Some Tests

by Wayne Macauley

  I understand, said the receptionist. The other patients were looking at her too. She slid her card into the machine. Other way, said the receptionist, and Beth turned it around. I accept that something might be wrong, she said; I’ve never denied it. It’s quite possible there’s something that needs to be fixed. But I didn’t send myself here. No, you didn’t, said the receptionist. Your other patients probably wouldn’t blink at paying this kind of money, said Beth—it would all be covered by their private insurance. But I’m an aged-care worker on an aged-care worker’s wage, my husband’s an accountant, self-employed, he’s planning a renovation even though we haven’t paid off the house: he’s only just gone out on his own.

  She’d begun to raise her voice; she could feel the two women’s eyes on her back. Yes, she said, turning to them while still cradling the card reader in her hand, it’s true, I’m not as rich as you, there is no shame in that. I’ve got bills lined up at home. Some people can’t afford the luxury of having all these tests. I met one earlier, on the bus, her name was Loren, she lent me her phone. I’m sure there are others too. It doesn’t matter that Rhys will put in a good word for me and maybe get me a job in Boronia—I’ll still be on the same pay, still trying to make ends meet.

  Is everything all right? said a voice—it was soft, wistful, little more than a whisper. The two women sat up; Beth turned to look. It was Dr Twoomey: he’d left his room to come out and see. The receptionist moved to him and they stood at the edge of the reception area speaking together in a whisper. Because he was that much shorter, the receptionist had to lean his head right back to look up into Twoomey’s face. While he did, he kept glancing back at Beth to make it clear who he was talking about. Madeleine joined them with a towel over her arm but Twoomey sent her back. He said something final to the receptionist, cast a vague smile—was it a smile?—in Beth’s direction, then he too returned to his room.

  It was disconcerting how short the receptionist was in relation to the counter; Beth couldn’t understand why he didn’t have a box or something to stand on. Everything was annoying her: these people, their smugness, their tests. He was back there again now, smiling. He took the card reader from her, cancelled the previous transaction, created a new one and handed it across.

  I have just spoken to the doctor, he said a little curtly, and he has agreed, given your circumstances—he glanced sideways and lowered his voice—to reduce today’s fee to three hundred and twenty dollars, of which one hundred and twenty-six will come back to you as a rebate. He gave Beth the machine; she punched in the numbers. The receptionist tore off the first receipt and stuck it on a spike, then clipped the second to a sheet of paper. It was a map. He put it up on the counter and turned it around. So, he said, smiling, here are the places to go for a rebate; the closest are here and here. He ran a circle around them. Can I see your referral, please? Beth had forgotten all about it. Dr Twoomey, the receptionist was saying, taking it from her, has, as you can see, unwittingly referred you to Dr Tallafield. But Dr Tallafield is expensive. In fact—he lowered his voice further—he is one of the most expensive around. So Dr Twoomey in this instance has recommended you see Dr Kolm instead. Dr Kolm is good, and he is a good deal cheaper. I’ll give him a quick call. He did the toothy smile again and went back to the phone.

  Beth glanced at the map; she folded it away. She could hear the receptionist talking; he nodded a few times, then hung up. It’s your lucky day! he said. He moved back to the counter, crossed out Dr Tallafield on the envelope and wrote Dr Kolm and a new address in its place. He dropped his shoulders, cocked his head and smiled. Dr Kolm said because it’s urgent that if you get there before six-thirty—he circled the address—he’ll fit you in after his last. The receptionist wrote 6.30 beside the name and gave Beth a conspiratorial wink. He’s an awful lot cheaper, he said. He took a clean sheet of paper, sketched a quick map to the new address, quickly folded it and the referral letter together, slid them into a fresh envelope, tucked in the flap, wrote Dr Kolm on the front and below that a smiley face, and finally handed it across. You’ve chosen the cheap path, he said: good luck. Thank you, said Beth, and she walked back down the hall.

  What just happened? Too much is slipping by, she thought, too often I find myself nodding when I should be asking them to explain. Don’t I have the right to ask them to explain? I need to ask questions, a patient should never be afraid to ask. It is my body, no-one else’s, and what little power I have left consists in listening to it and at every opportunity speaking up on its behalf. Don’t I know my body? Don’t I know it best? Next doctor I’ll say it: You don’t know me, sir.

  But, still, she thought—and the thought had only just struck her—I shouldn’t have gone off at poor Twoomey’s receptionist like that. I’ve probably only made things worse. Who knows? Dr Tallafield was expensive but he might have been just around the corner—even in the house next door. Still, it’s frustrating, she went on, not knowing what you’re being tested for and with them sending you off here and there and never really explaining anything to you. They’ll say they’ve explained, of course, but it’s no better, their explanation, than the one from the voice in India when you ring up about your phone bill. It explains nothing—except perhaps that the issue is your fault and that the best thing now would be to pay. It wears you down, so in the end you just don’t ask or expect people to offer. You let the machinery do its work and try not to oil it with your questions.

  She tried to read the old address but the receptionist had scribbled it out. She put the envelope away, went to the toilet and checked herself in the mirror. She hadn’t realised how pasty she’d become. Her hair—straight, brown, to just below the ears—hung oily and limp. She should have washed it this morning. She tried to fluff it up. Her eyes had a distant glaze. She was starving, too, she hadn’t had lunch. What a day! She splashed her face, straightened her neck, pulled her shoulders back. She took out her makeup bag and fixed her lips.

  Outside, the fresh air was a welcome relief. It was stuffy in the house, overheated, and the lime and basil smell had made her queasy. The man in the navy polo shirt was gone; Beth sat a moment in his place. It’s all going very fast, isn’t it? she thought. She watched the fish gliding in the pond, listened to the water dripping from the Japanese teahouse roof. No, I’ll go to Epping, she thought, I’ll do your tests, but if you send me off for more, that’s it.

  There was a shuffling sound in the garden behind her. Hello, Mrs Own, said a voice. It was Emily, David’s secretary, walking down the green plastic path from the arbour at the back. She wore a white shirt and sensible skirt, had her blond hair pulled tightly back. Yes, she’s attractive, thought Beth, but a bit dowdy too. I thought you’d never finish, she was saying, I’ve been waiting, like, half an hour. Her voice was squeaky, her lips thin. She was holding a bunch of keys. Beth could see straight away they were David’s: car, office, house—Lettie and Gem had bought him that dollar-sign trinket for his birthday. Emily flipped them into her hand. I told the little guy I was out here, she said, but I thought maybe he’d forgotten. David asked could I get you, I hope you don’t mind—he said you’d said you’d gone to see someone called Dr Yi in Box Hill, but when I got there you’d already left, so that girl sent me here. He’d like you home, she said, I’ve got the car, we can go past a chemist if you need.

  A thick poison went up to Beth’s head. The quiet and calm of Twoomey’s garden snap-faded like a light going out. What? she said. It’s no trouble, said Emily. In our car? said Beth—as if that were the issue. Oh, said Emily, you’re wondering why he couldn’t come himself. Sorry. Well, she said, it’s because he’s had three clients today already and there’s two more booked this afternoon: there’s bookings tomorrow too. It’s crazy, she said, suddenly it’s the busiest we’ve ever been! It’s because of the new tax rules, and end-of-financial-year coming—everyone’s in a panic. But, as David says, said Emily, smiling, you’ve got to make hay while the sun shines. He’s with a roofing-maintenance guy now, it�
��s a two-hour appointment, so he asked could I whiz out and grab you. Emily kept flicking the keys. Are you okay? she said. (He’s sent his secretary, thought Beth, to pick me up and take me home?)

  The gate opened and a woman entered: middle-aged, well dressed. Are these Twoomey’s rooms? she asked. Beth pointed at the door and the woman went in. Look, said Beth, it’s not your fault, Emily, I’m not blaming you, but my husband should have come himself. Emily sat down beside her. Oh dear, she said, you’re right. She took out her phone. I’ll tell him now. No, said Beth, touching her arm. Emily put it away again. Just tell him when you get back to the office, said Beth, that I have to go for a test in Epping and that he’ll need to pick up the girls. They’re in after-care. The office lady, Kate, will have already taken them across. But he needs to be there by six. Emily? Can you tell him that?

  I can get them, said Emily. She was sitting too close, the whole thing was too close and weird. I like kids, she said—I do babysitting for Aunty Heather. If David’s got to work late, then I can get them and bring them back to the office and we can play together out the front. Don’t you have a boyfriend? asked Beth. Emily blushed, and stood up. There was a sudden coldness about her—she was here to offer sympathy but Beth wasn’t making it easy. Mrs Own, she said, I don’t know where you’re going next and I don’t really care, but the offer’s there if you want it. I can take you home, pick up the girls, get your things from the chemist, make dinner, whatever. You only need to say.

  Give him this, said Beth. She took out the shirt she’d bought in Box Hill. It’s a shirt, she said, the receipt’s in the bag, if it’s too small he can exchange it—I know he’s got a bit big around the middle. Emily took the shirt from her but the coldness hadn’t thawed. Okay, she said. (Beth still had the kids’ puzzle, too, but she wasn’t giving her that.) I’m not coming home, Emily, said Beth, until I find out what’s wrong. Can you tell him that too? Emily nodded, and closed the gate behind her.

  The sun had left the yard. The plummy-voiced woman who’d gone in after Beth came out, lifted the latch on the gate, and went away. A cloud passed overhead, a small green caterpillar inched its way along the bench. Beth thought about her backyard and the moonlight and the seedlings down in the garden. Why did I get sick? She looked at her watch—my god, it’s nearly five. That after-care supervisor, Sandra, is unforgiving. But he’ll get them. Or Emily will—yes, let the mildly attractive young secretary get them. Let that be their treat. What a stupid thing, not to have charged my phone—that’s not a sign of someone feeling normal, operating normally.

  She took the mirror from her makeup bag and checked herself again. She took off her heels, put on her walking shoes, pulled out the referral letter. This one hadn’t been sealed. She studied the address and checked it against the map. Epping. An hour or more by bus? It did seem a long way to go for a saving. She sat for a moment listening to the water on the teahouse roof. Her stomach groaned; she put a hand on it. Yes, eat first, she thought, think later. She put the envelope away.

  GEOFF / TO EPPING

  It was uphill on the way back, and Beth had to stop to catch her breath. She figured once she got to the bus terminal there’d be some shops close by and maybe she’d be able to grab something to eat. She still had a little cash. And if she had to use the card again, so what? What could he do now? Yell and scream? Send his secretary to tick her off?

  She could hear the sound of peak-hour traffic in the main street nearby and she headed towards it. Near the corner was a café with a sign in the window: Eat In Or Takeaway. The doorbell tinkled, she went in. It was drab, old-fashioned—and empty. Then a man appeared from out the back. Sorry, he said, we’re closed, I was just about to put up the chairs. Grey-haired, stocky, fit-looking, with a big moustache and a wide open smile, he wore a black apron with the word Boss on it and had a red tea towel slung over his shoulder. Sorry, he said.

  Beth was still standing just inside the door when something in her broke. The café owner saw it. Her shoulders fell, a pall came over her face, with a hand she lightly cupped her brow. The man didn’t hesitate: he crossed the room, locked the door, turned the sign from Open to Closed and gently guided Beth to the nearest chair. It’s all right, he said, don’t worry; I’ve turned the fryer and pie warmer off but I can still get you something. Beth still had a hand shielding her eyes but now her shoulders were shaking too. She’d seen the blue family wagon, the family-of-four sticker in the back, parked in the street outside Twoomey’s. Emily was in the driver’s seat, talking on her phone. Gemma’s rainbow ribbon wand was still on the back ledge from yesterday morning. You can’t take it to school, love, leave it there.

  I could do you a little toasted focaccia, the café owner was saying: how does that sound? Don’t cry, don’t cry, he said. He patted her shoulder and pulled the napkin dispenser close. Don’t worry, don’t worry, it happens all the time. Why don’t I get you a nice little toastie? Is cheese okay? Cheese and tomato? The coffee machine’s off but I can still make a cup of tea. How do you have it? Milk? Sugar? There, there, don’t worry, it happens all the time. Toasted cheese and tomato focaccia, white tea no sugar.

  The café owner went back to the kitchen; she heard him fussing around. Beth sat at the table and wept. Why not? She’d held it in all afternoon. The whole ridiculous situation. Haven’t I been stoic? Brave? Patient? And now I crack? Crack up. She took another handful of napkins from the dispenser, dried her eyes and blew her nose. Someone outside rattled the door, waited, then went away. The toastie did smell good. She blew her nose again and checked her purse—no, she didn’t have much. She took out the rebate map the funny little receptionist had given her. He said Dr Kolm would be cheap but it was probably still going to cost. She started crying again. Where am I going to get a rebate now?

  Oh, don’t, said the café owner, coming out with her focaccia and tea. He put the things down, went to the window and lowered the blind, then did the same at the door. It felt even more cocoon-like now. He came back and sat opposite; Beth wiped her eyes again. I’m sorry, she said. Don’t be sorry, he said. I’m Geoff—and he held out his hand. Beth wiped hers on her skirt and shook it. I’m Beth, she said. She forced herself to smile. White no sugar, said Geoff, and with his tea towel he mopped up the little pool of tears. Eat, eat, he said. Her stomach grumbled; she picked up the focaccia and ate.

  I can’t tell you how many tears I’ve wiped from these tables, said Geoff, as Beth worked her way through it. You needn’t be ashamed. He gestured around the room. They come in, like you, from everywhere, all at the end of their tether. The worst day of my life! What more can go wrong? I want to go home! But of course they don’t. Not yet—how could they? Do you have family? Beth nodded. A husband and two kids. Oh god, she said, I should have gone home—Emily came, with the car. But you couldn’t, said Geoff, how could you, with all those questions still unanswered? How could you ever sit still? Once called, we go, Beth; the warm bed you woke up sick in this morning has already gone cold and won’t have you back, not until you’ve taken the journey, done your tests. If there’s an answer out there, you must go to meet it, with fortitude and a clear eye. What’s his name? David, said Beth. And would he want you to stop now? And then have to pick it up again tomorrow, the day after, the day after that? And if it goes well, as I’m sure it will, he will still be waiting for you, asleep in his chair, the kids tucked up warm in their beds, until the key in the lock wakes him and tells him you’re safe and sound.

  Could I use your phone? asked Beth. Of course, said Geoff. Mine’s dead, she said. I tried to ring earlier on a woman called Loren’s but I couldn’t remember the number. But I’ve just remembered it now. Geoff took a pen from the pocket of his apron, pinched a napkin from the dispenser and slid them across. Beth scribbled the number down. I need to speak to him, she said. It’s in the kitchen, said Geoff. He started wiping the tables and putting up the chairs. Beth could hear the rumble of trains from the station and see the silhouettes of people passing outside. In he
r mind’s eye she saw Sandra at after-care, putting the little chairs up on the little tables and getting ready to bundle the kids into the car.

  In the kitchen the dishes were piled in the sink and the benches were waiting to be wiped. There was the strong smell of melted cheese. The phone, old-fashioned, beige-coloured, was on the wall beside the fridge, next to it a laminated copy of the Desiderata in a fancy cursive font. Go placidly amid the noise and haste. Beth held up the napkin and dialled.

  Two rings and there was still hope; three, four, and the hope began to fade; five and David’s message cut in. When it beeped she left her own message, her voice clear and resolved. She thanked him for sending Emily and said she was glad he was busy; she was ringing from a café in Heidelberg, she had to have another test. It was unlikely she’d be home till late, so he needed to get the girls—she’d told Emily this. He had to be there by six. It was nearly six now. She’d ring later. Bye. She hung up, stood a moment, thinking, then put the napkin in her jacket pocket and walked back out to where Geoff was sweeping the floor. I’m ready now, she said. She took the referral from her bag and handed it to him. He read the name. He’s good, he said, very good, I’ve heard nothing but good things about him.

  All right, said Geoff, you’ll need to get two buses: the 513 to Greensborough, then the 901 to Epping. Dr Kolm is in Dream Haven Court, off Miller Street, opposite the plaza. You’ll catch the first bus at the bottom of the hill. There’ll be others on it; follow them if you get lost. He folded the referral and handed it back. Out the door, right, then down the hill. Wait, he said. He went back to the kitchen; Beth heard him bustling around. He came back out with a brown paper bag folded neatly over at the top. Something for the road, he said. Beth took the bag from him: apple, pear, muesli bar. David might call, she said, on your phone. Don’t worry, I’ll tell him, said Geoff. He unlocked the door; the sounds from the outside rushed in. Go, good luck, he said.