flu, it’s called Manba,” a small girl near her said with great gravity.

  “Oscar hasn’t got the flu. He’s just having a few days at home.” She smiled at Mrs. Gleeson in the hope it would smooth the way.

  “You’ll need to inform the front office.” Mrs. Gleeson looked slightly more annoyed and less distracted. “And we’ll need a note.”

  “Oh, I talked to the woman in the front office.” Her cheeks were hot again.

  “Melanie, could you help Oscar’s mum find his workbooks?” The grave girl got up from her desk.

  Hannah leaned down to the girl without getting too close, and spoke softly. “Which desk is Oscar’s?”

  As Hannah pulled the top book from the shelf under his desk, a mass of books and papers tumbled out, landing on the floor with a thud. All the kids looked. She got down on her knees and sorted through the pile, pulling out anything that looked like a textbook. The rest she pushed haphazardly back, an approximation of how Oscar had left them.

  “Is there anything else?” she whispered to Melanie. The girl nodded solemnly and led her to a row of boxes at the far side of the room. Behind her, Hannah heard one of the children sneeze.

  Melanie flicked through the books in one of the boxes. Her hands touched every one before Oscar’s. Hannah was grateful for plasticized covers and the disinfectant wipes she’d brought with her. She quietly thanked the girl and shuffled sideways out of the room, trying to catch Mrs. Gleeson’s eye, but the teacher didn’t look her way.

  As she walked briskly away along the echoing hall, she felt each step shaking off dust, contamination, the press of human contact. Making her lighter. She was not beholden to teachers, friends, organizations. Not constrained by any outside requirements. She didn’t care if the school wanted written notice in advance, she didn’t care if Mrs. Gleeson disapproved, she didn’t care if she’d been economical with the truth, or if anyone thought she was ridiculous. Her boys—that was all she needed to consider.

  The front door was closed again. For now, at least. She would have to work on keeping it closed. The burble of the TV leaked from the living room, where Oscar lay, zoned out, watching a primary-colored and overtly educational cartoon.

  She found Sean in the kitchen, seated at the table, absorbed in a magazine. Without waiting for him to look up or finish what he was reading, she said, “So, how long has he been watching TV?”

  “Not long.”

  “Really?”

  Sean looked up, his face set. “Yes. Really.”

  “What’s he been doing?”

  He stared at her impassively. She expected him to say, with Zac’s defiant intonation, Stuff. “He played. In his room.”

  “With you?”

  “He didn’t need me, he was fine by himself.” Sean stood, stretching as he got up. “I’ll be off.” He stalked stiffly past her. “I’ve already spent half the day here.”

  She caught up with him just as he stepped into the living room. “I’d rather you didn’t go.”

  He stopped, turned, and with a deliberately everyday tone said, “I don’t get to choose. Turning up is not optional. I have a contract. If I don’t show up they don’t pay me.” An edge was starting to creep into his voice.

  Hannah glanced over at Oscar, who was
still engrossed in the cartoon. She took in the unveiled annoyance on Sean’s face and decided to ignore it. “I can’t keep him safe if there’s a chance you’re bringing home the very thing I’m trying to shut out.”

  “And I can’t drop everything because you’re a bit freaked. It’s not a school full of kids, it’s an office. We don’t swap spit.”

  Oscar shifted his legs and scratched the side of his face, and they both froze. Hannah pulled Sean through to the hall and shut the door behind them.

  Concern couldn’t completely drive away Sean’s look of impatience. “I think you like the idea of us all staying home. And if we have to, we will, but until then I go to work and I get paid.”

  “We don’t need the money.”

  “We don’t? I’m glad you think so. I’m not so sure. What happens when they decide not to renew me because I didn’t show? What happens if one of us gets sick? We don’t have anything in reserve. We’ve still got debts, we’ve got bills. I’m going in today.”

  “Money is not as important as being alive.”

  “Let’s save that thought until we need it, because the bank thinks differently.” He rubbed his fingers gently along her cheek. “When the time comes, I’ll stay home. But we’re not there yet.”

  He kissed her lightly, and she pulled him into a close hug. “The school looked so normal…I don’t know what to think.”

  He squeezed her tightly. “Have fun with him today. Try not to worry.” She let him go and he unlocked his arms from around her. “I’ll see you tonight. I promise not to kiss anyone.”

  She had a plan, for everyone to be under the one roof. For the door to be closed, with all the problems outside. But Sean was at work, Zac in another city, and the front door was flapping open and closed, wafting in the outside world.

  Oscar still lay on his back, stretched out across the floor. His head was near the television with his neck extended to see the upside-down image. He appeared to be in the same zombie-like trance, although the program had changed.