Day 674
There’s a vaccine. It’s finally happened. It’s taken nearly two years but for a long time it seemed like this day would never come. I thought I would feel ecstatic but I’m furious. I’m incandescent with rage. I actually threw a plate this morning. Why now? Why were they able to discover it now? Why not before? The statement from the woman who discovered it, Dr. Lisa Michael, makes it sound like it was a breeze, like she was noodling around for a bit in the lab and then it just sort of appeared.
If it was so fucking easy, why didn’t she find it sooner? Why didn’t anyone find it sooner? Why am I a childless widow when the entire scientific community of the world has been looking for a cure for years? I want to scream at them all that they have failed me, failed all of us, failed the world, right at the time when they have succeeded.
These people in their white coats and their glasses with their PhDs and their amazing brains have saved the world and I want to wring their necks I’m so angry. They have saved the human race from extinction and I want to wail that it’s too late for my family so why does it matter now anyway?
Tonight, I will drink a lot of wine, something I only allow myself to do occasionally to avoid slipping into the kind of sodden, drunken grief that I can see the appeal of very clearly. Tomorrow I will be back at my desk at 9 a.m. but for tonight I will shout and drink and grieve and cry and wail.
My phone rings, interrupting my already wine-soaked musings.
“Hello?”
“Cat, it’s me. Phoebe.”
Phoebe and I haven’t spoken in almost two years. I miss her so much it’s a physical ache.
“You wouldn’t pick up my calls, I’m sorry, I, I just wanted to keep trying, I didn’t—”
“Know I’d actually pick up?”
An awkward silence. My eyes fill with tears. We never used to have awkward silences. We’ve been friends for twenty years. We’re not meant to have awkward silences.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
“Yep, yep, you know. Just thinking about the vaccine.”
“It’s extraordinary. I’m so—” She pauses and I can see the words she’s about to say floating slowly in front of me as though they are huge, helium-filled balloons. “I’m so sorry it wasn’t sooner.”
“Me too,” I manage. “Me too, Phoebe.” I’m trying so hard not to cry because the anger I’m feeling is refreshing and invigorating even though the regret is painful. I don’t even regret my own actions. I feel regret on behalf of these amazing scientists who’ve made this amazing discovery too bloody late.
“I wonder how the British team are feeling?” Phoebe goes on, filling the silence. She could never bear an awkward silence. “To come so close and then have that woman invent it and sell it. I can’t imagine.”
This is why I haven’t spoken to my closest friend in the world for two years. Because, even though everything she’s saying is true, her mind has room to consider how the British scientists who have failed feel. I don’t care how they feel. I’m consumed by my own loss and I need her to be as consumed by it as I am but she can’t be. Of course she can’t be. I feel like I’m trapped in a Perspex box, screaming at her to understand what it’s like in here but she’s out, in the world, and can’t.
“I can’t either, but either way it’s too fucking late,” I say and hang up, before throwing my phone onto the sofa. She doesn’t understand. She can’t understand, and I hate her for it. I love her and I loathe her and her two daughters and her immune, living husband. I miss her and I hate her so much I can barely see. One day maybe I won’t be so angry but that day is not today.
ELIZABETH
London, United Kingdom （England and Wales）