The Waiting Rooms

by Eve Smith

  ‘I thought the service was amazing. You did your mum proud. And as for Sasha, she did such a good job, didn’t she? I can’t believe how grown up she is! What can I say? The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree!’

  My mouth stretches into a smile. If only Jess knew.

  She leans closer and lowers her voice. ‘Mark told me what happened. He said you were at work when you got the call.’

  I feel the familiar swerve in my chest. ‘Yes. Yes, I was.’

  ‘So good she didn’t suffer. But still, I can’t begin to imagine.’ She chews her lip, and I know what’s coming. ‘What was it like? Do you mind me asking? You know, when she went…’

  An image of Pen drifts into my mind, her hand cupped in mine. Those intelligent eyes fading, her jaw going slack. I don’t know how long I stayed, after. Long enough for her cheek to feel cool when I kissed it. The warmth in her fingers fed by my blood, not hers.

  I clasp my palms together. ‘Peaceful.’ I look down. ‘It was what she wanted. Before things … deteriorated.’

  Jess gives a solemn nod. ‘Christ, it’s hard. Guess I’ve got all that ahead of me.’ She sighs. ‘Still, she knew what she was doing. Thank heavens Mum’s already signed. I tell you, I’m going to scrawl my name across those papers the moment I hit seventy.’

  I don’t say anything. It’s a bit like having children. Until you go through it yourself, you have no idea.

  ‘Hey, I loved that one you told about Pen dancing. What a lady! Did so well, didn’t she? Seventy-nine!’

  I take a long, slow breath. Jess is an intelligent woman: a secondary-school teacher, and a good one at that. But it’s as if she’s forgotten. How things used to be. I deal with death’s grim reality for a living, but I still feel robbed. Pen was healthy enough: as sharp as a pin before the pneumonia set in.

  She clocks my face and her smile wilts. ‘You must be exhausted, Katie,’ she says quickly. ‘Shall I get you a coffee?’

  I nod. I have a sudden, overwhelming urge to lie down, as if she’s cast some kind of spell. I let my lids close, just for a second. When I open them, Jess is halfway to the bar, stilettos stabbing the parquet floor. And that’s when I get it. I realise what’s wrong.

  When I was a child, the sending off of the departed was a big family occasion. Hordes of elderly relatives and friends would emerge in a flurry of hats and pearls, ferried like royalty from car to church to pub. I remember them reminiscing with watery eyes, conjuring ancestral names and discussing each other’s ailments with glee. Like some ancient court ritual, Pen would parade me in front of them, as cigarette smoke swirled around our heads. A wrinkled hand would reach through the haze and ruffle my hair, or a wavering voice might ask about school.

  I look around this room, with its disinfected surfaces and purified air. There are no elderly hordes here. No reminiscing huddles.

  No one in the room is over seventy.

  I’m sprawled across the sofa, watching something mindless. We only got back a couple of hours ago. Mark made me a good old-fashioned shepherd’s pie: that man knows how to spoil me. With the price of real meat these days, even your basic mince is a wallet-buster.

  ‘There you go,’ he says, handing me a fresh glass of pinot grigio. ‘Get that down the hatch.’ He slumps down next to me, and I stretch my legs out over his lap. God, it’s good to be home.

  I swirl the wine around the glass. ‘You know who was missing today?’ Mark gives me a blank look. ‘Lucy.’ I smile. ‘Pen used to call Luce her other daughter. She was so good to her. Always let her stay, no questions asked.’ My smile fades.

  Mark squeezes my foot. ‘Not sure how Lucy would have gone down with the bridge crowd, though.’ I chuckle. Luce would have ambushed that reception.

  We sit in silence for a while. ‘So, then,’ he says. ‘Have you given it any more thought?’

  I gaze at Mark, bleary-eyed. ‘What?’

  ‘You know.’ He traces his fingers over the sofa. ‘What Pen said.’

  It takes me a moment. ‘Oh. That.’

  I stare at the painting above Mark’s head. It’s a Dorset seascape: rich curls of green and silver crashing into cobbled walls. How many summers did Pen and I spend on those beaches? Sasha wasn’t allowed near a beach until she was six. Even then, the sea air couldn’t entirely be trusted. I paid through the nose for a spotty pink mask so at least her swimsuit would match.

  ‘Or is it none of my sodding business?’ He raises an eyebrow, a smile playing around his lips.

  ‘Don’t be so daft,’ I say, pushing my foot into his ribs. I try to think how I can stave off this conversation, but my brain’s too frazzled. I press my fingers against the cool glass; loops and whorls materialise and vanish. ‘I’m not sure. I mean, it seems … disloyal, somehow.’

  Mark peers at me over the rim of his glass. ‘Disloyal? But Pen was the one who suggested it.’

  I notice the dark circles under his eyes. He loved Pen; it’s taken its toll on him too.

  ‘I know, but that’s Pen. It’s exactly the kind of thing she would say, worrying about us all, right up to the last. It doesn’t mean it’s what she really wanted.’

  Mark doesn’t say anything. I foolishly think we’re done.

  He takes a breath. ‘Maybe Pen knew something.’ I take another swig. ‘She said it would be a good thing, Kate. A kind thing. Before it’s too late.’

  ‘Look, Mark, I just don’t know if it’s a good idea. Let sleeping dogs lie and all that.’ My toes stretch and contract as if they’re limbering up for something. ‘I mean, even if she’s still alive, I doubt she wants me turning up on her doorstep, not after all this time.’

  ‘Sorry, babe.’ He touches my arm. ‘Typical me, storming in as usual. It’s your decision, of course it is. It’s just…’ He swallows.

  ‘Just what?’ It’s not like Mark to tiptoe around.

  ‘Well, if it were me…’ He risks a glance. ‘If I’d had a child, and I’d had to give it up for whatever reason … I think I’d like to make my peace.’

  ‘What are you two talking about?’

  My head shoots round. Sasha is standing in the doorway.

  I wrestle myself into a sitting position. ‘How long have you been there?’ The words spill out, sharp and shrill.

  ‘Long enough.’

  My eyes squeeze shut.

  Mark jumps up. ‘Your mum and I are having a little chat. Just the two of us, OK?’

  I can’t see behind the sofa but I imagine Mark giving her the wide-eyed ‘come on, love, play along’ look.

  ‘There’s some wine in the fridge, if you fancy it,’ he adds: a sure sign of desperation.

  Sasha ignores him. ‘Mum?’ Just the one word.

  This is my fault: I should have told her I was adopted years ago; I don’t know why I didn’t. I never lied, it just didn’t come up. I won’t ever lie to my daughter again, no matter how hard it is. That’s the rule I set myself, after Ellie – the first of her friends who died.

  Mark catches my eye. I shake my head, ever so slightly.

  ‘Let’s not do this now,’ he says, hands outstretched as if he’s refereeing. ‘It’s been a long day. We’re all exhausted.’

  Sasha doesn’t move. Her pale forehead creases into a frown, and I glimpse the six-year-old Sasha, thumping the kitchen table, asking me why.

  She’s back to school tomorrow. But still I hesitate. I don’t want this to change things, the way she sees Pen. Or worse, force me into a decision I don’t want to make. Pen was always there, from my earliest memories, and before, right from the start. As far as I’m concerned, she is my mother. My heart clenches. Was. God, I wish Mark had never brought it up.

  Sasha’s lips tighten. ‘Do I have a sister?’

  I stare at her, mouth open, like an imbecile. ‘I’m sorry, I—’

  ‘You were talking about a child,’ she says. ‘About giving up a child.’

  It hits me then. I mean, really hits me.

  I remember how I felt after I got pregna
nt with Sasha. How Mark and I agonised over that decision: how careful we had to be. Even if you survived the TB, all those other infections were just lying in wait. Metritis, peritonitis, septicaemia. It’s hard to believe how cavalier mothers used to be. As if having children were a right, not a gift.

  I would have killed anyone who tried to take Sasha away.

  ‘No, love.’ My voice splinters. I heave myself up. ‘Mark, go and get that wine, will you?’ I grasp my daughter’s hands in mine. ‘Sit down, Sasha. There’s something I need to tell you.’

  CHAPTER 4

  LILY

  ‘Morning, Lily!’

  I hear words, but they are distant. I am running. Running as fast as I can.

  ‘Wakey, wakey!’

  The layers of sleep fall away as I shift from that world to this one. The thumping in my chest subsides. I peel back my eyelids. A fuzzy outline moves past the window. The curtains open, and I blink back the light.

  ‘Alright, Lily?’ It’s Anne. ‘You were having a right old moan. Bad dream?’

  I lift my hand to my face. It is wet. I stare at the wallpaper and focus on the flowers. There are four species in this pattern: common daisy, English lavender, wood forget-me-not, and an English rose I can’t be sure of. I suspect they’ve made it up.

  Anne presses the remote and the bed whines into action, pushing me upright. ‘How are you feeling? Everything back to normal?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say, fingering my chest. ‘Probably just a bit too much sun.’

  They checked my patch yesterday, after my little episode. That’s the price you pay for 24/7 real-time analysis.

  ‘Well, make sure you wear your hat next time. Don’t want to take any chances, do we?’

  No. We do not.

  I adopt a benign smile as the bed completes its moves. Anne whisks back the duvet and I haul my legs over the side. I don’t look down; the sight of my limbs appals me. Anne wheels my frame over and fits my slippers onto my feet.

  ‘Ready?’

  I nod and place my hands up on the bar like a gymnast. Or rather what pass for my hands these days. Fingers should be straight and slender, with smooth pink skin; oval nails with little white moons. Mine resemble something a child might draw: swollen and crooked, with knotty lumps like the growths you see on trees. I still can’t believe they’re mine. Perhaps it is my punishment.

  ‘One, two, three.’ She helps me to my feet. There, I am standing.

  ‘Right then. Shall we commence morning rituals?’ She pulls on her gloves; they snap around her wrists like a slap. ‘Morning rituals’. That’s my expression; Anne’s adopted it. I’ve invented my own vernacular for the daily humiliations of ageing. It occupies the mind, and the carers seem to like it.

  I fit my wrists into the clamps and hobble towards the bathroom. As I wheel onto the linoleum I can see she’s already got the bedpan ready. I manoeuvre myself round, lift my nightdress and start to pull at my pants.

  ‘Here, Lily, let me help.’

  Anne reaches forward and, with one professional yank, sends them careering down my legs to my ankles. She helps me lower myself onto the seat.

  ‘Ooh, that’s cold,’ I say.

  ‘Would you like me to warm it up for you next time?’

  ‘That would be nice.’ Our little joke.

  She leaves me to it. That’s Anne for you. Some of the others, they stand there, watching, as if you’ve waived all rights to privacy. They expect us to perform like battery hens, so they can get on with their day. I make sure I take an age when they do that. I refuse to pee on demand.

  ‘Finished?’ she asks, outside the door.

  ‘All done.’

  She comes back in and helps me up. I shuffle to the basin and rub soap into each finger. Anne has a kind face, I think, not that I can see much of it right now: broad cheekbones, hazel eyes. At least she takes off her mask after the all-clear. You entrust these people with your life, but I have no idea what some of them look like: you only ever see their eyes.

  ‘Who was it yesterday?’ My thought escapes before I can censor it.

  Anne screws the lid on the specimen pot, a scowl pulling at her cheek. ‘Are you asking what I think you’re asking, Lily?’ She rips off her gloves and drops them in the bin.

  I swallow. ‘I heard them come. When I was in the garden.’

  Her breath catches. She shakes her head. ‘Lily, you know I can’t.’

  I offer my hands up to the sanitiser and smooth the gel over my lumps. ‘Sorry, it’s just, I was wondering … you know…’ As my voice trails off we both know what I’m really asking.

  Her mouth makes a clicking sound. She walks over and whispers in my ear: ‘NC. But you didn’t hear that from me, understood?’

  I nod, despising myself for the relief I feel. NC: not contagious. Whatever infection carted that poor woman off to the Waiting Rooms isn’t coming for me yet.

  ‘Right then, onto the next one,’ says Anne, trying to muster some cheer.

  I shuffle past the walnut credenza that belonged to my grandmother. They still haven’t fixed the crack in the glass. I turn myself round and reverse into the chair, inching backwards until my calves touch the seat. I wave my hands out behind, feeling for the arms, and lower myself down. Anne watches me, close by. I grunt a little just before my bottom hits the cushion.

  ‘Bullseye!’ She snaps on another pair of gloves and wheels the trolley over. She takes my left hand and uncurls my forefinger. ‘Shall we use this one today?’

  ‘Why not?’

  She slips a heat pad on it for a couple of seconds and picks up the lancet. ‘Ready?’ I nod. The lancet punctures my skin like a stapler. Anne holds the tube underneath, gently squeezing my finger. My blood drips out, a deep crimson. When it reaches halfway she releases the pressure. ‘There we are, all done.’ She sticks a label on the tube and slots it into the tray next to the other one, ready to go up to the lab.

  ‘I’ve got some news for you,’ she says.

  My stomach thumps. Please, don’t let her be leaving; I won’t get another like Anne.

  ‘We’ve a new one starting next week. Her name’s Natalie. She’s going to be working with me on Carroll.’

  I’m almost giddy with relief. ‘Oh. What’s she like?’

  ‘Seems nice enough. A little quiet, maybe. Don’t worry, we’ll have her trained up in no time.’

  I eye the specimen tray and decide to risk it. ‘Well, as long as she isn’t another Pam…’

  Anne frowns at me as if I’m a child who’s just said something mildly amusing but naughty. ‘Now, now, Lily. She’s alright really. Got a lot going on, that’s all.’ She sighs. ‘What with her mother and everything … The poor woman’s in a terrible state.’

  ‘Oh. I’m sorry.’ It’s easy to forget that our carers have their own elderly relatives to contend with. ‘How long has she been ill?’

  ‘She’s not ill.’ Anne purses her lips. ‘Not yet, at any rate. But the place she’s living…’ She shakes her head. ‘She’s moved to one of those apartment complexes, you know.’ She glances at me. ‘For the elderly.’ That’s code for over seventy. ‘They’re really not nice.’

  I’ve heard about these places. I even visited one, once. They market themselves as affordable retirement villages, but they’re really just holding pens for the Waiting Rooms: cheap, soulless flats with precious little in the way of health services or infection control. But cracking surveillance. The moment a profile dips, or somebody’s chip goes off grid, security’s there like a shot.

  ‘Don’t say anything, will you, Lily?’

  ‘Of course not.’ I wonder why Pam’s mother isn’t living with her. I’m about to ask but I check myself. One step too far.

  Anne wheels the trolley to the door. ‘I’ll see you later. Try and eat some of your breakfast.’

  I watch the door close behind her. The lock thuds across. We have to stay in our rooms until we get the all-clear. I don’t mind, it’s quite nice having breakfast in your nig
htie. It’s just the waiting. They carry a heavy responsibility, those little samples. No wonder we struggle to get our eggs down.

  I pull my tray round and use the pen to tap the control. A blue screen lights up on the wall. ‘Radio.’ I enunciate each syllable. Lots of people predicted the demise of radio, but, like me, it has endured. The list of stations appears. ‘BBC Radio Four.’ I hear the familiar pips and think back to a world long gone where things seemed to be under control. The illusion won’t last. It’s the news.

  ‘The opposition has launched a scathing attack on the government after yesterday’s figures on the economy were released.’

  ‘Here we go,’ I say. I often talk to the radio. It’s a lot more rewarding than most of my conversations.

  ‘The report showed that the slump is set to continue, with the budget deficit at its highest point since the Antibiotic Crisis. The government defended its position, arguing that any reductions in healthcare spending or arbitrary policy changes would be “highly irresponsible” and that recovery would be “a long-term process”.’

  I brace myself as they cut to an interview with the prime minister.

  ‘We live in a time when we have had to make some extremely tough choices.’

  ‘Indeed we have, Mr Prime Minister.’ I dig my nails into the chair. ‘Tougher for some than for others.’

  ‘This government pledged that we would subsidise investment in new antibiotics and diagnostic tools. We promised to enforce responsible usage and rigorous infection control. We have kept those promises and we will continue to do so. Because we owe it to our children.’ There’s a rehearsed pause that makes my blood boil. ‘We must never allow another antibiotic crisis.’

  I give a contemptuous snort. Too little, too late. How many warnings did they ignore? For all their bluster, it took a global TB pandemic to finally spur Westminster into action.

  The door unlocks, and a whiff of eggs permeates the room. Pam slouches in with that surly look that spells trouble, so I mute the radio and keep my mouth shut. I try to think of something nice to say, but she slaps the tray down with such force that a stream of cranberry juice squirts out of the beaker’s spout.