It all seems pointless to Zach. Both the reunion and the notion of an updated yearbook. He has neither the time nor the interest. He has more important matters to think about. Matters of life and death.
‘Hop up on the bed, Mrs Carey. I’ll pull the curtain and you can take your top off for me. You can use the sheet. Let me know when you’re ready.’
Zach reads through his patient’s medical history while he waits for her to de-robe. She’s in her fifties, younger than she looks. Used to smoke, gave up a couple of years ago. Today she is complaining of a persistent cough, shortness of breath and chest pain. He has a bad feeling about this one.
‘Ready?’
‘Yes.’ Even her one-word response is breathless.
He starts with percussion on her back, establishing a dull area at the base of the lung, suggesting fluid. He uses the stethoscope to listen. She winces at the coldness of the metal, then laughs at herself, a raspy laugh that turns into a hacking cough.
‘Deep breaths through the mouth.’ He can’t hear any breathing sounds from that area. ‘Have you been experiencing any back pain?’
She looks surprised. ‘Yes, at night.’
That means it has probably spread to the bones. At least stage 3. What’s frustrating is that smoking is becoming popular again, despite all the health warnings. Some people just don’t value their lives until it’s too late.
‘Let’s listen to your front now.’ She turns, with another wince, to give him a better angle.
He moves the stethoscope around her freckled chest, listening carefully. ‘All done.’
Zach fills in paperwork for a chest X-ray and pleural aspiration while she buttons up her top.
‘Should I be worried?’ she asks tremulously.
He pauses. He can’t lie outright. Nothing is ever gained by lying.
‘Try not to worry too much until we see the results. Then we’ll deal with it together.’
His next patient is a toddler with a raging ear infection. The child screams and squirms in his mother’s arms. Zach smiles, says hello, and hands him a spare stethoscope to play with. The child is immediately transfixed.
‘That’s the first time he’s stopped crying today,’ the mother says.
Zach is good with children. All the mothers say so.
‘That woman – Katy – sent another reminder today. You should reply to her.’
Zach shares everything with Isabel, including a joint email address. She sees all his messages, he sees all hers, they have nothing to hide from each other. It’s late at night and they’ve finally sat down to relax. Carson is asleep upstairs.
‘Nah, Izzy. Not interested.’
‘Why not?’
‘I was a different person back then. A bit of a dickhead, if I’m honest.’
Isabel laughs, her dark eyes crinkling at the sides. She is almost nine years older than him. ‘You were the class clown. I found that interesting.’ Seeing his confusion, she explains further. ‘Katy scanned a copy of your original entry, obviously hoping to prompt you to respond. Were you the one who let the frogs escape?’
‘So, when did you start to become more serious about life?’
‘You know when.’
He’s told her this story. His turning point, his epiphany. It happened when he was eighteen, a few months out of school, having started a degree in computer technology and discovering that he had zero interest in it. Then, one night before dinner, his father had a heart attack. He didn’t clutch at his chest, as one might have expected, or cry out in pain. He burped, as though he’d eaten too much, even though he hadn’t yet sat down to eat. Then he grabbed hold of the kitchen counter in an attempt to keep himself upright and Zach had to lunge forward to catch him before he hit the ground. His mother called an ambulance and something happened while Zach watched the paramedics in action. He wanted what they had. A job that made a difference. A job that involved saving lives or making them better. Of course, this late decision meant having to do bridging courses in chemistry, biology and maths. It meant doing a six-year degree instead of a three-year one. He initially saw himself as a paramedic, but later decided that the long-lasting doctor-patient relationships in general practice were more for him.
Izzy tilts her head to one side as she regards him. She wears her hair long, over one shoulder. Its natural colour is brown-black. These days she dyes it to disguise the grey. ‘Don’t you want to tell this Katy what you’re doing with your life? Are you not proud of who you are, who we are?’
Zach feels that a few trite sentences can’t possibly summarise all the wondrous and tragic things he has experienced, or the wisdom he has accumulated about humanity and what is truly important in life.
‘You know I’m proud,’ he says, reaching for her hand. ‘Our son is being made school captain tomorrow, a day I thought I’d never see. I’ll be the proudest man in that school hall.’
‘Well, answer her then. Tell her about me and Carson and your job. Shout it out to the world.’
As is often the case, Isabel has helped him see things differently. He leans closer to give her a kiss of gratitude.
The school hall is half full. It’s a small school, only sixty-odd students in total. Zach and Isabel have reserved seats in the front row. Carson is up on the stage, kicking his legs as he waits, a shoelace undone. He jumps up when he sees them. A teacher fondly returns him to his seat.
‘Morning.’ Barry, Zach’s father, sits down next to them, looking the picture of health. Having the heart attack all those years ago changed his life, too.
‘I thought I was gone,’ he said when he was well enough to reflect on what had happened. ‘And all I could think was, give me another chance. Please, God, give me one more chance and I promise I won’t blow it.’
Barry hasn’t blown it. He exercises, eats and drinks in moderation, and goes for regular check-ups. Sadly, Zach’s mother passed away a few years ago and Barry is now on his own. Isabel’s parents are more elderly and live in Buenos Aires. They visit Sydney once a year, staying for a couple of months at a time. They help with Carson. All the grandparents adore Carson.
The headmaster clears his throat and waits a few beats for silence to descend.
‘Good morning, everyone. A very big welcome to St Kevin’s School for Special Education.’
They knew beforehand, at the twelve-week scan. The baby had a tell-tale amount of fluid at the back of its neck. Both Zach and Isabel, who is also a doctor, saw the increased nuchal translucency on the screen. They both understood the ramifications.
‘The baby might have Down’s syndrome,’ Isabel murmured when the sonographer left the room to fetch her supervisor.
They were offered further – more intrusive – tests, which they declined. They both agreed: the tests wouldn’t change the outcome, there would be no termination. Of course, the increased fluid didn’t automatically mean Down’s syndrome but Isabel’s age – thirty-five – was another damning factor. They knew. Deep down they both knew, and further tests, with their associated risks of miscarriage, seemed pointless.
Izzy grieved. It took time to adjust her expectations of the baby that would be born, to realign her hopes and dreams for the child and their family life. Then, with acceptance, came ferocity. ‘Regardless of what happens, this baby has been given to us for a reason ... He has been sent on earth to teach us to be worthy of him.’
Zach was just as resolute. He was disappointed and sad but he wasn’t frightened of having a disabled child. He’d seen enough to know there is no such thing as perfect, and indeed no guarantees at any stage of parenthood. Robust babies can be struck down with leukaemia or other serious illnesses. Happy-go-lucky children can become mentally unstable during their teens. If you approached parenthood expecting no major challenges, then you were in for a shock.
The headmaster announces the new captains and Carson and his female counterpart stand up to boisterous applause. Their badges are pinned to their polo shirts and then there’s a short speech from each.
Carson stands too close to the microphone. ‘Thank you, Mumma, Dadda, Pops,’ he booms. A teacher moves him back. ‘Thanks, Mr Summers and Mrs McKay.’ Now he is barely audible. The teacher tries again to put him in the right position. ‘Thanks, friends, for voting me. You’re best friends ever.’
Carson’s speech is thick-tongued due to his low muscle tone. He makes up for it with authenticity, enthusiasm and an enormous grin. Izzy takes a thousand photos. Zach blinks away tears of pride.
Afterwards, there is tea and cake and even more photos. Barry says goodbye, and Isabel and Zach stroll back to the car hand in hand. A teen – ripped jeans, tattooed arms, a cloud of cigarette smoke in front of his face – eyes Isabel up and down. She is one of those classically beautiful women who appeal to men of all ages.
Zach stops dead. Stares at the cigarette between the teen’s fingers.
‘Yesterday I had a woman in my surgery who has lung cancer. She’ll be lucky to last six weeks.’
‘That’s your fucking business.’
Izzy takes a turn. ‘The people who love you – your mum and dad and maybe your girlfriend – won’t want you to die young.’
After a few long moments, the boy grinds the cigarette against the wall behind him. It was only a matter of time before he capitulated. Izzy has this effect on people. Bringing out the best in them. Including Zach.
She gives the boy a dazzling smile. ‘Well done, you.’
The truth is, Zach doesn’t deserve Isabel. She is beautiful, inside and out. He is not.