‘You don’t look very sick,’ the guy says as I scrawl my name in thick black letters. It doesn’t fit neatly on the little dotted line. My nails find a scab on my wrist and start picking as his eyes saunter down my scantily clad frame, lingering on my legs.
‘How grossly inappropriate of you to notice,’ I reply, fighting hard to keep my voice even.
I’m not surprised by his comment. It’s not the first time I’ve heard it. I mean, I’m pasty, sallow, reasonably tall at five foot six, and my mom would say as thin as a rake. Social Convention dictates that I must deny being pretty, but I am . . . pretty. It’s one of the only things I have that makes me feel normal. Of course, I pervert that normality by embracing my looks. I’m supposed to pretend that I’ve never noticed my face. I see it happen on The Hub all the time: a person tells someone else that they’re pretty, and they deny all knowledge, refute the compliment into oblivion, but hell-to-the-no am I ever doing that. This is mine, one of the only things about me that I actually like. I own it. And Social Convention will have to pry it from my cold, dead hands before I ever give it up.
The thing is, Helping Hands has a roster of housebound clients who are all on the far side of sixty. And most are undergoing some pretty intense treatments. As far as looking sick goes, people generally think I don’t. I have what Dr Reeves calls an invisible illness.
‘Much feistier than the norm,’ Helping Hands Guy tells me. I steady myself against the countertop, moving as slowly as I would if he were a lion and I were a lamb. I’m not sure how I’m supposed to respond, so I say nothing. He doesn’t seem to mind. ‘Cool pictures.’ He nods in the direction of the two art nouveau prints hanging on the wall at the other side of the room.
‘Thank you.’ I’m trying not to be hostile. It’s hard. His personal comments are still circulating, and my mind has started asking questions that I can’t answer.
‘You paint them?’ he asks.
‘No.’ The pictures are originals. Given to my grandma the Christmas before she died by the artist himself, Franz Muto. He’s not much of a big deal . . . yet. He’s hoping that’ll happen the day after he dies. My gran talked about Franz all the time. I know I could elaborate on my sharp response, tell Helping Hands Guy half a dozen stories about these particular pieces of art, but my brain is too busy trying to work out what he’s still doing here. I’m fixated on the idea that he’s waiting for a tip. Trying to work out how much. Considering what will happen if he’s not waiting for that and finds the suggestion offensive. ‘Yeah. Anyway. Good talk.’ He rolls his eyes at me. ‘I’ll see myself out.’ Helping Hands Guy flicks his eyebrows once, and with that, he leaves.
Wait.
My eyes dart around the room like ping-pong balls.
Wait.
Countertop: clear.
Kitchen island: clear.
Floor: clear.
Where are my groceries?
‘Wait!’
Panic turns my dart to the front door into a tangled stumble of lanky limbs. I thwack my hip on a chair and stub my toe on the skirting board.
Alas, it’s all in vain. I fling the door open just in time to see Helping Hands Guy pull his truck away from the kerb. The grocery bags lined up against the side of my house make a brief appearance in my peripheral vision. ‘Wait!’ I scream, but my voice is drowned out by the sound of maggot rock music blasting from his stereo. And then he’s down the road, around the corner.
Gone.
‘Wait,’ I whisper to the wind.
You might think that now that sustenance has been thrown into the mix, my debilitating agoraphobia will take a back seat to my survival instincts. You’d be wrong.
I reach for the phone, stab in the number for Helping Hands, jaw clenched so tight it’s a wonder my teeth don’t shatter. It’s 6.05. I already know no one will pick up because their office shuts at six on Sundays, but I plough on through because panic is a vast, solid mass inhabiting my mind and there is no room for common sense. I dig a nail into my thigh and scratch until I feel a sting.
The phone rings twice before an automated voice apologizes and tells me I should call back at 7.00 a.m. tomorrow. I slam the phone down, making the vase of fresh flowers on the end table shudder, only to pick the phone back up again, sense still AWOL.
Dr Reeves gave me her number six months ago, after our first appointment. She said it was for emergencies. I’ve never used it, mostly because I have trouble deciphering what your average Joe considers an emergency.
My thumb hovers above the number two button. We have her on speed dial.
I mean, there is next to no food in this house and Mom won’t be back until Tuesday. Plus, there’s this whole countywide bear warning since a couple of trash cans were wrecked during the small hours one night last week. We’ve been double-bagging our garbage as a precaution. All that food out there, sweltering in the sun. It’s basically an invitation. This is an emergency. It is.
I hit the button and am greeted by voicemail.
Damn it. I slam the phone down for a second time, abuse that it somehow survives intact.
Then I start pacing. Up and down the hall, chewing more holes in the side of my mouth and tearing strips off my nails.