The End of Men(9)

“You have two children here in this house,” I scream with fury. “You might be a better doctor than me but I’m a better parent. I care more about Charlie and Josh than some toddler.”

Will is weeping now. I’ve never made him cry before. It makes the words I want to shout die in my throat. “Her mother called me on my mobile. She begged me, she was going to die. No one had given her the chemo in over forty-eight hours. She’s, she’s, I. I just . . .” He breaks down into sobs. I so desperately, even through my anger, want to reassure him, hold him and rock him and say it’s okay, no mistake is irreversible, I forgive you.

But this mistake is not reversible. I cannot touch my husband because if he is carrying the virus I might catch it and then our boys will be more likely to get sick. I cannot forgive him if the boys die because of this. A nameless, faceless child in a hospital ward four miles away is not my concern. My boys—Charlie and Josh, with the beginnings of stubble growing across their jaws and hazel eyes and freckles and creased foreheads when they’re concentrating on homework—are my concern. I cannot forgive Will for not putting them first. They are all that matters.

“Sleep in the garage. Don’t touch anything. Don’t do anything and don’t go anywhere near the boys. If they try to come into the garage, scream at them like they’re about to touch a burning flame.”

Will just sobs and nods in response.

“I love you,” I say. I remember seeing a woman in A and E a few years ago. She had found her husband hanging from a curtain pole in their bedroom after a vicious fight. She was going into the bedroom to apologize and make up. I never told Will about it but since then, no matter how awful the argument, I’ve always told him I love him before I leave the room. The Plague is making fast work of men. We don’t need to do its job for it.

“I love you too. I’m sorry.”

I know, darling. But I will never forgive you.





LISA


Toronto, Canada

Day 13

Hey babe, have you seen this?”

My wife is brandishing an article in the New York Times Science section at me. I’m used to her imploring me to read things but this must be the first time in fifteen years that she’s led me to the Science section of anything.

“An outbreak of an aggressive strain of flu has affected tens of thousands across Scotland after originating in Glasgow in early November. There are also reports of outbreaks in London, Manchester, Leeds, Liverpool, Birmingham and Bristol. Anecdotal reports suggest the flu strain only affects men. No women have so far reported suffering the disease. The mortality rate appears to be far higher than for the flu with over five thousand deaths so far reported.”

Over five thousand dead? That’s a lot for the flu. And in only a couple of weeks.

“Wait,” I say, my brain rewinding. “Did you say it only affects men?”

Margot nods decisively. “Yep.”

I sit down next of her, my brain turning. “Only men? A flu? How bizarre. I’ve never heard of anything like that before.”

“Neither have I,” Margot agrees, the difference being that Margot is a professor of Renaissance history who writes romance novels on the side, neither of which are careers in which flu strains are discussed in any great detail unless it’s to almost-but-not-quite fell a romantic hero. In my line of work, by contrast, flu is of utmost importance. If I’ve never heard of a flu disease, or in fact any infectious disease, affecting only men, then it probably doesn’t exist, or at least hasn’t been studied before. This could be interesting. I type out an e-mail to my assistant, Ashley, for tomorrow morning.


Ashley, Seen report tonight in NYT Science section about flu in Scotland affecting only men. Can you dig up all research on this asap tomorrow am and bring to me in a binder by 11?

Thx

Lisa

Dr. Lisa Michael Professor of Virology, Head of Virology Department,

University of Toronto

“Nolite Te Bastardes Carborundorum”





AMANDA


Glasgow, United Kingdom

Day 16

No one is listening to me. I’m starting to think I’m going mad. I’ll send an e-mail and wonder afterward, as it goes unanswered, if I actually sent it. I’m being gaslit by the entire Scottish medical establishment. Gartnavel fired me today, which makes sense. I haven’t been to work in fifteen days. There is absolutely no way I’m prioritizing the health service over my own children. The woman on the phone, some numpty called Karen (of course she was called Karen) said, “You should be ashamed of yourself, abandoning your patients in their time of need.” I asked Karen what she did for a living: she’s an administrator. “What exactly would you know about my patients’ needs?” I hissed, feeling the curious eyes of my children on my back as I moved into a different room and closed the door behind me. “This virus doesn’t respond to treatment, doesn’t respond to antivirals. Nothing makes a difference. I could be the Virgin Mary herself and I wouldn’t be able to save anyone.” Then she hung up.

Well, technically I told her to go fuck herself and then she hung up. Probably to phone some other doctor desperately trying to save his or her family and bully them into coming to work. Will’s just been ignoring the phone calls, which is for the best. He’s a terrible people pleaser. I still sometimes wonder if we’re only married because after three years he was getting a bit nervy about upsetting me if he didn’t propose, rather than because he loved me so much he had to marry me.