There are still twenty miles to go when I hear the yelp of Theodore waking up and realizing he is in the car. “Mummy, need the toilet.”
“Soon darling, we’re nearly there. Just hold it in for a bit longer.”
He starts crying and I join him, howling loudly. It’s too much, all of this is too much. I can’t bear it. I just want to curl up in Anthony’s arms and weep but he’s gone and we’re all alone. Our very existence is exhausting. Wearing a surgical mask, constantly sterilizing the house, leaving Theodore on his own as much as possible. I leave him locked in the house when I go to get food. What else can I do? The danger is outside. I’m trying to keep him safe. I need him to be safe.
“Mummy, please.” The cries have reached the level of a shriek but finally, the blessed view of the turn-off appears. We stayed here in Genevieve’s country cottage for a few days just after we had Theodore. It was awful; locked in a remote box with a newborn and fractious from lack of sleep, we bickered for forty-eight hours before driving back to London more depressed than when we left. I drive down the long driveway and see a light is on. Perhaps Genevieve is back, but she can’t be. She surely would have told me. When I last e-mailed her she was definitely still in France. Why would she travel here? Nobody in their right mind would come to the epicenter of the danger.
I park the car and peer through the glass owlishly, fear stopping my tears. Someone could be here. Someone else Genevieve knows who had the same idea or, more scarily, a stranger could have broken in. Theodore is wailing now and I scoop him out, allowing him, as I so rarely do now, to curl his limbs around me and put his head on my chest. I try to breathe shallowly, imagining the germs I might be exhaling, escaping the mask I’m wearing and making their way past his own too-big mask flapping around his face.
I’m trying to be brave but this is exactly the kind of moment when Anthony’s broad frame, warm by my side, would make the terrifying seem entirely faceable. I’m so aware of my vulnerability. A small woman, holding a child, in the middle of nowhere. Shushing Theodore, I use the key I’ve brought with me and open the door in a rush as though I’ll scare anyone who might be here.
“Hello?”
Silence. And then, a pitiful meow. Of course, Genevieve has motion-activated lights in the kitchen to deter burglars. A painfully thin tabby cat makes its way toward me in the hall and curls itself around my legs. It has a collar and a tag, clinking as it moves in the glow of the kitchen light. It feels like a good omen. There is no danger here. I lock the door behind me and do a quick look around the ground floor and find it blessedly empty. This place is untouched since before the Plague. I begin to cry again but this time with gratitude. Theodore has fallen back asleep on my shoulder and I allow myself, in this small, safe house in the middle of nowhere, which feels sturdy in the face of a disease that is everywhere, to hold him. Truly, properly squeeze him with a hug that I would have held him in every day before the Plague. It has been so long since I’ve held him like this. It is bliss.
I step carefully up the stairs, the cat bouncing up ahead of me, and put Theodore in the bed in the spare bedroom. For the first time since Anthony died, I allow myself to hope that maybe, just maybe, everything will be all right.
ROSAMIE
Singapore
Day 68
Mrs. Tai’s scream echoes through the apartment.
“Stay here,” I warn Angelica in my “I seriously mean it” voice. Whatever is going on, I don’t want her to see it. I walk through the quiet corridors of the apartment telling myself to stay calm. The atmosphere in the apartment is strange. The maids are all holed up in their rooms—terrified, calling their families, unsure what to do.
I follow the screaming into Mr. and Mrs. Tai’s bedroom. Mr. Tai is having a fit. His body is shaking and he is foaming at the mouth. It’s painful to watch him convulse and shake, his head throwing itself around on his pillow. Mrs. Tai is staring silently at him in horror.