‘Peter,’ she went on, using my old name, the one I’d used to make the appointment, ‘have you ever been seen by a psychiatrist?’
‘Do you mean that I won’t die if I touch another person’s skin?’
‘I mean that nothing, nothing will happen at all. Want to try?’ She took off her gloves.
‘What if you’re wrong?’
‘Should we wait for your parents?’ She gestured to the half-empty parking lot outside her window.
‘I’ve had this condition since I was born,’ I said.
‘What did you say your address was again?’
I had given a false address in Auckland when I registered with the receptionist. Dr Bergstrom held the form out in front of her. In a hurry, I put my clothing back on, and my hat and gloves. ‘I’m going to go and find my folks,’ I said, backing towards the door. She tried to detain me, leaping up from her desk.
‘Please wait,’ she said. ‘I do think you need help, but not the kind –’ She reached out and touched my face with her ungloved hand. I contained my scream and shot out of the door, through the waiting room and ran down the street so disorientated that it took me ten minutes to find the car.
I immediately checked my face in the rear-view mirror, expecting to see molten skin. I could feel it burning, but in the mirror everything looked normal. I sat in the car for thirty minutes in a state of terror and panic but gradually realized that the burning sensation was what my mind had told me to expect. There was no feeling there at all. I pinched my skin to see if it had somehow been numbed by her touch, but I felt the pinch. Her bare hand on my face had no effect whatsoever. I could scarcely believe it.
I drove to the city centre, my mind such a jumble of confusion that, on arrival, I couldn’t recall where I was. I parked on a side street and took off my hat and my gloves, even though it was cold. I left them in the car. I walked down a busy street and into Whitcoulls bookshop. The man behind the counter looked up and smiled at me. ‘Hello there!’ he said. I couldn’t speak. I went to the Ngaio Marsh shelves and picked one out for Lindy, then turned to the counter. The man asked, ‘Getting cold out there?’ I shook my head, still unable to speak, and reached out a trembling hand containing a twenty-dollar bill. He took the note from my hand without touching me and turned to the cash register. When he passed me the change, he placed it into my open palm, again without touching my hand. I pocketed the change and then took his hand in mine and shook it.
‘Thank you very much,’ I said.
He seemed surprised and, as tears began to fall down my cheeks, he held me by the shoulder. ‘Are you okay, sonny? Did something happen?’ My hand tingled from the touch, but there was no burning, no discolouration, just the warm impression that was left behind by this man’s hand. I wanted to bury my head in this stranger’s shoulder but I turned and left the shop.
I drove back to Rotorua, my anger surging as I accelerated. I arrived in town just as it was time to collect Dad from the dental office.
He waved from the window and came out, locking the door behind him. He sat in the passenger seat and threw his briefcase into the back. I took off before he had fastened his seat belt.
‘What’s the rush?’ he said.
‘Tell me again about necrotic hominoid contagion,’ I said, trying to keep the ice out of my voice.
‘Funny you should mention that. I rang an immunologist in Melbourne today to see if there were any updates. I’m afraid there’s no treatment on the horizon, but I suppose you’re used to it now, Steve.’
‘Yeah? What was the immunologist’s name? I might want to talk to him myself.’
‘I think it’s best if you leave the medical end of things to me.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Dr Sean Kelly.’
‘An Irish name. Interesting. And what hospital does he work in?’
‘St Charles.’
‘Right. And is that a general hospital or one that specializes in immune diseases?’
He stroked his beard, and as I glanced at him, I saw he looked me straight in the eye. ‘It’s a specialist hospital. All the funding now is going into the research of this new gay disease, AIDS.’
There was no hesitation at all, but then Dad was an expert at lying.
‘And exactly when was I diagnosed? I mean, if I was born in that annexe, how did you know I had it?’
‘Has that little bitch –’
I took my eyes off the road and stared at him. ‘Don’t call her that.’
