Some Tests

by Wayne Macauley

  Beth remained sitting. The Bible was where Mrs Rosetti had left it, a slim piece of paper for a bookmark. She put it in the dresser and sat, hands on knees. She could hear the others talking in the kitchen. Am I not just sick but dying? she thought. That would be a surprise. She took the packets of pills from her bag and read the label on each. She took out the big envelope with her referrals and pictures, read each document slowly and held each picture up to the light. But what am I looking for? she thought. Dark spots, abnormalities, distortions? Signs. No, I don’t know—and if not how will I find it? She homed in on one particular scan and put the others beside her on the bed. She passed it back and forth across the light. White patches, grey shadows: it was hard to tell how long she’d been doing this when there was a soft knock on the door. Mrs Rosetti, she thought, worried again. She slid all the things back in the envelope and put it in the pocket of the case. Who is it? she said.

  I’ve brought you some water, said Trent. (Thank god I’m dressed, thought Beth, and not already in Mrs Kolm’s cheap nylon nightie.) Come in, she said. He hesitated when he saw her, then set the glass on the dresser. Is everything okay? he asked. I mean with the nurse? Beth nodded without looking at him. Trent sat beside her. Everyone has trouble accepting, he said: Dr Forster, CommPharm, me, this. Of course people have trouble putting all that together and calling it Fate. But it is, you know. You’re not the only one who’s had dinner here before going on to see Dr Panchal. And I’m not saying that because you’re not special—you are special—but just so you know: others have gone this way before and each has had to learn their own kind of acceptance. I mean the first part—there will be more acceptances to come. No-one likes watching a person fight with themselves—who could ever get pleasure from that? (He talks so beautifully, thought Beth.) She put a hand on his knee. Thank you, she said.

  What were you thinking out there, he asked, when you were looking at the moon? That it’s bigger than all of us, said Beth. That’s true, said Trent. For the first time in ages Beth smiled, a small tug at the corners of her mouth. She looked at him; he seemed older. (Deep thoughts age us, she thought.) I was thinking about my mum, too, she said, and where we go after—it’s not too early to be thinking that, is it? No, it’s not too early, said Trent. She died young, said Beth, she was only forty-seven. I’d just turned fourteen. My brother found her; she never woke up. When I stood that night over her bed and saw the moonlight on her face, she looked peaceful, like she had found peace. My dad was just confused. He was seven years older than my mum—he’s seventy-seven now—and he was convinced he’d go first. That would have been his rest, his quiet time, after all he’d gone through with her. Mum used to disappear, you see, sometimes for a few hours but usually longer. I’ve never really talked about this before. I guess back then we just accepted it as normal. She’d do the breakfast dishes, tidy the kitchen—but she wouldn’t leave a note. By evening Dad would be beside himself. And when she did come home—ten, eleven, twelve hours, maybe days later—she’d be all floaty and quiet and he’d just have to adjust. Have you eaten? he’d say, and he’d make her something. So of course Chris and I watched all this: watched, listened, learned. If I’m ever going to get married, I said, I’m going to do it right: find a good man, get a good job, live a good and happy life. That’s not too big an ambition, is it? No. I reckon it’s a pretty modest one when you look at the ambitions some people have.

  Beth shifted on the bed. Trent studied her face: her skin looked powdery, fine. They could hear Mrs Rosetti in the kitchen.

  I like my job, she said, I’ve made good friends. Georgia’s my main friend but she doesn’t have kids—the last couple of days I’ve realised that’s actually a big difference between us. I get on with the residents, mostly—all that yucky body stuff doesn’t bother me any more. I’ve been there ten years now and I’ve seen my fair share die. Lately I’ve thought a change might be nice, maybe a couple of days a week in a florist’s or a gift shop, something like that.

  I’m sorry, I’m babbling, she said. Trent smiled and put a hand on her knee. When I started at Croydon, she said, my motives were clear: to do good. But even though I’m a carer I do find myself these days caring less. There was a man, Mr Winslow, he passed away a few years ago—he’d lost his wife some years before. Well-to-do, well spoken—but the most obnoxious person I’ve ever met. He wouldn’t shut up complaining, treated the home like a five-star hotel. Sometimes he’d slip a hand up your dress, not very subtly and not just with me but with the others too. One time he grabbed hold of my wrist and twisted it so hard I had to bend over to stop it hurting and then he just put his hand all the way up. But did I scream? No. Please don’t do that, Mr Winslow, I said. And when a few months later Mr Winslow passed away in his sleep, did I care? Had I cared that morning when I gave him his tablets, that afternoon when I bathed him, did I care now for the soul flown up and gone? No. I didn’t care about Mr Winslow then and I don’t care about him now. Next morning when I told Georgia all she could say was Good. All my care—all my love and devotion if I’d found it in myself to give it—would not have changed Mr Winslow. Some things are beyond change—a lot of things, actually. You’ve only got one life, one brain, one heart, one pair of hands, you can’t move everything, bend it to your liking—maybe in the end the only thing you can change is yourself, maybe your self is the only thing you should worry about.

  Did you ever lose someone? she said. I mean someone close? Trent didn’t answer. I lost my mother and my brother, said Beth, two grandfathers, a grandmother, an aunty, an uncle, a niece, another niece, a cousin, a second cousin. It’s only lately I’ve started adding them up. When you lose that many it gets you thinking—maybe that’s why I chose a job in care? Originally I thought I might like to be a doctor, then a nurse—I’ve still got my Stedman’s with the sticky notes in the cupboard at home. I’d have been a good doctor, I reckon; I’d have explained things, that’s for sure, in simple language, in a way people would understand. I wouldn’t keep them in the dark.

  She should have stopped talking, she knew it, it wasn’t doing her any good, but something had got hold of her now and she couldn’t shake it off. Trent was as still as a statue, a comforting hand on her knee, staring unflinchingly at the side of her face.

  David wants to renovate, she said. A hundred years ago kids slept four to a room and now they need to have one each? But yes, I let him make his plans and talk about them every weekend, potter around in his slippers with his tape measure and his glasses pushed back on his head. That’s his contentment, I suppose. So all right: what’s mine? How can you live a happy life when there’s a fly that won’t go away? I want Gemma to get past picture books, I want Letitia to stop wanting pink jewellery, I want David’s bald patch to go away and his nose to be not so squishy at the end. I want him to stop wearing yellow socks. I want to drive to the airport and fly away—and not just to Queensland. I want Lyn to like me more and respect my opinion the way she respects Georgia’s and for Georgia to stop giving me advice. I want my bum to be smaller, my thighs to be thinner, my chin to be pointier and the flab under my arms to go away without having to carry those stupid pink dumbbells around the park. I want David to make love to me on Saturday mornings while the kids watch cartoons instead of sitting up in bed talking about French doors and kitchen cabinets. A glass of water should quench your thirst. It should, shouldn’t it? But it doesn’t.

  She went silent; she’d probably said enough. Trent was stroking her hair. She lifted her hand and put it against his cheek. There were marks on her arm from the needles. She could feel his bristles and from his skin the unmistakable emanation of youth. Health, she thought. Good health. Vigour. She let her fingers move over his eyebrow, his forehead. She let them stop, linger. Trent put his hand on hers. Then, with the slightest of pressure, he turned her face towards him.

  Beth woke late the following morning. Trent was no longer there. By the looks of the light on the curtains it must have been nearly eleven. It’s all ch
anged now, she thought. She rolled over and looked at the door—it was as if Mrs Rosetti had been waiting behind it. It opened, she pushed her head in and followed it with a tray of breakfast. Scrambled eggs, she said. She pulled the curtains halfway back. It was bright outside. Eat up, she said, then when you’ve finished and got yourself ready I’ll take you to where they’ll give you a lift to Dr Panchal. We’ve had to reschedule. That’s okay. When you’re ready, when you’re ready. She put the tray down. Do you want more light? She had already claimed the room—in the same way, thought Beth, as she would have with Rohanna in her teens. The day has begun, get up and enjoy it, you can’t spend your life in the dark!

  Has Trent gone? asked Beth. There was a hesitation, then quickly, almost brutally, Mrs Rosetti pulled the curtains all the way back. Take your time, she said, take your time—and she left the room again.

  On the tray was a plate of scrambled eggs and chunky white toast, orange juice, black coffee, a small jug of milk and a sugar bowl with a spoon. She’d struggled to get through the bowl of pasta the night before but now, thankfully, this morning, the queasy feeling had gone and her appetite had returned. And I should be grateful, she thought, for what they are doing for me. When in my life have I been welcomed into a home as I was last night into this one? She recalled the dinner, the conversation, the goodwill, the backyard and the moon. Shanee. Trent. She pushed the breakfast tray down, slid a hand under the bedcovers and gently felt about in the place where, after a few preliminaries, all his attentions were directed. There was a hurt down there, but a warm hurt—she’d keep that warm hurt for later.

  She drew the tray back towards her and ate. There was a new day ahead—an important and possibly very long day—and she needed to be focused and ready. She finished her breakfast, put the tray aside, pushed the covers back and fetched the dressing-gown from the hook. Her second shower—but who knows when she might get another? When she undressed in front of the mirror there were red marks all over her belly and thighs.

  Back in the room she picked out a dress—blue with white edging—then put on her heels and some makeup and checked herself in the mirror. She zipped the suitcase shut and pulled the handle up. In the kitchen Mrs Rosetti was preparing lunch. She had a clingwrapped sandwich and a couple of pieces of fruit in a plastic container and was now topping up an old soft-drink bottle from a jug of premixed cordial. As she did, she explained the morning ahead.

  I am taking you to the distributor, said Mrs Rosetti, where they will give you a lift to Dr Panchal’s in Wildwood—they use the distribution method out here because you have patients going every which way and public transport gets too hard. It’s not very far and some choose to walk but I think under the circumstances it’s better I take you. They know me in the office there. She called out into the lounge: Salvatore! I’m taking the patient to Western Avenue, push the button if you need. She gave Beth a little smile and led her down the hall.

  If today’s weather was any guide, things were looking up. Last night’s cloud had cleared and another warm day beckoned. The sky seemed somehow higher, too, and the air thin and clear. The blue Mazda was in the drive; Beth put her suitcase in the boot, then slid into the passenger seat and buckled her belt. The air-freshener in here was lemon too. So is Trent at work? she asked. Mrs Rosetti buckled her belt. He’s got his whole life ahead, she said, it’s important the young work hard while they’re young because eventually the body gets broken. She started reversing out of the drive. Some people say those boys are foolish to help Dr Forster and the others but they’re good boys, both of them, and you get back what you give. Maybe Trent does more good deeds than he should, said Beth. I can’t be the judge of that, said his mother. They were out in the street now; Beth was hanging on Mrs Rosetti’s every word but she still couldn’t figure out if she approved. Trent came to my room last night, she said. I know, said Mrs Rosetti. She gave Beth a quick sideways glance but made no further comment. Her hands tightened on the wheel. He’s done it before, she said, he’s a good boy: the charity of every one of you all toward each other aboundeth. Then they drove.

  It was true, Beth could have walked, they’d only gone five minutes down the road when she saw the so-called distributor up ahead. It looked like a car yard: a big concrete area surrounded by a wire-mesh fence with an open gate to the road and a prefab office in the middle. They’d passed a few houses along the way, then some factories, but beyond the far fence of the distributor the landscape opened out into paddocks.

  There were fifty-odd vehicles in the yard, mostly older model vans and family wagons. Each vehicle had a driver attached, some were waiting behind the wheel, others stood around chatting in pairs or groups. Mrs Rosetti pulled up in the drive-through in front of the prefab office—ahead, a middle-aged couple were getting into the back seat of a blue Subaru. Mrs Rosetti went inside. Beth watched the Subaru drive away, then heard another car, a green Toyota, pulling up behind. Its driver went into the office too. By leaning over and looking in the mirror Beth could see five people in the Toyota, one in the front and four in the back, including—yes, definitely—Sandi the kitchen hand’s daughter. She recognised her by the fish eyes and purple hair. Mrs Rosetti returned from the office with Beth’s paperwork and as she did another car, a red Hyundai this time, backed up to where the Subaru had been. A young man got out, walked over to them, took the paperwork from Mrs Rosetti, looked briefly through it, tore a single sheet off and gave it back. He rolled up the rest and slid it into his back pocket, then he took the suitcase from Mrs Rosetti’s boot and put it in his own.

  Well, Beth, said Mrs Rosetti. They were standing in the drive-through between the Hyundai and the Mazda. Your rebate cash, she said, and she handed Beth a small white envelope with a dollar sign and Beth Own scribbled on it. It’s all there, she said. She kissed her on both cheeks. The driver waited with his passenger door open. Everything will be taken care of, said Mrs Rosetti, you have nothing to fear. She caught herself up: that was a stupid thing to say. It has been a pleasure having you, she said, and we hope we have made this stop on your journey as relaxing as possible. Yes, said Beth, you have. Mrs Rosetti handed her a plastic bag with the lunch and cordial in it. Thank you, said Beth. Good luck, said Mrs Rosetti, and she returned to her car. Beth watched it circle the office and come out again on the other side. I am Manura, said her driver, still waiting at the passenger door, and I will be your transport today on your journey to Dr Panchal. Please be so kind as to get in. He half-bowed and gestured to her seat. Beth tucked her dress under her and put the tote in her lap.

  MANURA / TO WILDWOOD

  There is a very common theory, said Manura, that we become the name our parents gave us. Mine means good for humankind. So you see? My parents have many times said to me: Manura, we gave you this name so that you might live up to its high ideals, not so that you can become a liar and a thief. They have set the bar high for me and I must work to reach it. But, you see, we are Sri Lankan and they have given me a Sri Lankan name, with its Sri Lankan meaning. Then I come here and my name takes on a new meaning, very different from the one my parents intended. Hey, manure! Hey, cowshit! Here my name does not mean good for humankind, unless—he laughed—humankind is a garden bed in need of fertilising! So you see? How so-and-so perceives one thing one way and such-and-such another, these, Beth—Mrs Own—are things we cannot know.

  They were driving through open country: it didn’t look possible at first. After the distributor road petered out they came to a wire-mesh gate with an old post-and-wire fence either side. There was a gap in the fence where a post had collapsed and beyond that a gravel track. Manura casually drove the Hyundai through and the next thing Beth knew the track had become a straight stretch of sealed road going north. Here and there she could see a herd of cows or sheep—and in one paddock, llamas—and off in the distance low hills and a few clumps of trees. But everything otherwise was flat. No houses, people, cars—although, just after they’d left the yard and Manura started talking, she heard
the sound, like thunder, of a jet taking off.

  But now, Manura was saying over the noise of the car, that is much too much of me, I would like to ask where you have come from this day? Beth tried as best she could to tell him not just where she had come from this day but the day before and the day before that, but the more she tried the harder it got. She kept losing the thread. I have slipped, she thought, into a different zone, where the one-two-three-o’clock logic I’ve relied on to now has been broken. I’m sorry, she said, finally, with a growing sense of resignation, but the truth is I can’t remember everything in its proper order any more; maybe it’s best if from now on I put myself in the hands of people who seem to know better than me.

  Manura nodded. You are in our hands, he said, and they are good, strong hands. And many. He waited for Beth to look at him. You asked when we left the distributor, said Manura, who we are and what we do. (True, she had.) We are volunteers, he said, who have all taken good things out of this society and now want to give good things back. But quietly, you understand, without any big showing off. We are plugging up the holes—this is how my supervisor, Denis, puts it—in the leaky ship of the welfare state. He laughed. This is what charity is, Beth, and our charity is everywhere. You should know that there are three more distribution centres aside from ours—one in Clayton, one in Bayswater, one in Doreen—and around each a network of volunteers. Communication between us is, I am sorry to say, not always what it should be. But we try. A map of the world that does not include Utopia is not even worth glancing at. That’s on the wall in Denis’s office. Our north-west region has seventeen thousand registered volunteers alone: administrators, office workers, fundraisers, doctors, nurses, receptionists, home-hosts, couriers, drivers. Every one of those drivers back at Western Avenue is a refugee or economic migrant like me, paying back what we believe is our debt. And that is just Western Avenue. You are carrying medications from CommPharm—Manura nodded at Beth’s open bag to reassure her the information had come to him innocently—and I can tell you that their factory and distribution centre alone engages over a hundred volunteers, from basic process workers to the very best specialists in their field. This is why you pay nothing, Beth; this is what we call the goodness of the heart.