“Your arm. It’s just sort of hanging there.”
Sure enough, it was flopping uselessly by my side.
By the next morning my arm seemed to be OK. I didn’t say anything to Julianne and certainly not my parents. My father— a man awaiting the summons to be God’s personal physician— would have castigated me for being a hypochondriac and made fun of me in front of Charlie. He has never forgiven me for giving up medicine to study behavioral science and psychology.
Privately, my imagination was running wild. I had visions of brain tumors and blood clots. What if I’d had a minor stroke? Was a major one coming? I almost convinced myself that I had pains in my chest.
It was another year before I went to see Jock. By then he too had noticed something was wrong and was watching me more closely.
There are no diagnostic tests for Parkinson’s. An experienced neurologist relies on observation, looking for the tremors, stiffness, impaired balance and slowness of movement. The disease is chronic and progressive. It is not contagious, nor is it usually inherited. There are lots of theories. Some scientists blame free radicals reacting with neighboring molecules and causing damage to tissue. Others blame pesticides or some other pollutant in the food chain. Genetic factors haven’t been entirely ruled out either.
The truth is, it could be a combination of all— or none— of these things.
Perhaps I should be grateful. In my experience of doctors (and I grew up with one) the only time they give you a clear, unequivocal diagnosis is if you’re standing in the surgery with, say, a glue gun stuck to your head.
7
On the walk home across Regent’s Park, I cross Primrose Hill Bridge and peer over the side at the canal. A lone narrow boat is moored against the towpath and mist curls from the water like wisps of smoke.
Catherine’s body was found beside the Grand Union Canal about three miles from here. I watched the TV news last night and listened to the radio this morning. There was no mention of her murder. I know it’s just morbid curiosity, yet a part of me feels as though I’m a part of it now.
A soft rain slips down and clings to my jacket as I start walking again. The Post Office Tower is etched against the darkening sky. It is one of those landmarks that allows people to navigate a city. Streets will disappear into dead ends or twist and turn without reason, but the tower rises above the eccentricities of urban planning.
I like this view of London. It still looks quite majestic. It’s only when you get close up that you see the decay. But then again, I guess you could say the same about me.
In real estate terms we live in purgatory. I say this because we haven’t quite reached the leafy nirvana of Primrose Hill; yet we’ve climbed out of the graffiti-stained, metal-shuttered shit hole that is the southern end of Camden Town.
The mortgage is huge and the plumbing is dodgy, but Julianne fell in love with the place. I have to admit that I did too. In the summer, if the breeze is blowing in the right direction and the windows are open, we can hear the sound of lions and hyenas at London Zoo. It’s like being on safari without the minivans.
Julianne teaches Spanish to an adult education class on Wednesday evenings. Charlie is sleeping over at her best friend’s house. I have the place to myself, which is normally OK. I reheat some soup in the microwave and tear a French loaf in half. Charlie has written a poem on the white board, next to the ingredients for banana bread. I feel a tiny flicker of loneliness. I want them both here. I miss the noise, the banter.
Wandering upstairs, I move from room to room checking on the “work in progress.” Paint pots are lined up on the windowsill and the floors are covered in old sheets that look like Jackson Pollock canvases. One of the bedrooms has become a storeroom for boxes, rugs and bits of cat-scratched furniture. Charlie’s old pram and high chair are in the corner, awaiting further instructions. And her baby clothes are sealed in plastic tubs with neat labels.
For six years we’ve been trying for another baby. So far the score stands at two miscarriages and innumerable tears. I don’t want to go on— not now— but Julianne is still popping vitamin pills, studying urine samples and taking temperature readings. Our lovemaking is like a scientific experiment with everything aimed at the optimum moment of ovulation.
When I point this out to her she promises to jump my bones regularly and spontaneously as soon as we have another baby.
“You won’t regret a single moment when it happens.”
“I know.”
“We owe it to Charlie.”
“Yes.”
I want to give her all the “what ifs,” but can’t bring myself to do it. What if this disease accelerates? What if there is a genetic link? What if I can’t hold my own child? I’m not being mawkish and self-obsessed. I’m being practical.
A cup of tea and a couple of biscuits aren’t going to fix this problem. This disease is like a distant train, hurtling through the darkness toward us. It might seem like a long way off, but it’s coming.
Julianne has left the day’s mail on my desk in the study. Anything addressed to us both has already been opened. She’s paid the bills and replied to the Christmas cards. Anything inviting us to get into greater debt is filed in the wastebasket.
At the bottom of the pile is a small square envelope made from recycled paper. The edges are discolored and worn. Slicing open the top I find a single page with a floral design on the border. I don’t recognize the handwriting. Within a few lines, I realize that the letter is for someone else. I check the envelope again. My name. My address. It’s a love letter, of sorts, written by someone called Florence to someone with my initials.
The postmark is partially smudged. Pulling a magnifying glass from the drawer, I hold the envelope under the lamp. It was posted in Liverpool, but I can’t read the date. My name is on the envelope, but the contents mean nothing to me.
My first posting after finishing my training was with the Merseyside Health Authority. That was fourteen years ago and I still regard Liverpool as a place that I escaped from. I found nothing charming about the snub-nosed ferries, mill chimneys and Victorian statues. Instead I saw a modern-day plague city full of sad-eyed children, long- term unemployed and mad poor people. They crowded my waiting room every day and if it hadn’t been for Julianne I might have drowned in their misery.
