She trails off. I get the feeling I’m supposed to say something (I’m starting to get the hang of the strange way Carmel talks), but I’m not sure what. Eventually I try ‘Mmm’, and it does the trick, bizarrely.
‘Anyway. As I told you the other day, dogs are not allowed in the library.’
‘Actually,’ I say, ‘owners of assistance dogs have the right to take their animals into all public places and onto public transport, including buses and trains. The Commonwealth Disability Discrimination Act 1992 makes it unlawful to discriminate against a person with a disability who is using an assistance–’
Carmel frowns underneath her rapidly fading glasses. ‘So . . . you’re saying this is an assistance dog?’
I look at Alfie dubiously. ‘Yes . . .’
‘I see. Then I assume you know it is a requirement that assistance dog owners must provide evidence of their disability when requested.’
I don’t reply. But Carmel waits so I throw in another ‘Mmm’.
‘So?’ Carmel says expectantly. ‘Where is your evidence of disability?’
I’ve underestimated Carmel. I’ve also underestimated her glasses, because in this short time, they’ve almost returned to clear.
I cross my arms.
‘Fern, the dog has got to go.’
I frown, looking off into the distance. ‘Sorry, will you excuse me, Carmel? I think I hear someone calling–’
I rise to my feet and am about to walk off when Carmel says: ‘Please don’t walk away while I’m talking to you, Fern.’
I frown. ‘But you’d finished talking. You said the dog had to go, and then I walked away.’
‘But . . .’ Carmel looks utterly discombobulated, ‘you hadn’t answered me!’
I place a hand to my brow and close my eyes, breathing deeply, the way women in old-fashioned movies did before they ‘took to their beds’. I’ve always wanted to try it and it is surprisingly gratifying. ‘You didn’t ask a question, Carmel. How am I supposed to answer a question, if one hasn’t been posed?’
Carmel doesn’t reply, even though that was a question. Like me, she is also breathing deeply. I think she, too, would like to take to her bed.
‘Fern, will you please make alternative arrangements for the dog?’ she asks after a long silence.
I sigh. At least she has been clear, I suppose. I pull my phone from my pocket to check the time. Wally will have finished his meeting by now. I thumb him a text. Satisfyingly, he writes back almost immediately.
On my way.
‘Someone is coming to get him now,’ I say to Carmel.
‘Good,’ she replies, looking happier now. ‘I trust I won’t see him in the library again.’
I wait until she finishes the sentence and, not hearing a question, hurry away before she can stop me.
Wally arrives at the library promptly, once again dressed in a suit and tie. The sight of him sends a bizarre, not unpleasant zing through me.
‘Hello,’ I call out from the back of the library (perhaps too loudly given the amount of people that turn to look at me). Alfie and I trot toward him.
‘Hello,’ Wally says when we are closer. We have a frightening moment of eye contact before Wally bends down to pat Alfie.
‘How was your meeting?’
‘It was a bigger meeting than I expected,’ he says. ‘There were a bunch of people there. I gave a presentation.’
‘Preeesentation,’ I repeat.
Wally laughs. ‘Sorry. Prehsentation.’
I’m enjoying the interaction so much I decide to experiment with casual touch. I step forward and punch Wally on the arm, the way I’ve seen people do when they’re having a laugh. But I think I do it too hard, because he stops laughing and looks alarmed.
‘Sorry,’ I say.
‘That’s okay,’ he says, rubbing his arm.
‘So it went well? Your preeesentation?’
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Very well. Maybe I can tell you about it after your shift? It’s going to be a nice afternoon . . . maybe we can take a walk.’
It is, I decide, the perfect suggestion. No noise, no smells, no unnatural light. Lots of fresh air. There would be small talk, I suppose, but I’m getting used to Wally’s small talk. Even becoming fond of it.
‘I can’t today,’ I say, handing over Alfie’s lead. ‘On Thursdays, after work, I visit my mother. Then I have dinner with Rose.’
‘Your mother?’ Wally looks bewildered. ‘But . . . I thought you said your mother died?’
‘I said she overdosed,’ I reply. ‘I never said she died.’
As soon as the automatic doors slide open at Sun Meadows, the smell of casserole and urine starts to seep out. It’s a malodorous, tacky smell that clings to me, even hours after I’ve returned home, showered and washed my clothes.
Tragically, it is also now my mother’s scent.
Once, my mother’s scent had been talcum powder and toothpaste and laundry detergent. ‘Cleanliness, godliness and all that,’ she used to say, as she hummed around the house. I remember having to hold my breath when I was in the room with her, particularly when she bent down to kiss me at night.
One day she asked me why I was holding my breath, and I told her. ‘Your smell makes me feel sick.’
Mum had looked sad then. ‘I’m so sorry, baby,’ she’d said. ‘I had no idea. If you’d prefer I didn’t hug you–’
‘It’s okay,’ I’d said, shaking my head. ‘It’s worth it.’
At the reception desk, a woman I don’t recognise smiles vaguely at me before returning to her paperwork. Security isn’t very tight at my mother’s establishment. I sign the visitor book, take a badge and walk past the elevator, which has been screened off and bears a handwritten sign saying, OUT OF ORDR (no ‘E’). Fine by me. Elevators make me claustrophobic anyway, and smells seem magnified in them, particularly if I’m sharing the space with other visitors. I take the stairs.
At the top, a man in a brown dressing gown pushes a walker down the corridor, scanning the floor as if looking for something.
‘Hi, Fern,’ one of the nurses says. It is
