The number on the screen wasn’t the same as the one in the morning, but that meant nothing, hospitals used many different phone lines. Right now I’d rather listen to an insurance guy than my own mind, I thought to myself and answered the call with a pang of guilt. I put the phone on hands-free and immediately heard a voice from the speaker: “Connie Fiala?”
“Yes?”
“This is Mark from the Animal and Environment Protection Association,” said a pleasant male voice. “You filled out a subscription form for our newsletter yesterday, and ticked the box indicating you’d be interested in attending our events…” He paused, clearly waiting for me to confirm.
I felt like it was ages since I was looking at a website of the Perth branch of this well-known association, when in fact it was less than twenty four hours ago. Ever since, age seventeen, I received my first pay check, I’d been financially supporting several charities of this nature, and even attended some protests. But since I joined the police six years ago I couldn’t afford any trouble, so I stuck to the occasional volunteering and a not-so-insignificant sum of money leaving my account every month.
Until, very recently, a shocking event pushed me back into activism, regardless of trouble. We had just wrapped up a horrific case of several young males who’d tortured and brutally killed three kangaroos, and were arrogant enough to film the whole monstrosity–luckily for the police. We’d managed to bring them to court, but the sentence they’d received seemed a joke, even to the eyes of the wider public. What is a few months in prison, compared to the horror and suffering of those innocent animals?
I heard Mark’s awkward cough on the other side of the phone line and quickly blurted out: “Yeah sure, I remember.”
“We’re arranging another protest and a petition, for a more severe punishment of cruelty to animals.” He’d just summed up why I wanted to join the Association and was no doubt aware of it.
“I intend to take part in that protest,” I confirmed and my heart sank. A large sign appeared in front of me, with the name of the hospital and an arrow pointing left.
“That’s great! We really appreciate it, every voice counts,” he said passionately. “I’m calling about something else too, though… We’d like to know if you were interested in a personal meeting here at the Association?”
My mind was still focused on the upcoming appointment with my doctor looming closer and closer, so it took a while to process what this man… Mark… was saying. I couldn’t say I wasn’t taken aback.
“A personal…” I cleared my throat and massaged my forehead. Why am I having this conversation? I thought. Even now, feeling so off, I just couldn’t put animal rights aside. But there was something strange about Mark’s request. “Do you invite everybody who subscribes to the newsletter to a personal meeting?”
I parked in the first available parking space, got out of my car and pressed the phone to my ear.
“Well, no,” he admitted, a smile in his voice. “Not many people fill in the additional comments section with ‘I work for the police’.”
“Oh,” I breathed. I could just see myself hesitating over that part. In the end I decided to mention my occupation, hoping it would get me a sort of an excuse and patronage. I may have gotten rid of my fear of attending protests after the kangaroo case, but I wasn’t exactly excited about getting into trouble if things got out of hand. Not just because of my job, which many–including me–considered prestigious, but also because of my family. I couldn’t be selfish and just do whatever I felt like doing, otherwise I’d be first in line to fight for animal rights and the environment. “And what would be the purpose of the meeting?”
“I’d rather explain that when you’re here.”
“I…” My mind went blank. I’d walked into the main entrance hall of the hospital without really being aware of it. I walked towards the stairs to the first floor and checked my watch. Just three minutes left until my appointment. “Alright then,” I accepted his offer. “But we’ll have to arrange the details another time, I’m about to have a meeting.”
It sounded like an excuse even to me. What reply could Mark give me? He politely said his goodbye, promising he’d try to call later that afternoon or the next day. I didn’t have time to think about what this Association could possibly want from me.
“Connie Fiala,” I introduced myself at the reception, and my Dad’s face flashed before my eyes. You’re half Czech, Fiala is a beautiful surname, be proud of it. We’d often laughed at Australians and other foreigners trying to pronounce it or spell it phonetically. I was lucky that after settling down here in Perth my Dad didn’t decide to stick -ová at the end of my surname. It may be typical for Czech female surnames, but the locals here would find it even more difficult.
But the receptionist didn’t struggle with it at all. She repeated it flawlessly, clicked her way through the computer system and eventually said: “No need to sit down. The doctor will see you straight away.”
She pointed towards the right door and I obediently entered the lions’ den.
I’ve always had an abundance of patience, but there was one area of life where I seemed to come up short. I couldn’t stand drivers bolting down the road like maniacs, driving into other cars as if they wanted to peek into their trunks, those who had no idea how to
