The instant I saw the screen of my mobile phone light up with my mother’s incoming call, dread unfurrowed in my gut. Even the inevitable is terrifying. Never would she call me at work if it were not important. In short rapid statements my mom tells me that she has just taken my father to hospital. The urgency that this instills within me is beyond compare. My surroundings sway and blur as my nightmare sifts in and out of focus. No quick solutions stare back at me as I scan my work place. Fear and concern crowd out all reason and logic.
“I have to go.” I say to my colleague who sits at the opposite end of the room. It takes effort to push the panic from my voice with my cell phone still crushed up against my ear.
“They are taking him into isolation. I can’t go with him.”
“I know Mom. That’s why you need to get the phone to him. Right now!” Grabbing my purse, I bolt from the studio. “I will get you a new one.” I say quickly before she can point out the obvious fact that my parents have one cell phone between them. A flawed decision once based on pure economics leaves us in this predicament. She thought nothing of taking the phone with her because it is more hers than his and for that reason it will be a near useless device in his hands. Yet, it will be his only means of communication that will grant us the smallest window to say good bye.
The grind of my gnashing teeth drowns out all sounds as I think of my father. He must be so afraid. This, was not what he expected his last days to look like. In his mind’s eye he saw himself surrounded by his children and grandchildren upon his last breath. Never did he imagine that he would be alone in a hospital bed. Nor did I. This thought tears through me like shrapnel.
Slamming through the fire stairwell door I fly down the concrete steps staving off the wave of tears that threaten to break. A smart gust of wind and shards of sunlight stop me as I burst from the building with blinding anxiety. The icy realization that I had been running with no where to go hits me like a brick wall.
This cannot be real.
The street I am standing in is empty and I am reminded of how lonely this is; down town Toronto on a Tuesday afternoon and the city feels deserted like the opening of an eerie Stephen King novel.
I shut my eyes against the moment, rejecting what is happening.
At first all I can hear is my mother’s breathing. She is processing what I am asking of her and what I have left unsaid. With a jagged intake of air, I prepare to meet her protest with brutal facts. Instead, the faint noise at my ear shifts and I know that she has turned back towards the hospital.
“I’ll find his nurse.” There is a new determination in her voice that is hopeful and heartbreaking all at once. The cacophony of chaotic sounds that flit by as I listen amplify the agonizing suspense. “There she is. Excuse me. Excuse me.” The shrill edge in my mother’s words send a serrated blade across my remaining nerves.
After a muffled exchange, the tone holds the promise of fulfillment and I allow myself a moment of relief.
“Mom. Mom. You have to say good bye.”
“What?” The question seems to make time stand still. A cold fist of panic closes around me as I realize my mistake.
“To me, Mom. Hang up, then hand the phone off and call me when you get home. Are you okay to drive?”
“Yes. Okay.” The quiver in her voice nearly brings me to my knees. “Good bye dear. I’ll call you back as soon as I can.”
Then the line goes dead before I can say anything. Feeling muzzled and gagged, the silent sting of it burrows into my head and heart.
“God Damn it!” My shout explodes from my throat and with it comes those relentless tears.
Walking in tight circles I rock, hugging my upper body in a desperate effort to keep myself from falling apart. I have no where to go. There is no one to see. I am stuck at work considered an essential through this pandemic. Because I work in news I know too much. I know that my mother will likely never see my father again, in person anyway. Eventually she will derive at this ugly reality too. I know that we only have until they outfit him with a ventilator to talk to him. And that is only if they have one available at a time when breathing apparatus are rare commodities even for high performing hospitals. And if they happen to have a spare kicking around it will only be offered to him if he has a chance of survival. My father is 78 years old. He was a smoker in his youth but otherwise healthy if you don’t take his obesity into account.
My mother is a retired nurse and once the initial shock of having to leave her husband at the hospital wears off, she will come to many medical based conclusions. None of which I will want to hear.
There is no escaping this fate. In spite of the last 75 years of earning the right to be spared the third generation takes its place on the front line. My parent’s grandparents faced the first world war and their parents confronted the second head on. There is something poetic and twisted about my parents looking down the barrel of the third world war. There is no doubt in my mind that this war against COVID-19 is a world war like no other. In a time that looks so different to 1945 it is no wonder that our definition of a world war would change too.
It is a testament to our abundance of misinformation and many manipulators. It shines a spotlight on greed and obscene wealth. Good people raised to provide a helping hand go unnoticed while the fat selfish cats wither and die.
As a feminist who is a big supporter of the me too movement, black lives matter, and breaking the glass ceiling, I had unknowingly secretly been wishing for something to wipe the slate clean. Now that it has reared its ugly head I can look at it straight in the eye and regret what I had once hoped for. This enemy will likely take many of my children’s grandparents.
This enemy does not discriminate. It does not care if you enlisted as we were all drafted in this war. Our elderly and most vulnerable are least likely to survive. But none of us will go unscathed. We will all bare deep scars that will take decades to heal if ever.
The world as we know it has shifted dramatically and permanently. There is no coming back from this without collateral damage and countless fatalities.
My parents are inseparable and have been for more than half a century. For this, one cell phone made sense until today. Now that my mother has handed the cell over, hopefully it finds it’s way to my father’s hands. But will he know how to use it? As he faces is greatest fear will the phone grow more useless to him with mounting desperation.
So many competing thoughts bump and bruise my mind. After checking the time on my screen another surge of panic nudges me. I need to get back to work. This is an irritating obligation that rubs up against me with resentment.
A cool March breeze brings goose-flesh to the surface of my skin. The chill of the day seeps into my bones. Winter refuses to release us from its icy grip. My chattering teeth are not enough to push me back inside. Yet, willing my phone to ring proves useless as I consider how this will all unfold.
My parents live two hours outside of Toronto but this does not matter. With self isolation and public distancing, I do not dare go to her anyway. So, I wait. I wait for her to make the drive home and pray that she calls me back before making a tea and staring out over the back yard contemplating what to do next without talking to me.
This, I have feared and anticipated for for so long that I almost expect to meet it with a sense of relief as an unknown has been discovered. Instead, I am so afraid that I feel powerless for not going to greater lengths to prevent this tragedy.
Before the thick point of folded paper tapped his shoulder, there was a rustle at Jason’s ear. It was a note. No doubt about who. That was as predictable as its contents.
A bad feeling nudged his insides when, behind him, a page had been torn from a coil notebook. When the freshly frayed edges had caught on his collar, he recognised that bad feeling for what it was, a warning.
He was not about to look back. Regardless, how cute she was, he made of show of cool disinterest. Instead, he casually raised his hand and pinched the note between his fingers. It slid from the wispy clutch of brightly coloured fingernails. The giggling died with the teacher’s dramatic throat clearing.
Several minutes went by and the persistent breathy whispers grew louder. Better to open it before the valley girls behind him created a scene; a classic strategy where they appear obliviously innocent of any wrongdoing while he, the boy, takes the brunt of the instructor’s wrath.
Green ink jumped from the page, bouncing into giant bubbly letters. Simple periods and dots were replaced with looping circles and exclamation marks leaped into balloons and hearts. The unnecessary animation made his skin itch and Jason suppressed a groan from nausea.
“Jason, I’m thinking of having a party Saturday night!! You should come and bring your friends. Cammy!”
Their anticipating stares were burning holes into his upturned collar. All he did was nod. It was subtle, but he was confident that his message would be received. The gaggle of giggles which followed was grating. Chicks. Such games displayed the same immaturity found in school. Popularity has its price.
A knock at the classroom door started his spine straight. Willing it not to be who he assumed it to be, Jason sat perfectly still. Mr. Wallis, the eighth-grade teacher, walked along the front of the classroom. In three long strides, he reached to door to greet their visitor, Mr. Wallis’ eyes flicked to Jason. Before he could dismiss this, a discreet finger curled at his teacher’s side confirmed Jason of his dread.
Curses turned swampy on his tongue for this tired routine. For a fleeting moment, he actually thought that maybe he had dodged it this year, his senior year. After gathering his books, Jason slid out from his desk and drudged to the front of the class as if wading in muddy water. Not wanting to attract any more attention, he said nothing when he joined the low speaking adults. Mr. Wallis dropped a heavy hand on Jason’s shoulder and he resisted the urge to brush it away.
“Mr. Tally, this here is Dr. Chin. Accompany her this afternoon.”
Jason complied. The beginning of the school year always proved bittersweet. Admittedly, greatful to get out of class and fluff off a few hours doing pointless tests, returning was never easy. Everyone always had questions. It was a complete waste of time. By centering him out like this, blending back in with his class was the greater challenge. If his peers knew of these tests, it would mess up his status. Stupid kids were rarely popular. As the class clown, he fit in. However, no one hung out with a known dumbass.
He liked her, well, better than the last few, anyway. Dr. Chin was pretty; youthful with midnight hair and thick, full bangs that fell over her brow. The determination in her steps, demanded the lead, a status threatened merely by her size. Jason got a kick out of towering over her. This applied to only a few adults. Within a few years, Jason would be eye to eye with his tallest teachers and instructors. That day could not come soon enough.
As they approached the tiny room at the end of the hall, amusement tickled the laugher from Jason’s throat. It did not escape, but he could not help but smile. When the door failed to open more than a few inches, Dr. Chin threw her shoulder into it and nearly bludgeoning herself with its ricochet. The balk she let out was endearing and ridiculous. Both compromised her credibility. The competency nose dive drainer her of confidence.
“Come this way.” Jason said, tipped his head and started down the hall.
Her sigh of annoyance was less than subtle. All of her funny little noises were in stark contrast to her no nonsense persona.
The hallway of shiny floors and glass cabinets opened into a massive entrance to their right. Above the expansive opening, highly polished gold letters read Tally Library. Dr. Chin slowed as she took in the sign.
Once inside, they immediately went to the left, where doors to small empty conference rooms lined the wall. Jason stepped into the first one and flicked on the light. Along its perimeter were boxes of books, stacked thoughtlessly against a door. The one Dr. Chin had originally wanted to use. Her note of irritation was amusing.
The far too congested room had an oval table and five over-sized black vinyl chairs. It smelled of stale coffee and fresh ink. Curious, Jason scanned the clutter and spotted a photocopier crammed among the boxes. Dr. Chin waved a delicate hand over the table. An indication for him to sit. He suspected that this gesture was a way to resume order. The command resembled those given by dog handles. He drew in his annoyance and complied with reluctance.
Dr. Chin proceeded to move two chairs extremely close together and place her soft brown briefcase in one before sitting in the other. It became abundantly clear that she had strategically positioned herself at the head of the table where, ironically, her frame was devoured by the massive furniture. She opened a pair of silver-framed glasses and set them on the table by her elbow. Once she re-positioned them three more times, she clasped her hands and looked up, unaware of his scrutiny.
“How have you been, Jason?” She asked with sincerity but aggressive eye contact.
“Good.” He said with growing skepticism. “How are you?”
Even at thirteen, Jason had a flair for charming people to distraction and he was grateful for the opportunity to flaunt his skill and conceal his intention to stall the inevitable.
“I am very well, thank-you. What did you do with your summer?” Her voice remained cheerful and casual.
He was more than happy to procrastinate by entertaining the pleasantries. “Hung out with friends.” Shrug. “Went to a few parties. Chilled by the pool, you know. Not much.”
She tilted her head and pushed one side of her mouth into a sardonic smile, as if waiting to hear a specific answer. “No summer job?”
“Nah.”
“Did you do any reading?” She asked, moving only her lips.
Jason lifted his eyebrows and shrugged. “Nope, didn’t do that either.”
“Do you know why we are here?” Dr. Chin tapped the table between them with a tidy fingertip.
“I can guess.” He chuckled. “I do this every year. You are going to do a bunch of tests that you will call exercises.” He made air quotes. “You will make notes and I won’t get to know how I did.”
Nodding, Dr. Chin began fishing into her briefcase. Booklets and papers were arranged methodically around the table with precision. Once placed, she touched the tops of each in order.
“You’re wasting your time.” He knew his warning was pointless. “No offense, Doc. I don’t care about any of this.”
Finally, she pulled out an aluminum box that intrigued him until he recognized it as an archaic stopwatch with a large face and two black knobs on the top.
“Really? You’re going to use that thing? Here, why don’t you just use mine?” Laughing, Jason tugged at his extremely rare and new Swatch, preparing to remove it from his wrist for her to use instead.
To his chagrin, Dr. Chin shook her head and raised a palm to suggest for him not to bother. “This will be just fine.”
“1965 called. They want their chess timer back.” Jason’s joke was met with a blank stare and he wrangled in his laughter with a choked cough.
If her lack of personality was meant to be intimidating, it was working.
With one last compulsive touch to the clock and each paper pile, she looked directly at him and said, “Shall we begin?
Stretching out, Jason unfolded beneath the table and crossed his ankles. Safety pins lined the inside of both pant legs, molding the denim to his long athletic frame. It was the newest style. Everyone was customizing their jeans the same way. The irony was not lost on Jason. His shameless efforts to fit dissolved to embarrassment under Dr. Chin’s scrutiny. She studied the pinched fabric all the way down to his wool socks shoved into black Birkenstock sandals.
When he threaded his fingers together and tucked them beneath the back of his head, Dr. Chin lifted her eyes to his. He stared right back. This game was easy. Jason was confident that he could stare anyone down. When Dr. Chin blinked, satisfaction pulled his face into a grin. Then she leaned to one side and crossed her legs. In placing her elbow on the arm of her chair, she perched her chin on her slightly curled fingers. There she sat, just looking at him expectantly.
Well, this was awkward. Squirming, Jason’s chair was suddenly slippery and uncomfortable. Neither said a word. Under the weight of her stare, he faltered like an eight-year-old. The good sense he was born with finally lashed out and gripped his insides. His innate need to be liked was threatened. Heat broke out across his cheeks, and instinctively, Jason began to straighten up. She said not a word, just nodded with patient appreciation. Damn, he lost out to the silent treatment.
The next ninety minutes were long and humiliating. Pressure was added, thanks to the boxy timer that sat ominously between them, ticking. The needling sound pecked at his patience and caused his lunch to twist in his stomach. The doctor was much wiser about his ability to distract and compromise results than the others. In the past, Jason was capable of faking a coughing fit or asking simple redundant questions to botch the accuracy of the ticking timer that made him sweat. He did not like to read and despised reading to others. He once had the Heimlich maneuver painfully performed on him because he had pretended to choke just before having to read aloud to his entire class.
It was last year, actually. Upon receiving the three-page student agreement, the teacher announced that the class would read the handout aloud. Everyone would be assigned to read a paragraph designated by where they sat. The mere word ‘aloud’ blurred Jason’s vision and restricted his breathing.
The desks had been arranged in two ‘u’ shapes; one inside the other. Jason sat in the middle of the outer structure. Feverishly, he counted the kids to his right, hell bent to predetermine his appointed paragraph so that he could rehearse. In a dizzying frenzy, Jason read and reread his part over and over. By the time his heart was no longer thundering against his chest, he had the words nearly committed to memory. By breathing normally and seeing clearly, Jason finally found confident enough to follow along with the rest of the class. He quickly realized that his teacher had unexpectedly gone the opposite way around the outer horseshoe. Ergo, he had memorized the wrong paragraph. Suddenly, everyone focused on him. He was next to read, and the text was foreign to him. The words on the page shimmered and swam. Jason’s heart began to race.
Without thinking, he threw his body onto the floor and, with remarkable believability, began heaving and convulsing. There was mass hysteria throughout the classroom. Girls were screaming and at least one was crying. He never imagined that he would take such spontaneous and dramatic measures to dodge reading aloud. To his own surprise, he flailed on the floor, and regretted not thinking through his exit strategy. It was beyond him to predict that Randy Booker, the captain of the basketball team and avid Boy Scout, would pick him up like a rag doll and begin thrusting giant fisted hands into his chest. Subjected to the violence of the Heimlich maneuver performed by a mammoth boy, triggered further unimaginable humiliation. Throwing up was involuntary. It was still the preferred outcome to this predicament. A little vomit dribble on his shirt and down his chin was worth it if he avoided reading aloud.
Needless to say, reading was not his strongest subject by any means. He was, however, adamant that a true depiction of his abilities would not be evident under such intense testing and scrutiny. Normally, these sessions were a joke; in his mind, they proved nothing. Then, Dr. Chin exchanged the reading cards for ones with numbers. They, too, were painfully stressful and nerve-racking for Jason.
“I am going to show you a sequence of numbers now. You will have ten seconds to study it. Then, try to repeat it back to me as best as you can. Okay? Simple enough?” She asked in a slow and clear whisper, complete with deliberate condescension.
The first card she introduced had a three-digit number. After ten seconds, he recited the numbers back. For the first time, he understood. Since first grade, they pullout him from class to participate in these sessions. It seemed pointless. Until now. The shift from words to numbers, Jason realized that the exercises were progressive. After completing a stage, the student leveled up. The inability to complete a stage, concluded the exercise. The instructor then recorded the result. In the past, Jason attempted activities two and three times. This suggested very little progression. Dr. Chin could not hide her astonishment when she ran out of number cards. The last one she held up read 1057 8864 2497 5234 1876.
Ten seconds later, Dr. Chin placed the card face down and nodded at Jason, who said, “1057 8864 2497 5234 1876”
“Twenty numbers! Jason! That was a twenty number sequence. You just rhymed it off like it was your home phone number.” She was genuinely excited by this result.
“Is that good?” His eyebrows strained to make one firm line of confusion.
Unaccustomed to having his ego stroked in these sessions, Jason was uncertain how to respond. They usually ended with him feeling dumber than a shoe horn.
“No, that’s pretty incredible. I have never seen anything like it.” She beamed at him.
“Well, words I can’t stand, but I have always been good with numbers.” Jason stretched and stifled a yawn.
“What do you mean? Like math?” Dr. Chin asked, taking a thoughtful interest in the new direction of their conversation.
“No.” He said, chuckling at her relentless focus on academics. “I mean like, I don’t have to write phone numbers down. I know sports stats and players’ numbers by heart. I guess I just have a good memory when it comes to numbers, that’s all.”
“Oh, I think it is much more than that.” She said.
“Yah? Like what?”
“Well, I cannot say for certain. But I would like to ask you some more questions of a different nature.” She pulled a notebook out of the pile and placed it in front of her.
“As long as I don’t have to read anymore, shoot.”
Aftere opening the notebook, Dr. Chin uncapped a fountain pen and put on her glasses for the first time throughout the session. She was ready to write. Pen poised. Eyes cast down. “Were you ever injured as a child?” When he did not answer, she restated the question. “Any head injuries, major concussions, or extremely high fevers?”
Heat crept up the back of his neck as a familiar burn scorched through his thoughts. It was typical for the suit doling out the tests to probe inappropriately into his past. There must be a reason. They had to find something to blame for his messed up perception. What good would any of this do? Who was this supposed to benefit? Jason felt like an idiot. He almost fell for it, almost let his guard down. As if he could trust Dr. Chin. She was just like the rest; judging him, wanting to research him to find out what was wrong with him. Anger bubbled up and Jason’s grip on the situation steeled.
“What are you getting at Doc?” He asked.
She failed to pick up on his hostility and refused to change course. “Do you remember ever having a head injury or serious concussion or meningitis?” Dr. Chin pressed on, distracted by pages before her. She flipped through another book, clearly trying to reference something.
Jason fell silent with smoldering fury. Finally, Dr. Chin pulled her nose from her notebook, annoyed by the delay, and met his glare. She gasped, belatedly understanding her transgression. Perhaps she recognized her mistake and saw Jason as a person and not just a subject.
“Are you for real right now?” His temper blazed, and he bolted up. “You’re asking me if I was dropped on my head as a baby? If I have brain damage? You are just like the rest. I’m outta here.”
“Jason, I didn’t mean to suggest…”
The sharp jab of propriety stopped him at the door. “Tell me we are done here,” he said, the creaking of the knob in his grip.
She nodded sheepishly.
“By the way. You have a serious case of O.C.D. and the sensitivity of a python. You might want to work on that. Especially if you plan on pursuing a career working with kids.”
Fury fuelled Jason’s storm from the room. For the briefest of moments, he had felt smart, capable, even proud of himself. What was he thinking?
