Maame(13)

“Okay,” Claire says, finally getting up from her seat. “Katherine, why don’t you leave Maddie to sort out your diary—I’m sure it won’t take her very long.” She speaks as if reasoning with a toddler and ushers Katherine back into her office. “Whilst she’s doing that, I’ll make you a cup of tea, how’s that sound?”

“Yes, thank you, Claire,” Katherine says between labored breaths. “That’s very kind.”

I turn back to my computer, feeling everyone’s eyes still stuck to me.

I don’t cry until enough time has passed for me to inconspicuously use the bathroom. There I ruminate on whether Katherine has a favorite cubicle to cry in, and if I’m currently sat in it.

At least I’m not in the office all day. I leave at three in the afternoon to make the GP appointment for my back. Even though I’ll return in the evening for a play, my shoulders drop once I’m outside the building and waiting for my train.



* * *



I lie on my boobs, shifting uncomfortably, in the overly bright office of General Practitioner Shazia Rana. She’s not a conversationalist, so the silence, whilst she slowly dons a pair of gloves, makes my ears ring. I wonder if I should mention I have highly sensitive nipples, which means I can never sleep on my front and whether that’s something I should be worried about.

Dr. Rana walks up to the table and asks me to lift my jumper so she can feel for anything obvious on my back. This is quite difficult to do when lying on your belly, but I give it my best shot. I remember too late how tight the neck hole of this jumper is and, to stop my legs flailing from the effort, decide to just lie there with half my face obscured by polyester masquerading as cotton.

She presses my back with cold gloved fingers and goose bumps prickle the surface of my skin. “How are you today, Maddie?”

Her voice is very gentle, perhaps because she’s concentrating on the task at hand, but I actually stop to think about her question. The truthful answer is: not great. My back still hurts and my four nights a week aren’t helping; I hope I never see my dad hallucinate again; I don’t want to work another day for my boss; my mum’s returning from Ghana soon; I’m still crying at night and that might be the only thing that puts me to sleep.

However, I can’t say any of this because sometimes asking how someone is serves solely as a passing pleasantry and the only acceptable answer is some variation of “Fine, thanks. You?” But maybe—what if she really does want to know how I am?

“Well, I’m—”

“I’m just going to press a little harder,” Dr. Rana says.

I blink and nod. “Yes, okay. Thank you.”

Probably for the best.

“Well, there’s nothing that gives me cause for concern, which is good,” Dr. Rana says, returning to her desk. “You say you hurt your back lifting heavy boxes at work?”

I lift my head and lie, “Yes.”

“But it says on your file you’re a personal assistant.”

“Oh, erm, I was just helping the stage crew out. They were short staffed.”

“But it’s not part of your role?”

Role. “Not exactly.”

“Best to avoid then.” She turns back to her computer screen and says, “I’ll write you a prescription and combined with avoiding any further strenuous activity, you should be fine.”

I press my lips together and nod. “Right.”



* * *



Tonight’s play, the one I missed watching with Avi, is loosely based on the Salem witch trials; an accused witch must prove she’s pregnant to avoid being burnt alive. I’m here because staff often get complimentary tickets and Katherine wants us all to attend when we can so we’re always up to date with CGT’s plays. Since we’re given the time and date, I can rarely make it because performances don’t always land on Dawoud’s nights.

I try to focus on reading the play’s outline, but I’m still thinking about my afternoon—Katherine’s meltdown and how I really don’t want to return to work tomorrow, and Dr. Rana. (What if you had said more? Why did you lie about how you injured yourself?) Sitting alone in a foyer swarming with people waiting to enter the theater doesn’t help.

With my Tuesday dress still in the wash, I’m reasonably dressed in gray pinstripe trousers, a white jumper, and a large cardigan, but to give you a sense of the remaining audience, CGT is located within walking proximity of a coffee shop brazenly charging six pounds for a small latte and a restaurant masquerading as a pub called Gentri-Pied. So patrons and audience members—primarily of a certain age and demographic—tend to dress in suits, ties, dresses, and heels.

To explain away my lack of the aforementioned dress code, I keep my work lanyard around my neck.

I’m glad to find my seat just before the lights dim and the show starts.



* * *



During the interval, I use the bathroom, then head to the second floor to see the exhibition. It’s free for anyone visiting and is made up of podiums showcasing our costume department’s best designs from previous plays.

I slip into the milling crowd and bend over, reading the placard for a floor-length, gold-yellow dress made of feathered layers, alongside a matching molten-gold halo crown with each spike covered in shimmering crystals. It’s stunning and I wow audibly.