The Waiting Rooms

by Eve Smith

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Casey.’ I give him my best smile. ‘I’m here to assist you with your directive. Make you as comfortable as I can.’

  Watery blue eyes focus through a film of pain. ‘Hello, Sister. That’s very kind. You’ve all been very kind.’ He nods at each of us, the bones pushing out of his face. The porters incline their heads and leave.

  ‘Is my daughter here?’

  ‘She’s just coming.’

  His eyes drop to his hands. He sinks a little. ‘She doesn’t approve, you know. She refused to see the soul midwife.’

  I take a breath. ‘I know. But this is your decision.’

  He taps his thigh. ‘She lost her mother, you see. Two years ago.’ The wrinkles on his forehead deepen. ‘It’s hard for her. To have no parents. To be no one’s child.’

  My chest tightens. His eyes slide to the brown bottle. ‘Dying is the easy bit.’

  I touch his shoulder. ‘We all have to leave our children. I know it’s difficult, but this is about you now. You need to prepare yourself.’

  I pick up the bottle and scan the label. ‘Whisky flavour, eh?’ He smiles. I give it a good shake.

  ‘The water of life. Ironic, don’t you think?’ He presses his knuckles together. ‘Does it taste anything like it?’

  ‘Apparently it’s pretty good.’

  They used to give patients chocolate, before. To mask the drug’s bitterness. Now you can take your poison in any flavour or colour you like.

  I break the seal and pour the golden liquid into a glass, tapping out every last drop.

  He watches me. ‘Well, it certainly looks like whisky.’ Perspiration beads his brow. ‘Got any ice?’

  We both laugh just as the doors open. Mrs Atkinson glares at me, but when she sees her father her face collapses. She drops to her knees in front of him and sinks her head into his lap.

  ‘What’re you doing down there, Helen?’ he says, stroking her hair. He pats the cushion, his eyes glistening. ‘Come on. It may not be up to your usual standards but the sofa really isn’t that bad.’

  Her husband goes to help her up, but she shakes him off.

  Mr Casey smiles. ‘Stubborn one, eh, Roy? Always was.’ He pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket and gently dabs her cheeks. ‘There, there. Don’t cry. Come on, love.’

  Mrs Atkinson heaves out a sigh. ‘You’re sure, Daddy? Really sure?’

  ‘Yes, Helen. I’m sure.’

  The second hand ticks round. I say it as softly as I can. ‘It’s time.’

  She hauls herself up beside her father, and he hugs her close.

  I clear my throat and face the camera. ‘Are you James Robert Casey?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Do you want to die?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘If you drink this liquid, you will die. Your breathing will stop and then your heart.’

  Mrs Atkinson makes a choking sound. His face tightens. ‘I understand. That is my wish.’

  I give him the glass. ‘Go in peace.’ He cradles it in his palm, swirling the liquid round.

  Mrs Atkinson’s eyes lock on to her father’s, as if the sheer force of her stare might stay his hand. I wish I could tell her that he’s going to a better place. That all this suffering means something. But this is the best I can do.

  One second passes, two. Just as I think she’s succeeded he raises the glass as if he’s making a toast and knocks it straight back.

  ‘Not bad!’ He coughs. He puts the glass down and coughs again. ‘Not quite a Speyside, but better than some.’

  She seizes his hand, squeezing the blood out of his fingers. ‘Stop it, Dad. I know what you’re doing. Please, don’t. Not now.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Helen.’ The tenderness in his face makes my throat swell. ‘Forgive me.’

  Tears spill down her cheeks. She nods. Mr Atkinson hovers by the blinds, looking the most lost.

  Mr Casey takes a deep breath. ‘Well. I guess this is it.’ He turns to his son-in-law. ‘Thanks, Roy. For all you’ve done.’ He swallows. ‘Look after her, won’t you?’

  Mr Atkinson lurches forward. For a terrible moment I think he’s going to shake the old man’s hand. Instead he grips his father-in-law’s shoulder, spasms flickering across his face.

  Mr Casey kisses his daughter’s head. ‘Remember how much I love you, Helen. How much your mother loved you.’ His voice cracks.

  Mrs Atkinson sinks into her father, their fingers still intertwined. ‘I love you too, Daddy.’

  The lark swoops and climbs. The woodwind joins the strings, and the music builds.

  Mr Casey’s eyes flit around the room as if they are searching for something. His breathing deepens.

  ‘Daddy?’ Her brow creases. ‘Daddy?’

  ‘Dizzy…’ he mumbles.

  I step closer. ‘It’s alright, Mr Casey. You should begin to feel sleepy. Just close your eyes.’ The numbers on the monitor start to drop. His gaze wanders back to his daughter, but it’s already distant. His eyelids flutter. I see her jaw tremble.

  The monitor flashes. His head slumps onto his chest.

  I lean over and feel for a pulse. Her eyes meet mine. I nod.

  Life is extinct.

  She utters something between a roar and a wail. Her husband stands behind her, one hand outstretched. Not quite touching.

  I switch off the monitor and the camera as quietly as I can. I whisper to Mr Atkinson: ‘Take as long as you want.’

  He blinks at me. ‘How? How did it come to this?’

  I have a sudden urge to put my arms around him, to tell him how sorry I really am. But I don’t. Because I haven’t the energy to explain.

  And even if I did, it wouldn’t make him feel any better.

  CHAPTER 2

  LILY

  48.

  My stomach churns. It’s a Pavlovian response; it happens every time I look at my calendar. Those white paper squares are like a game of Sudoku. Each day has a number at the bottom written in the same black felt-tip pen: the one with a rubber tube around its middle, like those used by infants who are struggling to write.

  Forty-eight days until my birthday. The big seven-o.

  This is no childish anticipation. Quite the opposite. Cut-off. That’s the expression they like to use. Rolls off the tongue a bit quicker than ‘no longer eligible for treatment’. Elaine used to say that if octogenarians were a classified species they’d be almost extinct. Poor Elaine. She never made eighty. It started with a common cold, and the next thing, she’d got pneumonia. ‘Old man’s friend’, wasn’t that what they used to call it? Or, in her case, old woman’s. I suppose there are worse ways to go. But I miss her. She was the closest thing I had to a friend here. She was the only one who ever got the joke.

  ‘You’re dead right, Lily,’ she said to me one afternoon, as she contemplated my rows of little white squares. ‘Our days are most definitely numbered.’

  I press the pen back into its clip, slip my wrists into the clamps and wheel my frame out in front of me. I slide my right foot forward, my left foot, and stop. I repeat this pattern, again, and again, edging along the carpet. It’s an effort, even at this woeful pace, and I can feel the damp spreading under my arms. Eleven shuffles and I make it to the door. I raise my wrist and the sensor flashes. The lock thuds across. Freedom.

  I head left, getting into my own slow rhythm: push, shuffle, push, shuffle. Before my cartilage started crumbling I rushed everywhere. I never walked, I marched. It took some adjusting. At first I ignored it, pushed on, despite the pain. I took a few falls. But now I’ve had to accept my limitations. If I have another break, they won’t operate: I’m too close to cut-off. And I’ve seen what can happen, even with minor fractures. Bone infections are bad. They don’t go away. Not without treatment.

  A wall dispenser puffs out a chemical waft of jasmine. It doesn’t disguise the acrid stench of disinfectant. I glance at the nameplates as I move past: Dr Elizabeth Miles (Edin). Dr Bill Jackson (Camb). I don’t know why they bother putt
ing up your letters. Must be some marketing gimmick. Professor Harriet Weatherly (Oxf). I knew her: medical sciences, I think. A real pioneer in oncology. Now she’s got Alzheimer’s. See what becomes of these once-great minds? They’re either losing their marbles, or trapped in failing bodies, like mine. None of our knowledge can save us now.

  I hear someone coming up fast behind me.

  ‘Off for a stroll, Lily?’

  It’s only Anne, in a hurry, as usual. She’s a good one, Anne; I could have done a lot worse. Carers must be a bit like keyworkers at nursery. You get a bad one, you might not live to regret it.

  ‘That’s right,’ I say. ‘Fancied a bit of fresh air.’

  She cocks her head to one side like a bird. ‘What about the grand quiz? Aren’t they about to start?’ Her eyebrows arch. ‘Thought you liked testing the old grey matter?’

  I pause just long enough. ‘I do.’

  She shakes her head, but I see the crease of a smile as she turns. My rebellion, as always, is subtle: it has to be. But Anne can take it. And sometimes, it’s a relief to be me.

  The eye of a camera swivels round above me and back again. I’ve reached Auden. Everything is green here, like the Emerald City. The colours are supposed to help us, in case we get confused. Betjeman is Tuscan orange, Donne is rose pink, and my dorm, Carroll, is jaundice yellow. The San’s plain white, so I’ve been told. That’s where we all end up, eventually.

  I press on, battling hot spikes of pain in my fingers. It may be a little further, but Auden has my favourite garden. It’s south-facing, and there’s a bench tucked away in an arbour next to a Boscobel rose bush that gives out the most glorious scent. I stare at the lurid green walls and think of those little pastel strips they used to have, to test your urine. As if we need reminding. I remember when it used to be heart disease or cancer. Now, for women my age, there’s a new number one: UTIs. The infection passes into your blood and knocks out your organs. I’ve taken to drinking cranberry juice. I’m surprised my pee isn’t pink, the amount I put away.

  I slump over my frame and flash my wrist. The lock releases and the doors swing open. They tell us all this security is for our own safety, to stop the bad guys getting in. But we know better.

  I wheel onto the ramp, digging my frame into the grooves. A warm breeze blows the white wisps of hair around my head like a dandelion clock. I edge along the path, pausing to admire a white gardenia. Mauve and indigo asters nestle amongst feathered daisies; hollyhocks tower over lupins that are peppered with bees. Nature continues, despite all. It’s a comforting thought.

  I pause by a clump of lavender. My knotted fingers sneak around a stem and claw a few buds loose. We’re not supposed to touch the plants but flowers don’t frighten me. In any case, they’ve all been neutered: genetic variants with no spikes or thorns. I lift the lavender to my nose, and a childhood memory sparks: Grandmother’s furrowed hands, flour and aprons. Sanctuary.

  I tuck the lavender into my pocket and gear myself up for the final sprint.

  As I lift my frame I hear the crunch of tyres on gravel. I freeze. The other side of that fence is what my grandmother used to call the tradesmen’s entrance, round the back. These days it’s a different kind of trade.

  One door slams, and another. I hear talking. Sounds like male voices, but they’re muffled, indistinct. Another door opens and something slides out. My stomach clenches. I flip back to yesterday and run through the faces, using my mnemonic to work my way around the room. It can’t be anyone from Carroll. They were all there. Weren’t they? My hips protest, but I push on, past the arbour, and stab my frame into the lawn.

  Footsteps march up the drive and stop. I try to hurry, but my feet keep catching on the grass. I rest a moment, conscious of my heart hammering beneath my patch. It’s about the only thing we’re good for, generating data; there must be terabytes of it, streaming through the ether. As soon as your profile wavers, they send in the heavies. But data has its limits.

  I reach the fence. I take my arms out of the clamps and squash my face up against the fake willow mesh that covers the bars. I’m only just in time.

  Two men emerge from the San with a stretcher; they’re all suited up in coveralls, masks and goggles. A still body lies strapped under the regulation grey blanket. They head towards the ambulance. I say ambulance, but it’s more of a taxi: most of the equipment has been removed. As they come closer, a pale face I don’t recognise lolls towards me and stares with glassy eyes. My heart flutters in my chest like a trapped bird.

  The men slide the stretcher into the back, secure it and slam the doors. As they amble back round, one of them starts to whistle. I squeeze my frame so hard that my knuckle bones stick out, a chalky white beneath my skin.

  Dr Barrows appears, wearing her trademark white suit and black boots. She takes off her mask and I feel an absurd rush of hope.

  ‘Stage two: severe sepsis,’ she barks at them. ‘I’ve administered a sedative.’ She hands one of the men a small black screen.

  ‘Another day-tripper, then,’ he mutters. He scribbles something and hands it back. ‘Forms completed?’

  ‘They’ll come up when you scan her.’

  Both men hop into the front. They drive off, small cuts of gravel flying out behind. The rear windows of the ambulance gaze back at me like skeletal sockets absent of their eyes.

  I say the words in my head like a prayer:

  I hope Dr Barrows pumped her full of Valium.

  I hope she reaches stage three.

  I hope her heart gives out before she arrives.

  I want to turn and run, run like I used to, the wind screaming past my ears. But instead I push myself up, hook my wrists into the clamps and shuffle back to the path.

  When I reach the arbour I do not stop.

  And I do not smell the roses.

  CHAPTER 3

  KATE

  ‘You alright, Mum?’

  The room slides into focus. Sasha is peering at me, her eyes inscrutable behind their long, thick lashes.

  ‘Yes, love. I’m fine.’ I gaze at my wine glass. Surprisingly, it is still full. ‘It went OK, didn’t it?’

  Sasha picks at the tablecloth. ‘Yeah.’ She sucks in her lips. ‘Gran would’ve loved it.’

  Someone breaks out into high-pitched laughter, which reverberates around the room. It all feels too sharp, too loud. A bit like I’m stoned.

  I reach across and stroke Sasha’s cheek. It’s still slightly damp. ‘You read beautifully.’ My hand betrays me with a tremble, and I snatch it back. ‘Have you eaten anything?’

  Sasha’s lip curls. ‘Buffets aren’t exactly my thing. What about you?’

  I contemplate the remnants of sandwiches encased in cellophane wrappers, scattered over platters like fallen soldiers. ‘I think your dad got me a plate, but I haven’t really had a moment. People want to talk, you know. Anyway, I’m not that hungry.’

  She shakes her head at me and tuts. ‘Not a good idea to skip meals, Mum.’ Sasha loves to mock my many cautionary sayings. At least I glimpse the hint of a smile.

  She folds her arm into mine and steers me back to our table. It still amazes me how she’s managed to get so tall. My daughter looks down on me these days; I shall never get used to it. At least her eyes haven’t changed. They’re the same startling blue they were when they first squinted out at the world.

  ‘Look who I found,’ Sasha says triumphantly, as if I’ve been caught playing truant.

  Mark pats the chair next to him. ‘Get over here,’ he says. ‘I bagged you two vol-au-vents and three chocolate brownies before the vultures swooped in.’

  Their kindness strips me bare. I stare hard at the food until my eyes behave. My plate looks like an advert for bad parenting.

  ‘Funeral diet.’ Mark nods at me. ‘Scientifically proven. The body craves sugars and saturated fats.’

  A smile breaks through and I unclench, just a little. I drop into the chair and wonder if I’ll ever be able to get up. Mark leans over a
nd kisses me on the cheek. I breathe him in: that wonderful scent of soap and skin that makes me feel safe.

  ‘Well, everyone seems to be enjoying themselves, as per the brief,’ he says, running his fingers slowly up and down my back. ‘In fact, I’d say the bar is getting a pretty good hammering.’

  I take in the white linen, the polished cutlery and glass. Strange, how these fripperies still convey a semblance of order.

  One of the waiting staff approaches our table.

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you, Mrs Connelly. But some of your guests were enquiring about where they should send the donations.’

  I stifle a sigh. Why can’t people follow simple instructions? ‘The details were on the order of service,’ I say, trying not to snap. ‘It’s the Antimicrobial Research Fund.’

  Mark pushes back his chair. ‘You stay put and finish your food.’ He squeezes my shoulder. ‘I’ll take over duties from here.’ I press my hand over his. I can’t quite bring myself to let it go. He eases out of my grasp. I watch him walk across the room and feel a twist of love.

  I bite into a pastry and survey my guests. Women glide past in radiant dresses and heels; men huddle in herds of striped shirts and jackets. You’d think we were all off to the races. There’s just one couple in black, by the buffet, looking uncomfortable. I listen to the buzz of conversation and inhale a heady mix of wine and perfume. Pen would have approved. But something is starting to nag. Something’s not right.

  As I reach for my wine a woman in a turquoise maxi dress swoops onto the seat next to me. It’s my old school mate, Jess.

  ‘Dear Kate,’ she says. ‘How are you?’ Silver hoops shudder in her ears.

  ‘Jess. Thanks for coming.’

  She holds out her arms. ‘May I?’

  ‘Of course.’ She clamps me between them, and I try not to stiffen. How long is it since I’ve seen her? Funny to think we used to be close.