TO THE STATION / DR YI’S
She couldn’t take a cab, that was too expensive; it was only five stops down the line. She’d hardly put the phone down before she was rifling through the drawers and up in the cupboard looking for something to wear. A clean pair of underpants, obviously, and a decent bra—but skirt? dress? cardigan? jacket? She’d pulled out just about every drawer before settling on a black knee-length skirt, a light cotton jacket and the blue rayon top that was, yes, too hot and already sticking to her back. All along the street the bins lay scattered where the truck had dropped them—an old man at his letterbox waved to her as she passed. In the big black leather tote, a birthday present from David, she’d dropped her purse, makeup bag, sunglasses, keys, tissues, a mandarin, the referral letter, a pair of heels, her phone, and on the kitchen bench she’d left a hurried note. Gone to have some tests.
She stopped to ring David but he must have been with a client. I’m catching a train, she said, I’m having some tests; my battery’s low, I left a note, I’ll call you later, bye. The air felt different, spacious, alive. Her heart beat purposefully, her lungs pulled breath, her muscles stretched and contracted. What could possibly be wrong? And in what part of this perfectly functioning machine?
At the station she sat on a bench. It felt odd being on the other side. Any other morning both platforms would be full—eyes clouded with sleep, hair wet from the shower; all checking their phones. But today everything was new. She took off her trainers and put on her heels.
A woman entered through the ticket gate opposite: short, dark-haired, carrying a white plastic shopping bag. Oh no, thought Beth—it was a kitchen hand from work. Beth tried to hide her face but Sandi was standing right up on the yellow line. I thought it was you, she said. I’m not feeling well, said Beth. She pointed down the tracks: I’m going to have some tests. She felt stupid calling across the gap like that. Did you ring Lyn? asked Sandi. My husband did, said Beth. She’s not the boss she used to be, said Sandi, you have to watch her now. She was hovering right up at the edge: Beth just wanted her to go. My daughter’s sick, said Sandi, I had to run home after breakfast but I’m on my way back now. She’s thirteen—I think you’ve met her. I left her on the couch. You won’t tell, will you? I was only gone a couple of hours. No, said Beth, I won’t tell. (She had met her, a sickly-looking thing with big fish eyes.) There was a rumble on the tracks and Sandi stepped back. It’s good your husband called, though, she said. The bells at the crossing rang and a train came through the cutting. Beth watched the carriages slow and stop; Sandi boarded and took a seat on the other side.
The bells kept ringing. Beth looked down the tracks. Now it was her train—the train to Box Hill, away from work, to her tests. It slowed and stopped; Beth pushed the button and the carriage door opened. Why shouldn’t I take the day off? she thought. Stop at the Box Hill shops on the way and buy that shirt I promised David. A little something for the girls. Maybe even something for myself? I’ve worked harder than Sandi and the others combined. If I do a bit of shopping, she thought, the day will not seem completely lost. Can’t I give myself a single day?
Forty minutes later she was standing before a red clinker-brick house in a quiet street in Box Hill. The walk from the station had got her into a sweat, the strap of her bag had left a damp line on her shoulder. She had stopped at the shops—a green shirt for David, a puzzle for the girls—and now she really was late. Would the young woman, the receptionist, still have her?
There was a porch with white pillars and on the lawn a sign on two steel posts with letters in brackets at the end and a phone number beneath. Dr Yi. All along the street were other houses with signs—radiologists, cardiologists, gastroenterologists, respiratory physicians, orthopaedic surgeons—and on the hill above, the cream-brick hospital where twenty-three years ago she’d watched her mother die. She mounted the porch and opened the flywire door. Behind it was another sign: Enter Do Not Knock. Inside were dark polished floorboards and white-painted walls and a vase of lilies on a wooden stand. She could hear piped music, a printer printing, someone frothing milk. A sign at the end said Reception. She took a deep breath: she’d already gone too far to go back.
In the reception area the boards were also polished and the walls so white they made you blink. It smelled of orange peel. There were downlights in the ceiling, a high counter with another vase and stylish white chairs along the walls. On two of these chairs two men were sitting. One was reading a magazine, the other was playing with his phone; the man with the magazine looked up, the man with the phone didn’t bother. Beth walked to the counter; the printer stopped and a woman holding a sheaf of paper turned towards her. She was wearing a close-fitting 1940s-style skirt, had pushed-up hair, bauble earrings, a white face, bright red lipstick and a fake beauty spot on her cheek. Are you Beth Own? she asked. Where were you? The doctor’s been waiting.
Now the man with the phone looked up. You’re late, said the woman, pointing at the big faux-antique clock behind her. Beth started to make up an answer—I missed the first train and had to wait for a second—but the receptionist was already talking to the men. Don’t look like that, she was saying, she’s before you, she’s kept the doctor waiting. Sit down, sit down. She was shooing her hands at Beth now, as if she were a dog or a pigeon. She was supposed to be here at one, she said, the woman in there now was before you too—I told you that already—but this one was actually before her. She put a finger to her ear. I’m sorry, doctor, she said, but Beth Own is here. She took the finger away again. Sit down, sit down, she said.
There was a big television screen on the wall next to the door and beneath it a low table with magazines and picture books. Beth sat near the man with the magazine—he seemed the less threatening of the two—and put her bag in her lap. She took out a tissue and wiped her neck.
The TV was on but the sound was down. It was a documentary of some sort, the camera flying in low over a grid of rice paddies, scattering flamingos off a vast flat lake, walking hand-held up the worn steps of a temple, watching from above a herd of elk streaming across the tundra. I should try David again, she thought, in case he’s getting worried. Or maybe Emily at the desk. (Emily was his secretary, though in Beth’s opinion he’d not justified her yet.) But if he’s worried won’t he ring? She took out her phone but as soon as she did the receptionist was speaking. The doctor is ready for you now, she said.
Beth found the door to the doctor’s room open. She thought it wrong to knock—so instead she took a step inside and coughed. The doctor—short, slim—was sitting at a desk with a big white computer screen. There was a white keyboard too, a white mouse and a black printer. Aside from the desk and chair—and beside it another chair for the patient—the only furniture in the room was a set of polished metal drawers and a high bed against one wall with a single step up to it.
Beth, said Dr Yi: come in, sit down. She had a pale, doll-like face with shiny black hair to her waist. Beth took the patients’ chair and hung her bag off the back. So, said Dr Yi, leaning forward: tell me, Beth, what’s been happening in your world?
Beth had to think. What had been happening? (A locum came, I saw Sandi at the station, I went to the shops, then came here.) Last night I felt a little strange, she said, like I was coming down with something; I felt a bit off-colour yesterday afternoon too. When I woke today I couldn’t get out of bed. (Dr Yi was taking notes, her white fingers dancing over the keys.) I have a letter from the locum, Beth continued. She dug around in her bag. I also think I’m running a temperature, maybe. My tummy feels a bit weird. My limbs are heavy—but I just walked from the station and it’s not like I collapsed in the gutter or anything along the way. She tried to smile.
What do you do? asked Dr Yi, taking the letter from her. I work in aged care, said Beth. The doctor looked at her, then went back to her keyboard. She typed again and a sheet came off the printer. It was a medical certificate. Beth didn’t read it—the doctor had already moved on—but she did see the words
unwell and unfit and a date that Beth quickly calculated was three days from now. The doctor had given her the rest of the week off. And there’s nothing you might have eaten, drunk or anything like that? No drugs? Unsafe sex? Travel to Third World countries? No? All right, let’s get you up and we’ll have a look.
While the doctor squirted gel on her hands and rubbed them one over the other, Beth spoke. I’ve hardly ever been sick, she said, I look after myself pretty well. The words came easily, uncensored. I’m not saying I don’t see the doctor sometimes, for minor things—even this, now, really, it’s minor. I just thought it would be good to rest, you know, refresh, in case I was coming down with something serious. I’ve seen illness, I know what illness is, I’ve seen death. I lost my mother in that hospital just up there.
Beth waved her arm in what she thought was the direction of the hospital. Up you get, said Dr Yi. She smiled. Beth climbed onto the bed and sat with her hands on her thighs. (I should have tried Emily at the desk, she thought, before my battery runs out—who knows how long this will take?) Top off, please, said Dr Yi, and arms above the head.
The doctor listened to Beth’s chest and back, tapped here and there, took her temperature and blood pressure, shone a torch in her eyes, ears and throat. She had her lie back while she poked and pushed, working from the neck to the armpits, then down to the torso, tummy, groin and legs. She told Beth to put her top back on and sent her to the toilet for a specimen—last door down the corridor, she said. Again there was the citrus smell.
Beth sat for a while on the toilet with the specimen jar between her legs, reading the hygiene notice on the back of the door. At first nothing came. She remembered that holiday a few years ago down the beach: her on the sunlounge, David and the girls in the shallows, Margaret and Ian, his parents, asleep on the sunlounges alongside. She was still brave enough to wear a bikini back then. From under her hat she looked down at the pink tops of her breasts, her stomach, her thighs. A fly landed there and ran across her bikini bottom. She could hear the kids splashing and David calling out and far off a jetski or a plane. Then she saw Letitia coming out of her, all bloodied and creamy and blue. She heard David sobbing, saw the dark shapes above, felt the love and panic as they placed little Lettie on her.
The specimen jar was still dangling between her legs—she filled it, and screwed on the yellow cap. Yes, it amazed her some days how this body, any body, stitched together as it was with sinew and skin, managed to carry its way through the world. What makes the heart keep beating, the lungs keep pulling breath? Why don’t the limbs go limp, the organs seize and stop? She thought about the residents in the home and how easily they were taken—in the dining room, in the garden, taking a shower. For a while there was a palpable absence, an aura or essence, but it soon faded until even the hole they’d left in the air closed over. Could she have got it from them? The old people? Is it contagious? Like her mother, fit and healthy one day, dead the next. Is it genetic?
Back in the room, Dr Yi took the sample from her, washed her hands, took a saliva swab, did a prick test for blood sugars and drew two vials of blood. While Beth watched from the chair, Dr Yi washed her hands again, put labels on the specimens and starting typing things up. Has she found something already? Beth steadied herself, tried to stop thinking, put her hands on the arms of the chair. She looked at the poster of an ear canal in vivid purple, then glanced at the doctor’s screen. Dr Yi dropped the samples into two zip-lock bags and ran a thumb and finger across the top of each.
So, she said, Beth, what we will do now is send these samples off to see what we’ve got—there are a few things here that aren’t quite right and sometimes it is these little wrongnesses, you know, that can lead us to the bigger wrongs that matter. But it’s too early to tell yet, of course. What looks wrong now in this test may turn out later to be nothing wrong at all. That happens. But we have to be sure. You understand. Medicine is often about seeking assurance, for the patient and the practitioner. What one net doesn’t catch, another will: we’re always tightening our nets. Dr Yi pushed the bags aside and made another note.
There was a rustling sound, and Beth turned to see a sheet of paper being slid under the door. The footsteps went away. And you’ve been feeling, what? said Dr Yi, still staring at the screen. Beth didn’t know what to say. Haven’t I already explained? Haven’t you already looked? Can’t you see the piece of paper your receptionist has just put under the door? Not quite right? she said, with an upward lilt. Mm, said the doctor. Then she walked over, picked up the paper, glanced at it and brought it back. Mm, she said, again. She turned the paper this way and that. No, she said, I think we might send you off for some more tests.
RHYS AND ROSE / FALLING DOWN
Dr Yi hit a key and another page came off the printer; she read through it and handed it over. Take this to reception, she said, and they’ll see if they can get you something today. The paper was still warm. Beth wasn’t sure if she should fold it and instead held it carefully between two fingers while with the other hand she took her bag from the chair. There’s nothing really wrong with me, though, is there? she asked. I should probably be at work, shouldn’t I? If David hadn’t got into a panic, she said, if he’d waited until this afternoon or even tomorrow to get me an appointment with my usual doctor, then I’d probably be okay by now, wouldn’t I? He thought I was sick, said Beth, but I probably just needed a day in bed. Dr Yi turned, nodded, smiled. You need to have some tests, she said, and she gestured towards the door.
When the receptionist saw Beth she swivelled around and stepped up to the counter. She held out her hand, and Beth put the referral in it. At the top was Dr Yi’s letterhead—the letter was to a specialist in Heidelberg. The receptionist picked up the phone. She kept her voice down but Beth could still hear her asking whether they might fit the patient in today. She heard the word concerned. Then, in a series of movements executed so smoothly they might have been one, and without putting a hair out of place, she hung up, took an envelope from her desk, wrote on it, folded Beth’s new referral letter and slipped it in, sealed the envelope, took another, smaller piece of paper from another drawer, fixed them together with a paperclip and swung back to the counter.
The smaller piece of paper was a map; the writing on the envelope was the Heidelberg specialist’s address. Do you have a car? she asked. No, said Beth. It was all going very fast. Then you need to go out the front door, she said, turn left, then right, and you’ll find the bus stop there. She marked it on the map. Take the 291 to Heidelberg Road, here, then walk down the hill to here. She marked it again. Hand this to the receptionist there. She gave Beth the letter. There was a pause. She seemed to be waiting for something but Beth wasn’t sure what. Do you have insurance? she asked. Beth shook her head. Then that will be one hundred and thirty dollars today with eighty dollars refundable, she said. How would you like to pay?
Outside, on the porch, Beth put her purse and receipt back in her bag. She took off her heels and put on her walking shoes. Yes, there’ll be walking for sure. She double-tied her laces and took out her phone. The screen was blank; she pressed the button and shook it.
Beth Own! said a voice. It was a tall man with reddish-grey hair and deep-green eyes, standing on a pair of crutches with a black brace on his knee. Rhys, he said. I met you at the info session about Boronia. This is my daughter, Rose. He was pointing at a teenager in school uniform behind him. Tall, thin, with straight blond hair, her skirt hitched clumsily up. You don’t remember me, do you? said Rhys. Oh yes, said Beth, you’re the director, one of the directors, you gave that talk with the slideshow about the new home with the vegetables and chooks. And you asked the question about tripping hazards, he said. He smiled, and nodded at the sign on Dr Yi’s front lawn. Beth turned. Yes, she said, I had to take the morning off for some tests. Some tests, that’s good, said Rhys. And you? she said, glancing down at his knee. Tennis, said Rhys—can we give you a lift? Rose was now leaning on a car parked two spots down, looking at her phon
e. She glanced briefly up.
Actually, said Beth, I was just thinking of heading back to work. I’m supposed to go for another test but I thought I might leave it for today. I don’t feel that bad. No, no, said Rhys, waving an arm away from his crutch, you can’t do that. She wanted to say I can do that, I can do what I like—but as she checked herself she went all woozy: her head spun, her bottom lip fell loose, her knees wobbled, a heavy force pulled her down. The street—a quiet tree-lined street with nature strips, rounded gutters, specialists’ signs—heaved and swayed and a red moon appeared in an otherwise black sky. A white horse was pawing at it. The locum, thought Beth, his silver hair a silver tail and on his back a black-hatted rider—who, yes, wait, was David.
Beth fell; David waved his hat. The locum-horse broke and galloped towards her and in one motion her husband had swept her up until she was riding pinion, her arms held tight around his waist. It was amazing, when she looked down, the size of the horse’s rump: she had trouble getting her legs to hold. They galloped up some steps where at the top in a white gown her mother was shaking her fist and shouting about how unhappy she was seeing Beth spooning the tall-hatted accountant like that. You’re so much better than him, she said. Beth in turn admonished her mother: Why did you wander off? But this admonishment only sent Beth’s mother into such a fury that she whirled like a dervish until she was lost in a blur. Beth tried to gallop the horse away but now realised she was actually riding her husband, who’d got down on all fours for her.
Beth? The voice seemed to be coming from far away. A hand was resting on her shoulder, something was touching her lips. A water bottle. She looked up. There was a grey cloth ceiling very close above. She was lying in the back seat of a car. Rhys’s daughter was trying to get her to drink. He was in the front seat; he turned around to see. Are you okay? he said. She tried to nod. Rose wiped some dribble from her lips. This is a nice car, said Beth. The doors were open on both sides, to let the air through. She had her feet towards the gutter and could see an elderly couple standing out there on the footpath, looking in. I’m okay, she said. I must have fainted, she thought. Rose closed the other door. I must have fainted, she said to Rhys, but I think I’m better now.
Some Tests Page 2
