Marlene and I snuggle up together, lying on top of the bed mid-afternoon. When the sun feels fiercest on our skins and our stomachs have had time for lunch to go down. Very carefully, she climbs off of me. Her breasts still heave from her exertions. Her soft, peachy cheeks blush like scorching-hot wildfires. She lies with me, her head resting lightly on my sweaty chest, listening to my pounding heart. Tenderly, I stroke her damp ringlets of shocking white-blonde hair with the pads of my fingers: proud of her, loving her, admiring her. My wife is so lucky to be alive,
‘I love you so much, Marlene, my heart could burst for you.’
‘I love you, too, darling. You are my life.’
She whispers her affection for me in short, stilted gasps, sniffing. Crying for the baby she can never bear. I had the snip for her. Had myself sterilized. Knowing that the act of childbirth would kill her. Gently, I brush the tears from her cheeks and hug her body close to mine as if she were my fragile doll, careful not to bruise her or scratch her. One tiny bruise or blemish, the smallest of nicks or cuts – that’s all it would take to kill her. She shifts her body up the bed, inspecting my face with her tired red walnut eyes, Marlene, the shielded, at her most vulnerable,
‘Callum, promise me you’ll never leave me alone.’
I promise her. I can live with her. I haven’t left her side since she started shielding seven months ago. She has seen whole seasons pass. Watched daffodils, bluebells, tulips, wilt in our borders. Salmon roses, climb the garden wall in full bloom. Pears and apples, ripen and fall. Tomatoes, yellowing, reddening. The first mists of autumn. Watched me through her small glass bubble,
‘Promise me, you’ll die after me, Callum,’ she says mournfully.
I solemnly promise. My sole purpose in life is to protect her from harm, to sustain her tenuous grip on life for as long as possible, until the inevitable slip, the tiniest blip in her concentration, takes Marlene from me. I do everything I can to prevent her from bruising, contusing, bleeding to death. I prepare her food, taking care to remove the sharp edges – bones, burnt titbits, pips, stones, even gristle. I dress her in soft clothing without zips or buttons. I bathe her, wash her, dry her, launder her clothes, wash up, hoover, clean the house, make the bed, open the mail, go online and order the shopping, switch on the TV, charge her phone, take her calls, switch on her kindle, love and cherish her,
‘How long must I go on living like this, indoors, Callum?’
For the first time this afternoon, I struggle to answer her. Mark e-mailed me yesterday on my private address. Mark, my best friend, in Louisiana. We grew up side-by-side in council houses. He prospered: went to a Roman Catholic school, grammar school, Oxford, achieved a DPhil in Biochemistry, emigrated to Philadelphia, moved to Louisiana, specialized in Virology. I left school without any real qualifications, struggled to find a job, reason to live, a sense of purpose. Until I saw the bizarre card in the corner shop window:
Full-Time Live-In Companion Required to Care for a Haemophiliac.
Generous Salary and Comfortable Accommodation Provided.
Apply in Writing in Strictest Confidence to:
PO Box 54, Forest Avenue, Aigburth, Essex.
I recall how I took down the details, returned to my tiny bedsit, and flicked through my late mother’s Collins Dictionary:
haemophilia – n an inheritable disease, usually affecting only males but transmitted by women to their male children, characterized by loss or impairment of the normal clotting ability of the blood so that a minor wound may result in fatal bleeding.
Usually affecting only males.
I remember writing to PO Box 54, never expecting in a million years that the haemophiliac might be a woman. I received a reply three days later. To my amazement, Marlene invited me to her late parent’s terraced house for an interview. We gelled at once, had the same likes and dislikes: music, reading, health, wellbeing, organic food, a love of Nature, flowers and gardens. To misquote Mark: we had the same biochemistry. Marlene relaxed in my presence, confiding in me. Her late father was a haemophiliac. Her mother transmitted the disease to her baby. She had been damned for the rest of her life due to her mother’s selfishness, for which they made allowances in the form of a bestowed inheritance. I realized, then, that if my application was successful, I might never have to work again. We were attracted to each other. Marlene’s heart ruled her head. I became her companion, her live-in carer, her lover. I will never leave her side. I vaguely hear her voice, insistent, raised, fizzing in my ear,
‘Callum? How long must I go on living like this?’
I apologize to her, then I tell her the awful truth,
‘Mark thinks the virus has mutated, become more virulent. There’s no known treatment for Covid-21, little chance of discovering a new vaccine this, even next year, when we don’t have an effective vaccine for Covid-19. He thinks you’ll have to shield for seven months until the second wave has receded.’
I feel her hot breath on my cheek as she finally explodes,
‘Seven months! I can’t survive another seven months cooped up here, sealed inside this place. I’ll go insane, mad. I’d rather be dead!’
Marlene’s soft body sags onto mine as if she is physically drained of all hope. Her purgatory could last forever if the man in the street continues to act irresponsibly spreading the deadly virus at raves, parties, gatherings. I decide not to mention Mark’s concern that air conditioning in restaurants, shops and garages actually circulates contaminated air and distributes the virus. She can’t take much more isolation, not even with me, unless.
The doorbell chimes downstairs.
‘I’ll get it.’
I watch Marlene turn away from me, roll onto her side, and swing her short legs off the bed. She sits still while she carefully puts on her soft hand mitts, stands up, and slips into her soft red satin Chinese dragon gown, tying the sash firmly at her waist. Then she skips around our king-size bed like an excited child, pads across the landing, and goes to the bathroom window. I hear her calling,
‘Who is it, please?’
Seconds later, Marlene appears in the doorway looking mildly deflated, somehow hopeful.
‘There was no answer. It might have been the Postie. He rings the doorbell. I’ll go and see.’
I sit up, resting my aching back against the headboard, perch my silver Ray-Ban reading glasses (a present from Marlene) on my nose, and squint at my digital wristwatch: 15:46, blinking the sunlight out of my eyes. The Postie has arrived later than ever since the outbreak of the plague, never this late. So, who rang the bell? False alarm? Wrong house? A child’s prank? Or a cruel hoax? I climb off the bed, throw on a t-shirt and shorts, and go downstairs.
Marlene is waiting for me in the hallway clutching a plain white envelope. She holds it up for me to see, puts on her silly-child voice, and innocent baby-face. I love her when she acts happy!
‘Look, Callum, it’s a plain white envelope!’
‘What does it say on the front?’
‘It says: Strictly Private & Confidential, FAO Marlene Carlton,’ she laughs, ‘Would you open it for me?’
Despite her mitts, we are not taking any chances – the slightest nick. Marlene is an extreme rarity, a woman with haemophilia, one of fewer than twenty thousand cases each year in the UK. I am so proud of her. I love her, admire her. My wife is so lucky to be alive. Considering all that she has endured: the blood in her urine and stools, her large deep bruises, her frequent nosebleeds, and bleeding gums. The emergency infusions of plasma to stop her bleeds. I help her manage her condition, help her live as normal a life as possible. She is being treated with antifibrinolytics to prevent her blood clots from breaking down, fibrin sealant to promote clotting. But there is no known cure, useless.
I slit the envelope open and take out a single sheet of A4 folded three-ways, unfold it without looking. I hand it to her,
‘What does it say, Marl?’
‘It says: I’ve been selected.’
‘Selected, really?’
‘Yes,’ she says without a trace of emotion.
‘Well, go on, tell me! Selected for what?’
Marlene casually shrugs her shoulders, and smiles at me. Her laugh lights her face like a radiant beacon of hope. She bursts into tears of happiness. I take her in my arms. She whispers to me,
‘I’ve been selected for gene therapy, Callum!’
Gene therapy – taking normal genes, the ones that tell the body to make the clotting factor and putting them into Marlene’s body. The new genes should make the clotting factor in her blood rise, and greatly reduce her bleeding.
I feel as if all of our Christmases have come at once.
Marlene couldn’t take much more isolation, not even with me, unless there was hope.
Now she lives, in hope, that one day.