Before This Is Over

by Amanda Hickie

  Hannah had never got around to charging the camera. She didn’t have a single photo of Ella.

  In the kitchen sink, Hannah washed the few clothes they had brought over for Ella from next door. When they were dry, Oscar helped her pack them up, with Ella’s teddy bear and a couple of his picture books, into a small backpack. Oscar placed the backpack next to the front door, ready to be collected, and stood looking at it, as if it could explain why Ella left.

  “Should we ring Ella again, Mouse?”

  Hannah had called the number they had been given for the social worker, in hopes of talking Ella back to them, but it was clear that Ella’s uncle could prove who he was. As soon as quarantine was lifted, he was free to pick her up.

  When Hannah asked to speak to Ella, the pause on the other end indicated that she had committed a faux pas, but she didn’t care. She let the silence hang until the social worker put Ella on the line.

  “Hi, Ella. How are you going?”

  “Good.”

  “How’s the center?”

  “Good.”

  “Do you have other kids to play with?”

  “Yes.”

  Hannah was running out of things to say. “Do you want to talk to Oscar?”

  “Yes.”

  She handed the phone to Oscar.

  “Hi, Ella.”

  She watched him listening, looking far ahead as if he could see her if he squinted. After a moment, he said “Okay” and held the phone out to her.

  “Hello?” She couldn’t hear anyone on the line.

  “She went to play, Mum.”

  The third time she walked by the bag of clothes in the hall, she found Oscar sitting in front of it. She moved it inside the door of her bedroom.

  The house felt quiet, even though Ella had not been a noisy child. At the kitchen table, Zac and Oscar went back to school, with email and Wikipedia as teachers. Insistently, electronically, they were flooded with communication from the outside world.

  “I was right—it’s gone.” Zac had appeared noiselessly. His voice startled her.

  “What’s gone?”

  “I put today’s number on my graph and it fits. I think it’s exponential, or the opposite of exponential. I think that’s still exponential.”

  “You need to give me some context. What is exponential?”

  “The curve. If you just take this week, it dropped yesterday, a lot. It’s still, like, two hundred deaths, but compared to a couple of weeks ago, hardly anyone new is getting sick.” He stopped to consider this. “The people who are dying are people who were already sick.”

  “Or you might have a couple of days that are anomalies and the numbers will go up again tomorrow. That’s what happens in the real world.”

  “It’s gone.”

  “It can’t be gone gone. These things don’t disappear overnight. If you’ve got one sick person, they’ll be infecting others.”

  “Not many, which means they infect fewer people. And only some of them are going to die, because they can treat lots of them.”

  “Then it’s not gone.”

  “But it will be, in, like, a week, it will be. Even if we got it now, we’d probably get better ’cause the fewer people who are sick, the better they can treat them. If we got it now, by the time we ended up in hospital it would be almost over. I saw some guy on the Internet dancing. Outside. It’s weird.”

  “I’m taking the TV, kids.” Hannah changed the channel.

  “But, Mum, we were watching.”

  “This is important.”

  Zac pointed at the screen. “What, an empty stage with some suit hanging around the back?”

  “Give it a minute.” The suited man stood self-consciously to the side of the podium as if he wasn’t sure whether to stay put or slink off. “There’s some big announcement.”

  Zac sat forward like he had money on it. The image didn’t change. Two commentators filled up the dead air with chatter that said nothing.

  Sean wandered in holding his laptop. “Are you watching this? Oh, you’re watching this.”

  The prime minister finally reached the podium, alone. Hannah noticed that the suit had taken a step into the background. Maybe no one wanted to be responsible for losing the highest-ranking member of the government to a virus that was supposed to be on its way out. Odds were the PM had been wearing a mask, gloves, and gown the second before she walked into the pressroom. Her suit was perfectly ironed, and her hair formed a satiny bob. She was immaculate and healthy.

  She spoke of pulling together in a time of crisis, of the unwavering spirit of the Australian people, of the sacrifices made by us all in this time of hardship. She pressed her lips together in a thin smile of solidarity, she furrowed her brow in concern and grief. She smiled at her own words of hope, but not too much, not disrespectfully. Something real needed to be said, but this wasn’t it.

  The PM leaned forward on the lectern and gave a tight smile as she invited the first question.

  “Prime Minister, there are already cities in Europe that have declared themselves disease-free. Can you tell us how you will define ‘disease-free’ and what criteria you will use to decide that this epidemic is over?”

  The prime minister smiled and nodded, as if the journalist had asked just the right question. Her answer referenced the experts who were working on the problem, the post-pandemic role of various organizations, the patience of the Australian people, the complexities of the issue, and the necessity for caution. She promised the nation she would give the matter the serious consideration it deserved.

  The coverage cut to news footage from around the world. Celebration in Europe, a roundup of cities, all looking much the same. A succession of crowds jumping in unison as if to unheard music in front of iconic buildings lit in bright colors. Hannah searched the jubilant faces in case one was Sean’s sister, but they knew from her emails that she wasn’t in a celebrating mood. She’d lost too many friends. On-screen, youth hugged in the street. A young woman ran at the camera, arms outstretched. “Kiss me!” she called out. “I’ll kiss anyone.” Hannah was torn between deploring her recklessness and celebrating her optimism.

  When she wasn’t looking after Oscar, Hannah worked diligently. Not because the work was important or engaging but because it was a reason to delay reading her emails. They sat there on the computer, gathering weight, demanding attention. She didn’t need to open them to know what was in them. They were an invoice for her random and unfair survival.

  It was a bleak roll call. The first one was a client of Kate’s, a man she didn’t really know. She sat with the email on the screen, trying to remember something specific about him, the tone of his voice, a time she’d spoken to him, a meeting they had both been in. If she could make the electronic message real, she would know that he was dead, say goodbye.

  An email from the convener of her book club. Two names. Not women she was close to, but one she had been sitting with at the last gathering. And in her mind, Hannah could see her, leaning across the arm of her chair, admitting in whispers that she hadn’t read the book. Her abashed and conspiratorial smile was more real than the pixels on the screen. A woman she knew only to drink a glass of wine with.

  A single line from Yvonne—“I lost Damien last week.” And it was as if she were again sitting at the big table in Yvonne and Damien’s backyard, as she had been only two weeks before it all started. Kate had been there and complained because they had talked about schools and real estate and nothing that mattered.

  Hannah made herself read on. An email from Zac’s school advised that once the school reopened a memorial would be held for teachers, children, and family lost. Like a note sent home that the Sports Carnival was coming up, or Tuesday would be cupcake day. Her inbox still held five more emails that she knew would be like this. It was as if the universe had decided that it was time for her to allow room for other people again, that emotions were no longer a danger.

  Even to look at the subject lines brought to mind Vict
orian mourning announcements, black-bordered and florid. They formed an unseemly deluge of memorial services, as if everyone realized that if they didn’t lock in a time next week, the best slots would be gone. When she had read them all, with their bold typefaces and their funeral director–approved phrases, she wiped her face, breathed. Her head felt as if it were crushing in, as if the act of crying had desiccated her.

  She gave herself permission to go to the kitchen for a glass of water. In the small hall just outside the bathroom, she passed Sean. He whispered conspiratorially, “What are we going to do about Oscar’s teacher?”

  “Not her too?” Mrs. Gleeson’s face was in front of her, her way of smiling when she was annoyed, the after-school conferences about Oscar’s misbehavior. Someone she never really knew.

  Sean gave a slight and somber nod.

  “Do we tell him?”

  “He’s going to find out, but I don’t know the right words. Or what to do. Do we take him to the funeral?”

  The apprehension in her chest spread through her body, as if looking for release, as if she couldn’t hold much more. “I’ll tell him.”

  Zac and Oscar were propping each other up on the couch. “Hey, Mouse, can we turn the TV off?”

  “I’m watching something.” Eyes fixed to the box.

  Hannah perched on the arm of the sofa. Better not to think, better to start speaking. Anything to release the pressure inside.

  “Zac, can you mute it?” She moved herself down to the sofa and sat beside Oscar, with her arm along the back. Was that normal? Was that how she usually sat? She didn’t like this new world in which such a conversation was normal.

  She needed to get it over, say it, spit it out. “Mouse, it’s about Mrs. Gleeson.” He sat patiently. “Mrs. Gleeson got sick.” He was still looking at her. “Mrs. Gleeson died, Mouse. I’m sorry, she died.”

  “Oh, okay.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “That’s sad.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “I love Mrs. Gleeson.”

  “I know, Mouse.” He was silent, waiting to hear her out. “There’s going to be a funeral for her. Do you think you want to go?”

  “How do you know she really died?”

  “She did, Mouse. That’s why we have a funeral, so we can understand that she is gone and remember her.” To really know it, like she’d been trying to do with the emails.

  “Mrs. Gleeson’s family must be sad.”

  “I’m sure they are.”

  “All the kids must be sad too.” His eyes went to the TV. She stood up. “Mum, it’s good you’re not dead.”

  The curtains glowed and slowly faded as the sound of a car’s engine flowed and ebbed. Hannah kept her eyes closed, but the light diffused through her eyelids. There were people out there, people in cars. She was nearly asleep when it came again, the pulse of the outside world. Glow and fade—long, slow, urgent Morse code.

  It came again, the distant hum of an engine, reminding her of the people passing by, hermetically sealed inside their tin cans, kept fresh by their air-conditioning. A day, two days. The thought of waiting made her muscles twitch. It was a physical yearning, like a crush. A lust for the world, and she couldn’t think herself out of it.

  “Are you asleep?” she whispered softly.

  “No.”

  “What are you thinking about?”

  “Nothing. Sleeping. I’m thinking about sleeping.”

  “I want to go out.” Once the words passed her lips, she had to confess all. “Not be running away from anything, not afraid. Just a stroll, to see. Like we belong there.”

  In the long pause before Sean spoke, she knew he was weighing up just how irresponsible she was. “Word on the net is it’s pretty much gone. We could go out, for a minute.”

  “Zac will hear.”

  “Then don’t make noise.”

  She slipped a jacket over her pajama top and pulled on the day’s worn jeans. They carried their shoes until they got outside, tiptoed down the stairs, and trod lightly past Gwen’s house. The breath in her mask kept her nose warm, but the thin disposable gloves didn’t hold any heat. She wedged her hands into her pockets.

  She walked briskly in order to get back home as quickly as possible. Sean put his arm around her shoulder and slowed her. He walked with false bravado. Their steps rang out, daring the quiet houses to take notice of them. The streetlamps were like floodlights, banishing from the open spaces any shadows that an escapee might hide in. In the dark crevices that remained, she caught glimpses of the occasional rat scurrying out from a garbage bag.

  Sean hesitated at the corner. “Where are we going?”

  She smiled at him. “For a walk.”

  “Left or right?”

  “I want to see normal again.”

  By unspoken agreement, they bypassed the little local shops and headed to the main street, keeping to the safe, larger, well-lit roads. Seeing people walking, being, even from a distance, was exhilarating. Sean slipped his hand in hers and even through the glove, his warmth made the cold ends of her fingers burn. The shops were lit up, switched on, empty, but there were people in the street. The crowd was thin at this end of the short main stretch but the farther down she looked, the more dense it became, until the groups were so close, people could reach out and touch each other. A buzz rose from them, friend calling out to friend and where there were no friends, strangers chatting. The crowd was skittish, like teenagers playing chicken for the first time, daring each other on. So many people shouldn’t be in one place.

  What a stupid, stupid, impulsive thing to do. They should have waited. It could only be for a couple of days, a week at most. She had chosen not to think it through. Now was too late to realize how foolhardy this was.

  They skirted the edge of the boisterous crowd, as if it were a dangerous animal—slowly, keeping an eye on its movement. They had become tourists in their own country, wary of the vibrant, ordinary, everyday danger of life. The normal that she wanted to see was not here, perhaps never would be again. At the first corner, they took the turn into the relative quiet and safety of a side street. There were fewer people here, scattered in ones and twos, walking with purpose and keeping to themselves. Halfway down the block it seemed to Hannah as if one of the storefronts glowed a little brighter than the others. She could hear a choppy jumble of conversation. They slowed their pace, Hannah pulling Sean’s arm in a little tighter, the fear of the crowd returning.

  As they passed through the light from the restaurant, a woman stepped out, anonymous behind her paper mask. Hannah involuntarily shied.

  “You’re welcome to come in. We haven’t got a full menu but the chef’s come up with a few dishes from what we have on hand. The Desperation Stew is not bad, considering. It’s no mask, no service tonight, so we ask that you keep your mask on unless you’re sitting, and whenever the waiter comes to your table.”

  Inside, half the tables had been taken away, leaving the remaining ones like quarantined islands. Steering a course between them to maintain the greatest distance, the masked staff carried plates and glasses.

  “There’s a complimentary glass of champagne for every customer, to celebrate. Until it runs out…then we’ll see what’s left out the back. It’s possible we drank a fair bit of it the last few weeks.”

  Hannah felt impolite and shy and touched. “Our kids will be looking forward to your desserts when they’re back on the menu.”

  Above her mask, the woman’s eyes filmed with tears. “You tell the kids that the second we can get the ingredients, we’ll be making puddings again. You tell your kids that.” As they moved away, she suddenly spoke again. “Every regular I see tonight is someone who is alive. Keep safe. You look after those kids.”

  What time is it?”

  “You’re the one in front of the computer, Zac.”

  The math books were spread across the kitchen table in a radial pattern from Hannah’s laptop. At the point of convergence, as if abs
orbing all their knowledge, sat Zac.

  “The numbers might be available by now.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Nine thirty, but they were up early yesterday.”

  “Not half an hour early.”

  Oscar was doing doughnuts around the kitchen floor. “What’s your guess?”

  “It’s not a guess, it’s an estimate.” Zac used his superior tone.

  “But you don’t know.” Oscar wasn’t going to be dismissed.

  “It’s not a guess. A guess is when you make it up. I estimated and I’ve been right every time. Close enough.”

  Oscar stared blankly. “You didn’t tell me your guess.”

  “Thirty. That’s my estimate, thirty. And we can go outside if I’m right, can’t we?”

  She had never seen him look so full of longing. “I don’t know, Zac. It depends.”

  “On what? What does it depend on?”

  “Lots of things.”

  “What does it depend on? How can you decide whether we can go out if you don’t know what it depends on?”

  “It’s not that simple, Zac.”

  “Yes, it is. It is. You tell me what it depends on and then we see the numbers. Otherwise, you’re just making up a number that fits in with what you want. You can’t keep us inside forever.” Hannah thought she might. “Dad, there has to be a number, right?”

  “He’s right. We should be able to come up with a number.”

  “I don’t know…”

  “Come on, Mum. Like, ten. If there were ten deaths yesterday.”

  “There’s not going to be ten.” Sean tried to be the voice of reason. “Be realistic, Zac.”

  “I know there’s not going to be ten, but if there was.”

  “Fine, then.” She could play this game. “If there are only ten, you can go outside.”

  “What about twenty?”

  “Twenty, yes. There’ll be more than that, though.”