People stare. They always do. Zach doesn’t mind. There’s nothing wrong with curiosity.
‘How much longer?’ Carson pants, his face red and disgruntled.
‘Four more laps.’
Carson groans. He doesn’t enjoy training or anything that involves hard graft. Kids with Down’s syndrome have low muscle tone and poor coordination; exercise is hard for them, and therefore so is motivation. There is greater prevalence of obesity and congenital heart disease, which is why Zach and Izzy insist on at least forty minutes’ physical activity a day. Their number-one desire is for their son to have a long and healthy life.
‘How much longer, Dadda?’
‘Stop asking the same question. Step it up and it’ll go quicker.’
Carson’s running technique is far from optimal. Heavy feet, clenched fists, head lolling to one side, tongue hanging out. Sometimes Zach runs backwards, which is good for encouraging his son as well as matching his slower pace.
‘I’m tired.’
‘Come on, keep going.’
The last eleven years have been an enormous learning curve, with ups and downs, triumphs and failures, and many instances of two steps forward followed by one step back. Isabel is always scouring for opportunities to broaden Carson’s horizons. Thanks to her endeavours, he has modelled for a department-store catalogue, participated in various Special Olympic competitions, and even landed a short-term acting role in a TV hospital series.
But Carson’s greatest achievement is his endless capacity for love. He loves his parents, his grandparents, his teachers and his friends. He loves animals, buses and aeroplanes. His kisses are slobbery, his hugs are a force of nature, and his face lights up as soon as you walk into the room.
‘Track,’ another runner calls out from behind.
This is a warning to stay on the outer lanes and not veer in front of the runner.
‘Track,’ Carson calls back cheerfully, which is not the protocol. The runner casts him a closer look as he overtakes. Sees. Understands. Gives Zach a nod.
‘Good job, there.’
It’s condescending but Zach doesn’t care. Condescension and curiosity, he can take. Even wariness and fear, to a certain degree. Pity isn’t so easy. It evokes memories of when Carson was a baby, their pride and love for him swamped by the overwhelming sympathy of others. Even worse than pity is the act of ignoring. The people who avert their eyes as though Carson weren’t standing there. The people who don’t speak or engage with him. The people who dismiss him as unimportant, inferior, when in fact he is the complete opposite.
‘The waiting time is more than an hour,’ Gloria informs him with a grimace. ‘Sorry we had to call you in.’
‘What happened?’
‘One of Sandy’s patients collapsed. We called an ambulance and waited a very long time for its arrival ... That was before Catrina started feeling sick and had to go home early.’
Sandy and Catrina have been Zach’s partners for more than ten years now, and Gloria’s been in reception half that long. They make a good team. It’s not often he gets called in on his day off.
‘Have you prioritised who’s waiting?’
Needless question because Gloria excels in prioritisation. ‘I don’t like the colour of the woman over there – she looks like she’s going to keel over any minute. Then I’ll send in the gentleman who’s been waiting the longest. The one with the cranky face.’
The patients usually forget their frustration as soon as their name is called. They’re happy to see him, to sit down and finally say what’s wrong. Poor Gloria bears the brunt of their impatience and bad temper.
The next four hours are long and busy. Zach processes the patients as efficiently as he can. He is polite and thorough, but can’t afford time for niceties like making the children giggle or chatting with the elderly patients, who come in for human contact more than any ailment. His last appointment of the day, a little girl with red-hot cheeks and a precariously high temperature, vomits on the surgery floor.
Zach cleans up with paper towels. Gloria arrives with a mop and a bucket smelling of strong chemicals.
She scrunches her face. ‘Do I get paid enough for this?’
‘Probably not,’ he says sympathetically.
In the bathroom, Zach washes his hands scrupulously. His reflection in the mirror shows blond-brown hair that’s slightly too long, lightly tanned skin, green eyes that he’s passed down to Carson.
You don’t look like a GP, he has been told quite often. They never say why.
He pops his head in on Sandy, who’s finishing some paperwork before she calls an end to the day. Sandy, at fifty-two, is the oldest partner. She’s the one Zach goes to for professional advice. He goes to Catrina if he wants a laugh or to let off steam. Izzy is close friends with both women.
‘I’m done here, Sandy. Any update on the patient who collapsed?’
Her expression is equal parts weary and relieved. ‘Pulmonary embolism. He’s in a critical condition but expected to make it through.’
‘That’s good news. See you tomorrow.’
Zach’s car is parked a few streets away. A flyer has been left tucked under the wiper. He takes it off, chucks it on the passenger seat. He is in a hurry to get home. To see Carson’s delight when he walks through the door. To see Izzy’s quiet smile.
‘What this?’
It’s Thursday morning. They’re on their way to school; Carson and the other school leaders are hosting their first school assembly. Izzy has her camera ready. She looks especially chic this morning in a navy and white dress. Carson has earphones in and is humming loudly. He doesn’t seem to be at all nervous; he rarely thinks about things until they’re actually happening.
‘What?’ Zach glances across at his wife. She has the flyer in her hand. ‘Just something that was left on the car yesterday.’
She frowns. ‘Not just something, Zach. Pull in and I’ll show you.’
He takes the next turn off the main road. Pulls up a safe distance from the corner. Tries to read her face before he takes the piece of paper from her hand.
Name: Zach Latham
What you do now: General practitioner.
Highlights of last twenty years: Meeting Izzy. The birth of your son.
Lowlights: Carson being Down’s syndrome.
Deepest fears: Lots of things. What will happen to Carson when you and Izzy aren’t around to take care of him. Being sued by one of your patients. Izzy finding out the truth about you.
Izzy is looking at him suspiciously. ‘What does it mean “the truth about you"? What truth?’
He scrunches the flyer into ball. The urge to swear is overwhelming. No, not with Carson in the car.
‘Nothing. You know everything there is to know. It’s just some silly prank.’
It’s the first time he’s lied to her in ... he doesn’t know how long.