“Fifty.”
“No, not fifty.”
“Dad?”
“You wanted a number, your mum gave you a number, so live with it.”
“Okay, thirty.” It was Zac’s final and desperate offer.
“I don’t know.”
“Come on, thirty people dead in the whole of Sydney. That’s nearly halved in two days.”
“Twenty-five.”
Sean blanched. “You can’t bargain about this. This is actual people dying.”
“Zac wants rules, I’m laying down the rules. Twenty-six and we stay inside.”
Zac furrowed his brow and sent her a dirty look. He started mashing the buttons on the computer.
“You can type all you want. It’s still not time.”
He sat back from the keyboard and stared at the screen. “It was early yesterday.”
She came around behind him. The screen showed yesterday’s figures. Two hundred and fifteen new cases, forty-eight dead. The numbers no longer had absolute meaning for her—they were only better or worse than yesterday. Six and a half thousand last week was cause for optimism when you compared it to twenty-five thousand the week before. And yet she knew that six and a half thousand people saw no upside. Neither did their families.
“Since when were there fewer deaths than new cases?”
“Haven’t you been paying attention, Mum? There are two curves, and people don’t die for about five days, so the deaths depend on how many people were already infected. There were only more deaths when the infections started to come down, but the deaths were still going up. That was, like, two weeks ago.” He rolled his eyes.
He hit the refresh button, a heavy moment of expectation, and then the same figures filled the screen.
“There’s still five minutes to go, Zac.”
He clicked refresh again. It took a little longer to load. THIS PAGE CAN’T BE DISPLAYED.
“Oh, what?” Zac hammered his frustration on the mouse button.
“Hey, be careful of my computer.”
The table’s lines appeared in a sputter followed by an unbearable pause. A long moment later, the numbers materialized in place.
“The same, that can’t be right.” Zac was beside himself.
“That’s yesterday’s. They’ve put yesterday’s first. This column is today’s.” She rested her finger on the top of the next column, but it made no sense.
“Twenty-three new cases, twelve dead.” Zac looked up at her, confused. “That’s good, right? That can’t be right.”
“You’ve got it the wrong way round, Monkey.” Sean was leaning over his shoulder. “Only twelve new cases. In all of Sydney, only twelve.”
“Then I was right. I said thirty dead and it’s twenty-three.”
“But, Zac, only twelve new cases. That’s nothing. That’s noise.”
“Where? They might be near here.” There was a catch somewhere. If she wasn’t careful, they would let the numbers on a screen lull them into a mistake.
“What does it matter where? They could all be on our street—if there’s only twelve, it’s gone.”
Hannah felt agitated and flushed. Somewhere in the details she risked being conned by the data. “Click on them. I want to see where they are. Now, Zac.”
Zac clicked. “See, they’re all over the place.”
Sean grabbed her around the waist. “That’s it, it’s done.” He pulled her into a hug so tight, she had to breathe deep to loosen it.
She rubbed her cheek against his. “It’s over.”
“So we can go out, right? We can go out.” Zac had his feet apart, planted squarely on the ground.
“What, now?”
“You said twenty-five, it’s twenty-three. So we can go out, right now.”
“I guess we can’t argue with that.” Sean clapped his hands together. “Get your shoes on. Let’s see if we can’t find chocolate or an ice cream or”—he turned around to Hannah with a wicked smile—“a cappuccino.”
“I’d settle for a bottle of fresh water.”
They scattered, getting ready. The house was filled with insistent, jangling anticipation, like Christmas. She could feel each individual activity, locking doors, putting on shoes, searching out the cleanest shirt, all driving towards one joint moment. She found herself out on the porch, impatient. From inside the house she could hear Sean. “You can’t wear those. For God’s sake Oscar, where are your sneakers? Look under your bed, look under the sofa. How can they be lost? You haven’t been out of the house.”
Zac walked out the front door on the balls of his feet, as if they were springs. He stepped down the first stair and then up again. She watched him pace to the footpath and back, measuring the distance with his steps. He considered the pavement and then came back to her, his attention still at his feet.
“I think I’ll go for a run.”
“What about the ice cream? What about coming with us?”
“I’ll have an ice cream later. I think I’ll go for a run now.” It sounded like a statement, but he was waiting for permission.
“Where are you going?”
“I don’t know, not far.”
“Do you want us to bring an ice cream back for you?”
“Yeah, if you want. I’ll be back soon.” The springs in his legs released and he took off.
He was once a baby, she was sure of it. She had the memories in her head, although this long straw of a person didn’t look anything like the bundle of baby that used to be. When he had first learned to crawl, he would take off, fearless, curious, an explorer. She remembered saying to the baby health nurse, “He doesn’t need me.” And her saying, “He knows you’ll be there.” How strange that realization was, that the better she did her job, the less he needed her. That was how it was supposed to be. She had survived everything else, she could survive that.
She felt the weight of the ephemeral moment. And then it was gone, unrecorded, irretrievable. She watched Zac’s back as he ran. He’s never coming back, she thought, not this Zac, not the one that exists right now. Someone else will be here when I get home. Someone who looks and sounds like Zac, who thinks he is Zac, someone I only think I know. And that was good—she couldn’t wait to meet him.
Acknowledgments
My thanks to:
The people who kept me afloat in 2001—Ruth, Debbie, Charles, and Janet, who were normal in abnormal circumstances. Mum, who encouraged me as a child to tell myself stories when I couldn’t get to sleep. Although it turns out stories are more compelling than sleep. Dad, who taught me to think and question. My dear friends Maree and Ruth and my sister Cait, who suffered through the early version and made me feel like there was something there. Pam, who gave up very rare spare time to talk me through medical issues. Jodie, who talked me through practicalities. Anything that is right is due to them, anything that is wrong is my misunderstanding or pigheadedness. Most especially Gordon, for patience, an always attentive ear, support and encouragement, and the time to indulge my folly, and K and X, for referring to what I did as “working” all those years.
My fairy godparents—Anna Solding for plucking me off the pile and having a totally unrealistic vision of just how far we could go. Kim Lock, Peter Cassidy, and Lynette Washington for all their hard work on the Australian edition. Everyone who has supported MidnightSun or contributed to their success.
My second fairy godparents—Anna again, who has worked so hard for my book and against all reason achieved that unrealistic vision. Our agent, Daniel Lazar, for picking up and championing my little book, taking Anna and me on an unexpected and wild ride. My editor, Asya Muchnick, for her gentle passion, her thoughtful and insightful guidance, and her practiced and delicate handling of a fragile author ego. All at Little, Brown for taking a chance and giving me this extraordinary opportunity, especially Reagan Arthur, Judy Clain, Genevieve Nierman, Sarah Haugen, Karen Landry, Susan Zucker, Alison Miller, Barb Jatkola, Zea Moscone, and Pamela Brown. Everyone at Writers House, especially Tor
ie Doherty-Munro, Maja Nikolic, and Angharad Kowal.
About the Author
Amanda Hickie grew up in Sydney, Australia. She was living in Canada in 2003 when Toronto became an epicenter of the SARS outbreak. That event sowed the seed for Before This Is Over. Published in Australia as An Ordinary Epidemic, the novel was long-listed for the Dobbie Award for a first published work.
Amanda now lives a brisk walk from Coogee Beach in Sydney with her two computer-oriented sons and husband and two non-computer-oriented cats.
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Before This Is Over Page 35
