Читать книгу Ananda - Scott Zarcinas - Страница 11

MICHAEL DROVE EAST in the fast lane along ANZAC Highway, heading toward the city from the coast and pretty much against the flow of rush hour traffic. The windscreen wipers swayed back and forth, sweeping away the drizzle that blurred his vision. The streetlights were already on and every car was driving with their headlights blazing.

Out of habit, he glanced at the dashboard clock. It hadn’t worked since Angie passed the car on to him when she inherited the Corolla from her parents, permanently stuck at three seventeen, but he didn’t need to know the time to know that he was running late. Hoping he wouldn’t encounter any speed traps, he pushed the throttle and weaved in and out of the traffic until, elbow-like, the road kinked northeast and he came to a halt at a red light.

The opposite side of the intersection was a vista of green. Michael had read in a guidebook that one of the charms of Adelaide were the vast parklands that completely framed the city, enabling the visitor to escape the bustle of the city center and experience the serenity of the countryside. ANZAC Highway forged its way through this sylvan rim like a grey river slicing through a forest. Lining both sides were imposing eucalypts, which were now swaying haphazardly in the gusty, drizzly wind. About a kilometer or so further on, the road abruptly terminated at a jagged wall of glass and cement. Of all the city buildings, the State Bank Building where Angie worked on the nineteenth floor was by far the tallest. It reminded him of a jutting middle finger on a hand in which all others were bent at the knuckle, that petulant one-finger gesture favored by most teenagers when the teacher’s back was turned.

The traffic arrow turned green and Michael turned off the highway. For ten minutes he drove east, keeping the south parklands and the cityscape to his left. Until now he had made reasonable time, but slow moving traffic merging from the city center and uncooperative traffic lights were combining to make the journey all the more frustrating. When he finally arrived at the fourth major intersection, which formed the southeast corner of the parklands, he turned left and progressed northward, once again against the rush hour flow.

As expected, on the opposite side of the road, St. Mary’s Hospital rose into the bleak sky out of the serrated horizon of suburban rooftops. Its twin, eight-story buildings reminded him of two giant tombstones rising out of a cemetery. He stared at them as he waited for a break in the traffic to cross over. How on earth had he let himself be talked into this? he mused, running a hand through his hair. Angie knew how much he hated hospitals.

You know damn well why you’re here, he answered himself. Because of what happened this morning. Someth’ns wrong with Angie.

The outward-bound traffic slowed and he crossed into a side street toward the main gates. An unsmiling security guard waved him beneath an upright boom and into the visitor’s parking lot, which, to his chagrin, was looking quite full. He passed a sign welcoming him to St. Mary’s Hospital, yet the very thought of walking inside was making him suddenly apprehensive. The hospital complex was the third largest in Adelaide, though never once had he stepped foot inside its gold-brick walls. Thousands of times he had passed this hospital, and thousands of times he had wished he would never have to pass through its doors. He was not relishing the prospect of doing so now.

Three rows from the gate he found a space, parked the car, and got out. Head down, he began to trot through the drizzle toward the eastern building until he realized it was the nurses’ residence. He halted, momentarily disorientated, then saw a sign above the sliding glass doors of the western building: ST. MARY’S HOSPITAL MAIN ENTRANCE. He hastened there now.

Inside, the lobby was busy with patients and staff. He immediately felt irked and crowded. A woman was speaking animatedly on a payphone in the far corner near the florist and the news agency. A man was struggling on a set of crutches with his leg in plaster. A young child with a scabrous rash all over her face was holding a woman’s hand, crying. Closer, an old lady in a nightgown was wandering this way and that with a note pinned to her back: PLEASE RETURN ME TO WARD 1C. I AM LOST. It was just as he imagined a battlefield in the First World War, hectic with the traffic of wounded humanity. But it was the smell he disliked most. The lobby reeked of disinfectant and foreboding.

He eyed the clock above the entrance. Five minutes past five. Not as late as he originally thought, but late nonetheless. He quickly scanned for his wife. She was nowhere to be seen. He tried to look behind two stern looking women with white coats and black stethoscopes heading in his direction, but as he stepped back to let them pass, he inadvertently bumped into a nurse carrying several patient files, some of which dropped from her arms and spilled onto the floor. Feeling culpable and a little foolish, Michael at once bent down to help her pick them up, but in his haste he accidentally banged his head with her elbow, causing her to lose grip of the remaining folders. This only furthered his embarrassment. Resting on his hunches, he gathered some of the loose pages together and handed them back to her, apologizing for his carelessness.

She too gathered up the sprawled files. Like many in the room, she was stern and unsmiling. Michael briefly wondered what it would be like to work in such an environment where people were perpetually angry and depressed, and then figured he would probably end up with a long and dour face before too long. Picking up a loose leaf of paper that had slipped from a file, Michael wasn’t sure whether her brusqueness was due to frustration of being delayed or plain arrogance, but when she took the paper and looked at him he froze. She was stunningly pretty. He hadn’t been struck by a woman’s beauty since he saw Angie in her little black dress standing at the front door of her house on the night of their first date. That was over six years ago and a lot of women had passed before his eyes, but none that could match this woman. Her almond shaped eyes, deeply dark and seductive; her shoulder-length hair, as black and shiny as a still lake on a starry night; her smile, full and wide, with perfect white teeth, like petals of a daisy. She reminded him, for some unknown reason, of a young Egyptian princess, like he imagined Cleopatra would have once looked, including her delicate olive skin and the dark beauty spot above her left lip. Their eyes met briefly, then quickly away.

He handed the last file to her. She thanked him for his help and stood up. Michael stared, unmoved from his hunched position as she walked toward the elevators with brisk strides, adjusting the white uniform on her curvaceous backside as she went. Standing slowly, he heard his name being shouted. It was Angie.

He searched the direction of her voice and saw her waiting near the reception beneath an information sign that hung on chains from the ceiling. Like this morning, she had her hair pulled into a bun and she was wearing her blue, two-piece work suit. The suitcase, however, had been swapped for a matching handbag. Her rimless glasses were also nowhere to be seen, probably replaced with contact lenses. She seemed relieved that he was here.

With a smile he waved and she waved in return. He was immeasurably glad to see that she was well, even more so that his earlier concerns about her wellbeing were probably nothing more than the result of an over-enthusiastic imagination. He quickly crossed the lobby to where she was standing and pecked a kiss on her red lips.

“Are you feeling better?” he asked.

For a brief moment she stared blankly into his eyes, misunderstanding the question, and then said, “Yeah, no more pain.” She seemed unaware that she was running her hand over the lower part of her belly. “I told you it wasn’t anything to worry about.”

He scrutinized her face, trying to ascertain whether she was telling the complete truth or not. He decided to let it pass and took her by the elbow. “Come on, then,” he said, eager for this to be over and done with. “Let’s not hang around in here. Let’s do it.”

They passed the shops toward a set of white double doors marking the west wing of the hospital: TO MATERNITY, NEONATAL AND PEDIATRIC WARDS, OUT PATIENTS AND ACCIDENT & EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT. Just as they passed beneath the sign, Angie stopped.

“Are you sure you want to go through with this?” she asked. There was hesitation in her voice. “I mean, I don’t want you – us – to do anything we might regret.”

Michael could sense her anxiety. He had the feeling that he if just said the word, she would be more than willing to leave with him right now. The idea was appealing, but he remembered what his father had said about women blaming themselves for being unable to conceive. The last thing he wanted was for Angie to spend the rest of her life mired in guilt. “I’m not going to pull out at this stage,” he said, smiling lopsidedly, “not unless you want me to.”

She bit her bottom lip, like someone given the opportunity to finally do something they had always desired but were struggling with the reality that it was actually happening, frightened by it coming true. He could see the ambivalence in her caramel eyes. Then she shook her head, and said, “No, Mikey. I want to make sure we have done everything we can before we give up hope.”

Five minutes later, they arrived at the outpatient department on the second floor. A plump, middle-aged nurse ushered them into a side door marked “Fertility Clinic”. Her hair, predominantly grey and streaked with black and white strands, was tied into a ponytail with a rubber band. Forty years ago, Michael thought, it would have been a pink ribbon. She had sad eyes, and thanking her with a smile and a nod he followed Angie into the waiting room. The clatter of fingers over a keyboard alerted them to a secretary with a blonde bob sitting behind the reception desk. They walked up to the desk and patiently waited for her to acknowledge their presence. She didn’t. From where he stood, peering down onto her, Michael could see dark roots sprouting out of her head like unwanted weeds. An appointment book was lying face up next to the keyboard.

The secretary continued to type, deliberately ignoring them, so Michael surveyed the waiting room. Around its perimeter, empty green-grey seats backed the white walls. A glass coffee table bedecked with a fern pot plant and a scattering of women’s magazines occupied the center of the room. At the far end, next to a large print of an aerial photograph of Adelaide, was a closed door, on which his gaze fell upon a gold plaque with black etching he could only just read: DR. B. ROUBEN. It was a name he wasn’t familiar with, and he pondered on its origins, whether it was French, or maybe some other European country.

In the meantime, the ingénue behind the reception desk was still typing on the computer. Angie absolutely hated rudeness and Michael could tell that her already thinning patience was being stretched to its limits. She cleared her throat, deliberately loud, and the keyboard fell silent, though several seconds passed before the secretary raised her eyes above the computer screen.

“Can I help you?” she asked, her brow gouged into a severe frown. On her right cheek was a large pimple that throbbed like a recent bee sting.

“Hello,” Angie said, sweetly, her lips twitching into a cynical grin. “My name is Angie Joseph. I believe I have an appointment to see the doctor at five.”

The secretary glanced at the clock above the entrance. “You’re late,” she said, and reached for the appointment book. “The doctor is a very busy man. He can’t be expected to wait for patients to arrive whenever they want.”

To Michael, it was clear this secretary felt “the doctor” was her private property. He had an idea she dreamed of jumping beneath the sheets with him and screwing his brains out, and for a brief moment he felt pity for this woman with the dark roots. She sighed loudly and flicked through her appointment book.

“What did you say your name was?”

“Angie Joseph.”

“Hmm. Yes, here it is.” She took a pencil and slashed through Angie’s name, almost, Michael thought, like an executioner. “Go and take a seat. I’ll call you when the doctor is ready.” Pointing with the pencil to the empty seats, she closed the book with a snap.

Michael followed his wife to a seat at the far wall beneath the aerial print of Adelaide. She snatched from the sprawl of magazines atop the coffee table a ragged copy of Woman’s World, on the cover of which a model smiled with an exotic beauty that reminded him of the nurse he had accidentally collided with in the lobby. He spied a glossy pamphlet lying on the seat to Angie’s left and picked it up as he sat down. At first he thought it was a package holiday brochure, but soon realized upon closer inspection it was, in fact, a brochure for the hospital briefly describing its facilities.

Angie flipped through the pages of the magazine while he read about the “impressive” services of St. Mary’s Hospital. No sooner had he finished, the door to the doctor’s office opened. Some cheery voices said goodbye to each other and then a woman and her husband walked out. Given the bulge of her stomach, Michael guessed she was almost ready to give birth. The moment the couple passed the secretary on their way out, Michael heard a muffled, static voice from the intercom behind the reception desk asking for the next patient to be brought in.

Unhappy and unsmiling, the secretary picked up a wafer thin medical file. As she walked toward them, Michael saw that it was marked ANGIE JOSEPH HT950765P in thick black marking pen, and that beneath her décolleté dress she also had a pair of surprisingly long and shapely legs. When she asked them to follow, it was not so much a question as an order. He took Angie’s hand and they followed the secretary into the doctor’s office.

The doctor was sitting with deep concentration behind his desk in a plush, red-leather chair writing in the notes of the previous patient. Behind him, the solitary window framed his upper torso like a painting, through which the last remaining rays of the day shrouded his head and shoulders in a glowing tippet. His pristine white shirt was probably designer label, Michael guessed, as most likely was the navy-blue suit and maroon and white striped tie he was wearing. He oozed cash, and Michael now had a clear understanding why the secretary was so protective of him. He felt a prick of jealously and briefly wondered what Angie was thinking.

The secretary gestured for them to take a seat in the leather chairs facing the doctor. Then she put Angie’s file on top of the desk and slipped quietly out of the room. While the doctor busied himself with the previous patient’s notes, Michael quickly scanned the room. Like the doctor, the office was immaculately decked out. The desk, something antique and mahogany by the look of it, dominated the room and engendered an air of iatric importance. On the wood-paneled walls to his left were the doctor’s many certificates and diplomas, hanging like captured standards. The breakfront bookcase to his right was filled with leather-bound medical books. Michael could imagine what Angie was thinking. The décor was what she would call “tastefully expensive,” everything from the gold plated fountain pen the doctor was scrawling with to the plush crimson carpet beneath their feet. It was not his type of décor at all, too garrulous, too pretentious. He felt distinctly ill at ease.

The doctor closed the file he had been writing in and reached for the new one. An awkward silence had fallen upon the room. “Hi, I’m Dr. Benjamin Rouben,” he said, clearing his throat and smiling broadly. Michael figured this was his “welcome” smile to first comers, one that was supposed to make them feel relaxed, but it looked forced and overly cheesy. “But please call me Billy, that’s what my friends call me.” He turned to each one in turn and acknowledged who they were.

Angie’s returning smile was anxiously thin and Michael saw her tighten her grip on her handbag. Michael flicked his eyes back to the doctor, nodded once, rigidly, and then lowered his gaze to his hands. The doctor reminded him of a Sicilian God-father. His dislike for him was immediate and surprisingly visceral. He disliked his slick black hair that clung like fresh paint to his scalp. He disliked the perfect whiteness of his teeth. He even disliked his olive skin, and he especially disliked his dark brown eyes that crawled all over Angie and mentally undressed her. True, he disliked most doctors, except his dad. They were all no-good arrogant sons of bitches who thought they were god, especially this one. Who was he trying to impress with his why-don’t-you-call-me-Billy routine and smiling like a cat that just ate the canary?

Michael shifted in his chair, decidedly uncomfortable with this whole thing. He looked at Angie, almost pleading with his eyes. He wanted to tell this guy thanks, but no thanks, that coming here was an unfortunate mistake, and then go and find another doctor who didn’t look so smarmy.

“Welcome to my clinic,” Dr. Rouben said, directing himself mainly to Angie. “I know you must be nervous. Everyone is on the first visit. But don’t worry, soon this place will be like your second home, and I hope just as comfortable.”

Angie kept returning his smile, and Michael kept shifting in his seat like one of his boys in his class desperately holding on to a full bladder. He really didn’t want to hear all this. He just wanted to get up and leave, but he knew the chances of that were not very good.

Dr. Rouben glanced down at the open file on the desk. “I have a little information about you both here,” he said, “from the preliminary medical form you sent to my secretary. Do you mind if I run through it with you to make sure everything is in order?”

Michael saw Angie nod out of the corner of his eye. It was obvious that she wasn’t having the same doubts he was. He resigned himself to staying. That’s okay, he thought. He’d hear him out and then tell Angie what he thought of him when they were at home.

“How often do you get migraines?” Dr. Rouben asked Angie.

“Not often, maybe three or four times a year,” she said.

“Do you take any medication for it?”

“Only pain killers. Nothing really works, just rest and a dark room.”

Dr. Rouben picked up his gold fountain pen, scrawled a brief note in her file and then flipped over to the last page of the questionnaire. “It says here that you had your first period when you were twelve.” Angie nodded again. “Have there been any problems?” he asked, to which she shook her head.

Michael looked at her, cocking his eyebrow. Had she not mentioned anything about the pain in her stomach? When did she plan on telling him? Or was she going to keep quiet about it?

“It seems everything is in order,” Dr. Rouben said. “There doesn’t seem to be any obvious medical concerns that would preclude you from conceiving a child, so now we need to get to the bottom of why it’s not happening. I believe you’ve been trying to have a baby for nearly three years.”

Angie nodded, gripping her handbag even tighter than she had. “Over three and a half, actually.”

Dr. Rouben cleared his throat again. “Before I go into the details of what this clinic is all about, and what we would like to do over the next few months, I want to be frank with you both. Ten percent of adults in the western world, male and female, are infertile. That means for every ten of your friends one of them cannot conceive a child. Either of you may be that one. This means that anywhere between ten to twenty percent of couples are going to be childless.” The room was silent. To Michael, it was as if the doctor was deliberately letting this piece of information sink in for several seconds before he went on. “Before we go any further, it is imperative you wash away all your feelings of guilt – both of you – for not being able to have a child the so-called normal way. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Michael crossed his right leg over his left, feeling uncomfortable with the direction this was going. It was opening up too many fresh wounds in his and Angie’s relationship, wounds that he’d rather have let heal in their own time without someone else intervening, especially someone like this guy. “We know it’s not our fault,” he began to reply.

Dr. Rouben held up his hand. “Of course, but it’s something that I like to address straight away.”

“Okay, thank you, Dr. Rou… Dr. Billy, but Angie and I are still a bit uncomfortable with this whole thing. We need a little more time before this will start to feel like a normal thing to do.”

Angie shot him a glance, but said nothing. He could sense that she didn’t appreciate him saying that. There was an impatient look in her eye, as if the last thing she wanted was to wait any longer for something to be done.

“I understand, but it may help to extinguish all concepts you may harbor of what you consider normal or natural,” Dr. Rouben said, twitching the first two fingers of both hands in the air, like rabbit ears, Michael thought, to emphasize the word “natural”. “This clinic specializes in assisting couples who are experiencing difficulties procreating, that’s all. We are not producing babies in factories. The pregnancy still takes nine months, the mother still gives birth, and the baby still needs feeding and its diaper changed. What can be more normal or natural than that?”

Michael switched legs. Angie remained silent.

“Look, Angie and Michael,” he said, directing himself mainly at Michael, sensing his unease. “I don’t want to do anything that you’re not comfortable with. That means both of you. If either of you are having doubts about going through with this, then it’s not going to work. I need full cooperation, no halfway efforts, and if you need more time to consider alternative opportunities, then please, go home and think about it some more. There’s no shame in having doubts.”

Michael certainly had doubts. About seeking help, about this guy, this room, this hospital, about everything really. If it were his decision, he would get up and leave straight away, check out before he had the chance to check in. He turned to Angie in the hope that she’d grab this opportunity to make a graceful exit. Their eyes met and he was immediately disheartened. She’d been sold. There was no way they were going to leave. She had already checked in while he wasn’t looking and there was only one real eventuality from now on.

“No,” he said with a sigh, turning back to the doctor, “we don’t need to think about it anymore. We’ve been doing that for too long.” He paused, almost unable to say what was on his mind. “You have our full support.”

The tension in Dr. Rouben’s face seemed to fade away like the light shining through the window behind him. He relaxed into his chair, and said, “Excellent. We’re here to help you start a family, and that makes us extended family, does it not?”

Angie glanced at Michael and then at the doctor. “Well, then,” she said, in what Michael recognized as her professional tone of voice, “let’s get down to business.”

TONIGHT MICHAEL IS dreaming of the black shadow again. As before, everything is in black and white, the trees, the houses, the street, and there are no other people. It’s like time is nonexistent – all the cars are stationary, the birds aren’t flying – everything is at a standstill, except him, he is running. His chest feels like exploding and his heart is galloping. Suddenly, he realizes that he’s on a street he recognizes. It’s not his street, Christopher Street, but it’s a street somewhere in the neighborhood. His legs feel heavy, like two logs, but he must run faster than ever before. He wonders why.

A mysterious voice answers his thoughts. From where it’s coming, he doesn’t know: You have what they want. You have what they need.

He is confused as to who they are and what they want. He begins to slow. Turning, he sees the black shadow, huge and dark and menacing, not too far behind. He is terrified. He tries to run but his legs are too weak to carry him further. Now he feels as if he’s not moving at all, as if the pavement has turned into a treadmill: his legs are moving, but he is going nowhere.

Then he hears the whispering voice again, warning him: Quickly! They’re after you. Run, Michael. RUN!

It fades, like a child’s cry as it is being carried away… slipping away… into silence, as if abducted by the shadow. He feels alone and scared. He must run. He must, because now he knows the chase is on. They are after him

– they, and the black shadow.

AROUND NOON THE following day, Michael stirred from his thoughts of last night’s nightmare. The whole morning had passed in a blur. He couldn’t stop thinking of the black shadow, and only now in the open air could he clear his head and focus on what he was doing. It was Friday, November 24th. It was lunchtime. He and Norman were on teacher’s duty, and they had even managed one complete circuit of the oval before he had snapped out of his daydreaming, before he returned to the land of the living, as Angie often said. He figured they would have to do at least another two more laps until the bell signaled the end of lunchtime.

All around him children cavorted on the grass, shrieking with delight. One girl was doing summersaults, her yellow dress flipping over her head revealing a pair of white knickers each time she rolled over. Few, mainly girls, were sitting cross-legged on the ground in groups of three or four, chatting animatedly, but for the most part kids were running and squealing in one game of chase or another, for no particular reason it seemed except to run.

Norman asked him a question, which he didn’t completely hear. Michael slowly turned to him with blurred, half-dazed eyes. Norman was wearing a pair of brown corduroy trousers and a tan, V-necked sweater with large, mustard-yellow squares, raiments Michael associated with retired executives dawdling on the golf course. Norman clutched his belt and hoisted his trousers over his belly, looking somewhat impatient, as if he was envisaging slapping Michael in the face or throwing a bucket of ice over his head to wake him up.

“Are you going to tell me how it went last night, or not?” His voice had risen to a low squeal. “You told me this morning you went to the fertility clinic at St. Mary’s with Angie after work,” he said. “That’s why you didn’t make it around for dinner, which, by the way, you missed out big time. Bridget cooked up a gorgeous feast.”

Michael only now remembered that he was supposed to have phoned Norman after the clinic appointment. He had simply forgotten when he and Angie got home. They had flopped in front of the telly for a while and then went to bed, too exhausted to do anything else. He apologized to Norman for not ringing.

Norman shrugged, seemingly not too upset by his forgetfulness “Anyway, you were telling me about last night,” he said.

Michael glanced to his right, pondering his reply. A small creek ran past the oval’s southern-most edge, lying just beyond the wire-mesh fence that encircled the school. Its bed was sandy and dry, barely visible through the wattle shrubs and eucalypt trees lining its banks, and he wondered if Angie felt that way about her body, dry and barren. From the treetops a galah squawked and took off in flight, momentarily startling him. Within seconds, the sky was filled with a maddened flurry of grey and pink as fifty or so of its feathered companions joined it in flight. They seemed without a care in the world, and he briefly thought, if he had wings, would he bother with all the earthly problems of human existence?

“It went quite well, I guess,” he said, watching the birds fly overhead. “Dr. Billy told us not to feel guilty about our situation. He said lots of couples have difficulty conceiving,” and then he lowered his head, sighing. “We’re not the first, I guess, and we won’t be the last.”

Norman’s neck was craned to the sky as he too watched the parrots fly by. “What’s this Dr. Billy like then, you know, apart from being the god of fertility?” he asked, now looking at Michael.

Michael quietly grunted, as he would if Norman had trodden on his toes. He let his thoughts return to the previous evening and the initial reaction he had to the doctor and his plush office. “Angie likes him,” he said, running his hand through his hair. “She thinks he’s charming.”

“But you don’t?”

“I don’t know,” and now Michael was feeling as awkward as when he was sitting in the doctor’s office. He took several deep breaths with his head to the light-grey heavens. The last of the noisy birds flew over. “I just get a strange feeling from him. It’s like he’s got an ulterior motive to be so pleasant.”

“Of course he has,” Norman said. “He wants to make money. Isn’t that what every doctor wants? It’s how he pays for his three cars and five houses. He has to be charming and nice so you’ll give him money and tell all your friends what a lovely guy he is and how he solved all your problems. He’s also thinking about your second and third kids as well. Money, money, money, that’s what it’s all about.” Norman rolled his thumb and fingers together, pretending to feel the wads of cash in his hands. “Anyway, what’s wrong with that?”

“That’s not what’s bothering me,” Michael said, now running a hand through his hair and returning his gaze to the children running on the oval. “I know he has to make his money, but it’s, well, I don’t think I like my wife calling other men charming and nice.”

“Ha!” Norman said, gleaming. “So that’s it. You’re jealous. You’re as green as your jumper. Look at you. You’re not concerned with how good a doctor he is. All you’re worried about is that Angie finds him charming.”

“Okay, okay. I admit it. I’m a little insecure about it.”

Norman chuckled, as though in recognition of his dilemma. Michael was silent for a while. Another lap was completed and he reckoned it wouldn’t be long before the bell would ring to end the lunch period. The galahs, too, he saw, had returned to the treetops overlooking the dry creek bed, squawking loudly. Norman wanted to know what else had happened and Michael knew he wouldn’t relent until he had heard every last detail, so he told him about the blood tests Angie had to have and the abdominal scans she was booked in for later in the week. Even he had to give a sample of sperm to be examined, which brought a chuckle from Norman. The doctor was hoping these preliminary investigations would give some clue as to why they couldn’t conceive.

“Kids,” Norman said, shaking his head and sighing. “One’s enough to drive me up the wall, and I’ve got five! Take my advice, Mikey. Pull out now while you still can. It’ll be the death of me to see you throw your life away like this.” Michael watched Norman put his forearm to his brow, like a ham Shakespearian actor in sorrow. “I can’t bear to watch you do it. I’d rather die than let you make the same mistakes I did.”

“Stop being so melodramatic,” Michael said, smiling lopsidedly. Norman had a way of lightening any situation, and he was glad for his company. “It’s going to be okay. I’ve always wanted to have my own children. Look,” and he spread his arm to the kids on the oval, “see how happy they are. I want what they have.”

“There’s no need to be so pathetic.” Norman rolled his eyes and sighed exaggeratingly loud, feigning disappointment. “Let it be said that Norman Page tried his best, but not even he could do anything to save his friend.” Michael said nothing, just smiled, and Norman threw his arms outstretched, lamenting, “Am I the only sane man left in the world?”

The ringing of the bell drowned his words. Normally, Michael would have been happy to end another thankless lunch hour of teacher’s duty, but he had been enjoying his time with Norman and was sad that it had to come to an end. They waited until all the children had left the oval before following them to the rear entrance of the building. The bricks of the school façade were the deep rusty color of the central Australian desert soil, and from his angle the kids looked like multi-colored ants returning to the safety of the anthill after gathering supplies for the nest.

They wandered slowly into the school corridor after the kids. The noise was incredible. The children were shouting and screaming and stomping, and as Michael and Norman approached their respective classrooms they had to shout to each other to be heard. They bade goodbye and agreed to meet each other after the final bell for a quick drink at the local tavern. It was Friday night, after all, it had been a busy week and Michael reckoned he deserved a drink or two. Norman was about to step into his classroom, when he abruptly stopped and turned around.

“When will the test results be available?” he asked.

“December 22nd,” Michael said. “Hopefully it’ll be a nice Christmas present for Angie.”

He smiled and walked on towards his classroom, but he wasn’t thinking about the results of the fertility tests. He was thinking of nightmares and running and whispering voices.