You will soon be going with the others on the bus, said Fatima: what time do you see Dr Panchal tomorrow? Beth was confused; no time had been mentioned. Morning would be best, said Fatima; late morning is fine. But we prefer not to leave these things too long. I’ll ring ahead. There are repeats in the bag. The three-times-daily one is particularly strong and you may need this reviewed. You’ve reached the next phase. Do you understand? (Do I understand?) Be sure to see Dr Panchal tomorrow. She touched Beth’s arm. Her pink fingernails stuck out from the ends of her fingers by a centimetre at least. Good luck, she said, and she slipped back through the door.
Beth could feel everyone shifting in their chairs. She walked back to the bench. The brief presence of the pharmacist had changed the mood in the room; people were checking their tickets and looking over their shoulders at the woman with the pink suitcase and bone cotton dress. She was obviously somehow special but in a way they couldn’t understand. One man—broad-shouldered, late thirties—stood up and confronted the girl at the window, demanding to know why that woman had received such special attention when he and others had been waiting nearly three hours. Beth heard the girl explaining how she, the woman, had been waiting nearly three hours too—but before the man had a chance to argue Fatima was at the window. Now there was even more movement in the room. She asked the man’s name and wrote it down, then asked to see his number. Reluctantly, he handed over his ticket. Fatima glanced at it, handed it back and suggested he take a seat. She had a quiet word with the girl. The man looked crestfallen, defeated. Fatima glanced briefly one last time across the open area towards Beth sitting bolt upright on the bench, then she went away again.
Everyone now, including the man, was trying deliberately not to look at Beth who, they were thinking, clearly had special privileges: it is beyond us to ask why. We will eventually have our number called, they thought, but we may have to wait for another time to have it all explained to us. From her tote bag Beth took out the Third Tier brochure and resumed reading from where she’d left off.
Beth heard the front door open but no ticket being torn. Is that the driver? she thought. Has he come? Is it time? She looked up: it was Trent, the glazier, showered, shaved and wearing clean jeans, a sports shirt and polished brown leather boots. The others all turned to look too. Beth could smell his aftershave from here. He strode towards her across the concrete floor; she stood, straightened her dress, became confused and sat down again. Trent stopped a metre away and spoke softly, so the others wouldn’t hear.
It’s me, Beth: Trent, he said, Jason’s workmate, the glazier, from Dr Forster’s. (How sweet, she thought, that he should think I had forgotten.) I came back because I was thinking it wasn’t right to dump you out here like that, on your own, in the middle of nowhere. The minibus goes all over the joint, you see, and if your drop-off’s scheduled last—they’ve got a system, but it’s anyone’s guess—then you could be on it for hours. And for those who don’t live local, like you, or who’ve got a specialist’s appointment in another suburb first thing in the morning, well, then it just gets too late and they’ll end up taking you to one of those shoebox motels near the freeway and come back to get you the next day. You won’t see Panchal tonight. So I thought—Trent stopped, reloaded. Well, I live about ten minutes away, he said, and I thought maybe the best thing to do would be for you to stay at my place tonight so I can drop you off early tomorrow, before the traffic gets bad. I spoke to Jase. He’s fine. I can start a bit late. But let me just check it’s okay here. Trent turned sharply and—a man on a mission—walked over to the dispensary window. Everyone watching stiffened. He kept his voice low, but it wasn’t hard to hear. He was asking if he could take Beth Own.
The girl ducked out and brought back Fatima—and Trent went through it all again. Beth could feel the resentment in the room rising. Fatima checked the file and asked Trent to sign and while he did she suddenly, unexpectedly, thrust her head and shoulders out the makeshift window. We have a Phase Four patient here, she said loudly, pointing in Beth’s direction, and I would like everyone, if you could, if you are at all capable of it, to be a little considerate. You might find yourselves there one day too, and I’m quite sure, like her, you’d want special treatment. All right? That shut them up. The resentment turned to embarrassment and everyone shrank back into themselves. Fatima gave a nod in Beth’s direction, then withdrew again out the back. The girl put the signed paper in the file; Beth pulled the handle of her suitcase up. Trent strode back towards her: olive skin, solid build, long sun-bleached hair. He took her suitcase in one hand and her tote bag in the other and led the way to the door.
What a strange thing it was, the early evening light! She’d lost all sense of time. The sky above was riven with violet feather clouds; a flock of starlings twitched, shape-shifting against the blue. There was the faraway sound of traffic, and closer, a semitrailer gearing down. But the industrial estate itself was ghostly quiet. Trent led her to his car, the suitcase clack-clacking behind.
He was right, it was only ten minutes away, and for the first few they kept silent. Then he said: I just thought this was the best thing to do, you know, because of how things are going. Beth nodded. She didn’t really know what that meant. How do you think things are going? she asked. Trent hesitated. Well, the main thing is now, he said, you won’t fall through the cracks; everyone is looking out for you, everyone cares. And you too? asked Beth. Yes, he said. Do you live on your own? There was a pause, then a longer pause, and Beth started to feel frightened. Suddenly Trent whacked the wheel. Oh no, he said, no-no-no, you’ve got it all wrong, I live with Mum and Dad, I’m only twenty-four, I haven’t got my own place yet; we’re going there, to Mum and Dad’s, I explained it all to the pharmacist, Mum’s getting dinner ready now. He turned and looked, but Beth was staring out the windscreen. She’d begun to feel woozy again. How could I leave a Phase Four patient sitting on the bench? he said—anyone else would have done the same. You don’t go to Panchal unless it’s serious. Mum’s happy for you to stay. She’s a bit annoying at first, but you’ll get used to her. I just don’t want you to think you’ve been forgotten. He glanced at her again. We’re good at forgetting people, he said. Beth glanced back, then wound the window down and let the cool evening breeze blow across her face. It smelled of car fumes, grassland, warm concrete, dinner. Are you all right? asked Trent. Yes, said Beth, I’m okay.
They drove on in silence. Trent kept looking at her, troubled that she might still be thinking he was taking her back to his bachelor pad to have his way with her. So it was a great relief to them both when he finally turned down a side street and pulled up outside a plain suburban house. In the last of the light Beth could see what she presumed was his mother—short, plump, late-middle-aged—waiting for them on the front porch.
THE ROSETTIS’
The porch light went on; a small dog was sniffing around the front lawn. The house was weatherboard with a neat front garden and a tin garage down the side. An old blue Mazda sedan was parked in the drive. Trent parked his green Falcon behind it and took Beth’s suitcase from the boot. She did feel a little better now, out in the evening air. Help her along! Help her along! said the plump woman on the porch. Take her arm! Take her arm! Trent did, and helped her up the steps. Don’t worry about my son, said the woman, smiling, he’s still learning but he’ll get there. She offered Beth a warm, pudgy hand. Come in, come in, she said.
In the hall it smelled of spiced meat and tomatoes; there were family pictures on the walls and halfway down an almost life-size china dog. Mrs Rosetti led Beth to a room at the end. This was Rohanna’s, she said, but it’s yours tonight; I’ve left a towel, the bathroom’s there. Trent rolled the suitcase forward and stood back. There’s a Bible on the bed too, said Mrs Rosetti, and a dressing-gown on the back of the door. Welcome, she said, welcome; we’ll be eating soon. She smiled and, on her way out, she gently closed the door.
There was a cupboard, a dresser and a double bed. Beth let her breathing
settle. She thought for a moment of hanging her hand-me-down dresses in the cupboard and putting her smalls in the drawer, but she’d probably only be here one night. Instead she pushed the suitcase against the wall. She lay on the bed thinking for a while about where she’d come from today and all she’d seen and heard. It has gone fast, she thought: is that a good thing?
A little later Mrs Rosetti knocked and said dinner would be in half an hour, and from the suitcase Beth chose the blue dress with the white buttons that Mary Kolm had given her. She laid it out on the bed, checked herself in the mirror. Yes, her face had definitely lost some colour. On the dresser was a framed photo of a teenage girl and beside it a wooden jewellery box. Beth picked up the photo, then opened the box: there was nothing inside. She took the dressing-gown from the hook on the door and the towel from the end of the bed and went to have a shower.
Later, in the dining room, the table had been set and four people were waiting. At the head was a thin man in his sixties with a vacant face and a bib around his neck; next to him was an empty chair and, next to that, Trent. Opposite was another empty chair and, next to it, Jason, his workmate, also showered and freshly dressed. Next to him was a woman in her thirties with a striking face whom he introduced as Rohanna, Jason’s fiancée, Trent’s sister, Sam and Ange’s daughter—the one, he said, whose bed you’re sleeping in. Rohanna smiled and held out her hand.
So, how did you go at CommPharm? asked Jason, pulling out the chair beside him. He and Trent were drinking beer, Rohanna was sipping wine. Good, said Beth, and she sat. And do they know what it is yet? asked Rohanna, looking down the table at her. Beth shook her head. I’m not sure, she said, I think I might have to go for some more tests. There was an awkward silence. Mrs Rosetti came in from the kitchen with a big bowl of spaghetti and meatballs that she placed in the centre of the table. Wine? she said. I’m not sure if I should, said Beth. Mrs Rosetti poured her half a glass and put some water beside it. This is my husband, Salvatore, she said, gesturing to the man with the bib. Hello, said Beth, but he didn’t answer. Mrs Rosetti brought a glass of wine to his lips; Beth fished around in the pocket of her dress for her evening tablet and quickly washed it down with the water. Everyone went quiet, trying not to look. Help yourself, said Mrs Rosetti, turning the tongs towards her. There’s parmesan there too, she said, and pepper. Terenzio, pass the pepper. (Am I really here? thought Beth.)
Mrs Rosetti did most of the talking, first apologising for her husband’s silence and explaining how he’d had a stroke. He took early retirement because of his back, started doing woodwork as a hobby—she pointed to a stork on one leg in the corner—and had, she said, even been making some money from it. One day she found him on the floor of the shed. You can never tell, she said. She filled her mouth and sipped her wine, then started feeding her husband. Trent looked embarrassed; Jason forced a smile. Rohanna tried to turn the focus back on Beth. Did she have family? Did she work? Beth told her about David and the business and the secretary he’d hired, about Gemma’s gymnastics and Letitia’s crossbite that, she said, wincing, had already cost them a small fortune. She told them about her job at the nursing home, her boss Lyn, her friend Georgia—although she was not so sure any more how much of a friend she was. She gave descriptions of some of the residents who lived there. I sometimes wonder if I got infected, she said. There was another difficult pause before Mrs Rosetti interrupted. She explained how her daughter Rohanna—Rosaria actually, Trent is Terenzio; they wanted to be Aussies, I don’t complain—was in the profession too. She’s right, said Rohanna. Jason was holding her hand, their fingers interlaced; the big diamond ring was hard to miss.
I used to be a nurse, she said, but now I work for Dr Forster in fundraising—our office is off the freeway, just before the airport. I run the call centre—actually, it more or less runs itself. So I spend most of my time now devising and implementing new campaigns, like the one we’re running this month where you wear red for blood, the Liquid of Life: scarves, hats, socks, underwear, badges. March was yellow and it raised two hundred thousand—we’ve put that mostly into a new house for low-grade patients, due to open early next year. Basic fit-out, equipment, IT, a receptionist and two new doctors on staff. (Beth noticed for the first time that Rohanna was wearing a red top, that Jason had a red silicone wristband and Trent the same, Mrs Rosetti wore red shoes, Mr Rosetti had a red badge in his lapel; the tablecloth was red, the pasta bowl—didn’t Trent have a red trinket hanging from the mirror in his car?) It’s challenging work, continued Rohanna, but it’s mostly behind the scenes. I’m certainly not on the frontline, like Fatima at CommPharm, or the hardworking Dr F. We’re the quartermasters, really. Jason lifted his fiancée’s hand and kissed it. Mrs Rosetti helped her husband up and sat him in the armchair on the far side of the room. She started clearing the dishes. Beth had hardly touched her meal. She felt giddy, light-headed, but nonetheless allowed herself another sip of wine.
I must admit, she said, having still not quite digested everything Rohanna had said, that I have been surprised by the size of the organisation. When I was referred to Dr Forster from Dr Kolm I was expecting maybe one or two more tests and then I’d be done, but it’s quite big and sophisticated, isn’t it? Huge, said Jason. I have seven working in my office, said Rohanna, CommPharm has forty at the factory and seventy more in distribution. There are thirty-plus freelance doctors and specialists—Jase, would that be right? So you see why certain vested interests might want to undermine us. They’re getting beaten not just on price but on access to services too, ease of delivery, and more. A patient these days has multiple choices, multiple means of testing, multiple paths to a cure—or, for some, multiple paths to acceptance—and a big part of what we do is help them negotiate their way through. We offer the human hand, try to make them feel less part of a system and more part of a family. But it’s hard work. Rohanna sipped her wine. Beth glanced down the table at Trent. Mrs Rosetti came back from the kitchen. There are many in high places, continued Rohanna, who would like to bring us down, for them the welfare of the vulnerable is no longer a priority—you have to wonder if it ever was—and this is why we’ve taken things into our own hands. Hath not God chosen the poor of this world rich in faith? said Mrs Rosetti. Hallelujah, said Trent. Hallelujah, said Rohanna. There was a strangled sound from Mr Rosetti over in the chair. Rohanna and Mrs Rosetti gathered up the rest of the things. Beth pushed back her chair. I might pop out for some air, she said.
It was cool outside. The backyard was bare except for a green tin shed and along the back fence a narrow garden bed with a hose snaking to it. Beyond that were more fences and houses; you could see the tops of windows with the lights on inside and above that tiled roofs, air-conditioning units, solar panels, satellite dishes, TV antennas. In a night sky scattered with cloud a bright moon was breaking through. Beth could hear quiet talking from the kitchen—but it was the moon that now had her attention. She lifted her glass, sipped her wine. The last cloud slipped away.
Two nights waxing, nearly full, it looked even more overwhelming than before. Beth gazed at it, then heard the back door open. It was Trent. Are you okay? he asked. It’s a lovely evening, she said: look. A nurse is here to see you, said Trent; she’s in Rohanna’s room.
Tall and black, with extraordinarily long-fingered hands poking out from the sleeves of her uniform, the nurse was waiting for her. I’m Shanee, she said, your district nurse. She had a stethoscope around her neck and her medical case was already open on the bed. I’m here to give you a quick check-up, she said, and to answer any questions you might have since you left Dr Forster this morning. Her accent was very musical, the notes sliding low to high: Beth liked the sound of it. Shanee stretched out a hand. I would like to start with the chest, she said.
She listened to Beth’s heart and lungs, took her temperature, pulse and blood pressure, looked into her eyes, ears, nose and throat. She jotted down some notes and curled the stethoscope up again. I apologise for the house call, Mrs Own,
she said, but I’m happy to confirm that you will be fit to travel. Are you taking your medications? Yes, said Beth. Good, said Shanee, and she clicked the case closed.
What is Phase Four? asked Beth. Shanee hesitated. The brochure says it’s when you get all kinds of help, said Beth, but what actually is it? Phase Four, said Shanee, is a crossroads, a chance to take another way. After so many tests and with so little known it is reasonable to assume there might be something more, a crack in the foundations, let’s say, the kind of thing your average GP and for that matter your standard specialist won’t detect. It’s like after the earthquake, said Shanee, when the injured are pulled from the rubble and we realise there are still others below. We need calm, Beth, silence, stillness, a deep, attentive ear. She put her case down and sat.
I should tell you, continued Shanee, that it is a last phase, or one of the last phases—let’s say the almost-last phase—and that, yes, to put it bluntly, the end is near. Not imminent, I didn’t say that, but close by. We might hear it if we listen. So we need to prepare ourselves for that. Of course it may not come—it’s always possible, though I haven’t seen it yet—and if by chance it doesn’t, well, how much sweeter will things be then? But if it does, as it must, eventually, inevitably, and if the patient has moved through Phase Four at least roughly according to the guidelines, then you’re going to be ready, aren’t you? And the readiness is all. But don’t worry, she said, patting Beth’s thigh, you needn’t concern yourself so much. I’ve already had someone speak to David and tell him what’s happening—so you can stop worrying about that too. We’ll send out updates to him as we go and if he has any questions—and he might, it’s only natural—then he can always ring. The menu is easy: 1, then 2. But we’ve already told him that. We’ve also let him know there will be opportunities to visit—he can bring the kids, there are facilities—but don’t worry, she said, all that’s for later, you are seeing Dr Panchal tomorrow: eat well, sleep well, take your medications, and the rest will look after itself. She stood up and shook Beth’s hand. Her teeth were radiant, her eyes glinted and sparkled. She picked up her case and left.
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