The day they told me I wasn’t needed on the neonatal ward anymore and I was to start the training process for oncology, I cried in my car all the way home. I don’t have to do it anymore. I don’t have to do it anymore. Thank God.
The biggest difference between Susan and me is that, before the Plague, Susan loved her life. She was ambivalent about her husband—that wasn’t a love match for the ages. But to her, her life was perfect. Her husband was out of her hair for most of the year, she had three daughters who were all athletic and popular, she ran the social scene on the base and she was slowly sliding into the kind of bored but bitchy middle-aged housewife her mom before her had no doubt been.
Before the Plague hit us all sideways, I loved my husband but I hated my life. I hated my body for being broken and failing me, even though I had been to nineteen sessions of a support group where I was assured that I wasn’t broken despite all evidence to the contrary. A part of me hated that my job required me to face up to my infertility every single day. I hated how often my husband was away and missed him desperately. And I fucking hated women like Susan who looked down on my life as frivolous and devoid of meaning, as if I skipped out of my house to an illegal rave every night of the week while she toiled away at the altar of motherhood like an underappreciated Mother Teresa.
So, yeah, I’m a little excited about the draft. Bring it on. I’ve been a nurse for over a decade. I’m ready for something different and I know I can handle it. I’ve seen some shit. I’ve seen babies die. I’ve lost eight of my own children. I’ve lost my husband. I can eat women like Susan for breakfast and spit them out again.
The next day, the letter is dropped in my mailbox. It tells me everything I need to know and there, at the bottom, is a magic box. “Tick if you would like to apply for the First Class program. Additional form enclosed.” The army’s in dire straits, I mean, hello. There’s a draft, so it makes sense. They need junior leaders. I can apply to be fast-tracked for promotion and, if selected, as soon as I complete basic training I’ll be a Private First Class. Daniel would get a real kick out of this. I can just imagine him watching me, smiling that lovely warm, proud smile he always had, as I fill out the form and explain why I have the characteristics they’re looking for. Resilience. Good at handling extreme pressure. Unafraid to lead. Fast learner. Physically fit. Experience in a physically demanding role.
I know I’m going to get it, and I do. Another week goes by and there it is. A big, fat envelope full of extra papers telling me about the requirements of the program. I can’t keep the smile off my face for the two days until I have to report for training. Unlike Susan, I’ve spent the last decade working in a high-stress, high-stakes job that involves following procedure, a hierarchical structure and exposure to life-and-death scenarios. It’s the most satisfying day of my life when we turn up for our first day of basic combat training and I go in the door to the right for the fast-track recruits. Susan, face slack with shock, goes in the door to the left.
DAWN
London, United Kingdom
Day 300
God, I love it when things are efficient. At precisely 2 p.m., practically to the second, a call comes in from Jackie Stockett. In the last few months as I’ve racked up responsibilities like I used to rack up air miles, I’ve often been tempted to carry a placard above my head: Were you all raised by wolves? Be on time!
I am unsurprised and grateful that the director of the Indiana Working Draft is punctual. We need to know how she’s doing what she’s doing and there’s no time to spare. So far, we only have specific employment policies: all healthcare workers, member of the armed forces, civil service and the emergency services are required to work full-time, or part-time if they have dependents, until a broader working framework is created and passed by Parliament. Everyone else is free to work or not work as they see fit and it’s not functioning. The country is in dire straits.
It is very, very important that no one knows we’re talking to Jackie because a US-style working draft would be big news. No point panicking everyone until we know what’s going to happen. Gillian, as home secretary, will decide whether to move it forward; I’ll plan for any disruption it might cause.