“Let’s stick to work. Nothing like some second-year biological anthropology classes to cheer the soul.”
“That’s the spirit.”
Some timetable wrangling quickly shows that I’m going to need to double my course load to cover my colleagues who have died. Margaret is determined to keep the Anthropology Department functioning as normally as possible.
“Now,” she says. “This project you mentioned in your e-mail.” She looks so stern I’m not sure if she’s going to tell me to forget about it. “It sounds essential, absolutely. A record of the story of the Plague, how it spread, how those involved at its epicenter have been affected and are coping, hearing from ordinary people to understand the cultural and societal impact.”
Margaret reels off a far more eloquent and concise description of my project than my grief-addled brain had managed to articulate in my e-mail. I scribble down what she says and nod approvingly as if to say, “Yes, that is exactly what I was thinking.”
“Get it into more complete shape and we’ll talk about publication. Maybe a book would be best? It certainly can’t be a journal article; it’s too important to be restricted to academic circles. Funding’s all over the shop at the moment, but we’re not in dire straits. There’s an emergency fund. We’ll make sure you have the money you need for any research and travel, within reason. I know you’ll be busy but try the course load I’ve given you, and just let me know when you need to travel and we’ll figure something out. If the teaching is too much, we’ll reduce your hours. The project should take priority.”
“Thank you. That means a lot.”
“We’ll have lunch at some point, catch up properly.” Margaret’s eyes become a bit glassy and I’m silently begging her not to cry. She’s like a headmistress or a captain or an army major. Her job is to be strong and calm in the face of chaos. If she’s cracking up, I don’t know what I’ll do.
“For now, let’s work,” I say quietly. “There’s plenty of time for that.”
She nods, and I leave her office. For the first time in a long time, I have an official purpose. The responsibility is welcome. It’s like slipping on an old coat, which reminds me of what life used to be. It’s a welcome, blessed distraction. I’m not responsible anymore for a child, or as a wife, or as a daughter, or even as a friend. But this—a record of what the hell has happened—I am responsible for. I will get this right.
AMANDA
Edinburgh, the Independent Republic of Scotland
Day 296
Walking into the Labor and Delivery ward gives me the heebie-jeebies. Memories of Josh’s birth come to mind. Twenty-eight hours, a failed epidural, a third-degree tear. It’s not a coincidence we only had the two. At the same time, my stomach clenches with longing. Oh, to be able to do all of this again and hold a tiny newborn, knowing the years of joy stretching out ahead of me.
No crying today. I’m not here to reminisce. My job as a public health consultant at Health Protection Scotland requires reconnaissance. Someone thought it would be a good idea for one of us to see what’s happening in labor wards, as the babies conceived shortly before the Plague make their way into a world their parents never could have imagined.
“Amanda? Hi, I’m Lucy.”
Lucy looks awful; she’s gray with exhaustion. I’ve seen enough nurses and doctors in A and E with this blank stare to know burnout when I see it.
“How are you, Lucy?” I ask.
“We’re not going to be able to talk about that, Amanda,” she says resolutely. “I’m hanging on by a thread here, let’s not snip it.”
“I’ll stick to medicine. Understood. How qualified are you?” I ask. She looks very young.