Seven Days of Us(24)
Emma
THE KITCHEN, WEYFIELD HALL, 3:18 P.M.
? ? ?
“Symptoms of Haag,” Emma typed. Even the word sounded like someone dying, she thought. She knew the symptoms, vaguely, but now that Olivia’s colleague was ill, she needed details. Google returned thousands of results. At the top was a row of grisly pictures of people, or perhaps corpses, on stretchers. She clicked quickly on the National Health Service website, a beacon of First World safety, to escape the images. It read:
Symptoms of Haag Virus
A person infected with the Haag virus will typically develop nausea, vomiting, fatigue, breathlessness, excessive saliva production, a headache, and sometimes, but not always, a raised temperature.
These early symptoms start gradually, between two and seven days after becoming infected. They may vary from mild to severe.
Dizziness or fainting; profuse sweating; a raised, bluish rash; and impaired organ function follow. These later symptoms develop abruptly, often within a few hours.
Haag virus disease is fatal in 70 to 80 percent of cases. The sooner a person is given care, the better the chances that they will survive.
Haag is infectious and is passed by contact with bodily fluids. A patient is most contagious once they develop later symptoms, so special care should be taken to isolate anybody who may have the virus, to avoid risk of infection.
It went on to state the importance of calling 999 should one have been to West Africa and believe one might be symptomatic. Emma closed the tab, anxiety flapping like a bird behind her breastbone. Then, knowing it would be upsetting, but unable to stop herself, she went back to her original search, and clicked on one of the stamp-sized images. It was a child—the head huge in proportion to its body, tiny limbs covered in blueish blisters. The look of surrender in its eyes was heartbreaking. She felt a new awe for Olivia, facing these things in the flesh. She would watch her daughter closely for early Haag symptoms, she decided, googling: “Donate to Haag crisis.” She felt rather peculiar herself and tipped the stollen she’d been nibbling into the bin.
The trouble was, the news about Olivia’s poor colleague was inescapable. Radio 4 seemed intent on working it into everything, and the sprawl of papers on the table was seething with Haag stories. Even P. G. Wodehouse didn’t help. She had tried to distract herself by arranging holly and ivy over all the paintings—attempting a little boogie to Elton John’s “Step into Christmas” while she did so. But Olivia had walked in and looked appalled, and Emma had worried that perhaps dancing was terribly insensitive. Finally, she had rung Nicola, which meant a shivery mobile call at the bottom of the drive—to avoid being overheard on the landline. This hadn’t helped, either. Nicola had been very alarmed about Olivia knowing the doctor with Haag, and begged her to tell Andrew everything in view of “the increased risk.” Emma had banked on Nicola promising her that Olivia would be fine and not to panic.
Having donated fifty pounds, and then, feeling that was mean, another two hundred, to Save the Children’s Haag appeal, Emma started the borscht she always made on Christmas Eve. As she chopped beetroots, fingers turning fuchsia, she kept thinking about the American she had chatted to at Heathrow. She remembered Nicola telling her this was called “projection.” Apparently fixating on some tangential worry, in times of high anxiety, was the brain’s way of protecting itself. This didn’t lessen Emma’s concern for the sweet man. What if his biological father never replied or didn’t want to meet him? Or what if the father had a new family who were unkind to him in some way? The whole endeavor sounded fraught with risk. How awful, to go looking for your father, and find yourself rejected—at Christmas, too.
Phoebe came into the kitchen, frowning. “God, Olivia’s so moody,” she said.
“Darling, she’s had an awfully difficult time,” said Emma, tipping purple peelings into the compost. “And now this poor friend of hers is in hospital—we must be sympathetic.”
“I am sympathetic. But does she have to be such a downer?”
“Come on, Phoebs, that’s not quite fair. She just needs a nice cozy time, after everything.”
“She did choose to go there,” said Phoebe.
Emma couldn’t think what to answer. The trouble was it had been so long since Olivia had been back for any length of time that Phoebe—who still lived at home—had come to assume undivided attention. She’d essentially been an only child for a decade. Emma looked at her, fiddling with the sapphire on her left hand. It looked frightfully expensive. If George had asked Andrew first, she had rather wanted to offer Great Granny’s ring, which was beautiful. But it probably wouldn’t have been George’s taste. She got the feeling he thought antiques were rather awful and crusty.
“Any more wedding thoughts?” she asked.
“Not really. I’m Skyping George in a bit.”
“I had such a nice chat with a young man at the airport yesterday,” said Emma, hoping to distract her daughter before the mood put down roots. Phoebe had inherited Andrew’s formidable capacity for sulking. “We were both waiting. He was from Los Angeles. Terribly handsome.”
Phoebe looked up. “Cougar,” she said.
“I’m pretty sure he was gay, darling.”
Emma thought of the man’s searching brown eyes. He must have been in his thirties, but his boyishness had made her feel positively maternal. Maybe it was her latent yearning for a son. Big lanky arms to hug her from above. Madness. She’d had the change years ago.