The Good Teacher Read online

  Would they find the pills and drag her off, like that man earlier?

  Allison had to make a fast decision or risk missing her flight to Chicago.

  The police paced back and forth across the baggage area. A few had dogs on leads clambering and sniffing around the bags. One was coming towards Allison’s bag.

  Backing away from the dog, she turned and hurried towards the toilets. Once she was locked inside a cubicle, Allison pulled out the containers. She tried to unstick the labels but they came off in bits. Crappy glue. No, she couldn’t go through Customs carrying these. With her phone, Allison took photos of the remaining parts of the labels. No ingredients listed. Just a tagline—Better Antidotes for a Better Life. Allison found a blue plastic bag in her suitcase, emptied it out and put the containers inside. She opened the door of the cubicle. While no-one was watching, Allison pushed the plastic bag deep into the rubbish bin, washed her hands carefully, and hurried out of the bathrooms.

  Deep breaths in the queue for Customs.

  ‘Do you have anything to declare?’

  ‘No,’ she whispered.

  ‘This way, then.’ The officer pointed her towards the exit.

  Thank God, she was through.

  On the approach to O’Hare Airport, Allison gripped the seat and closed her eyes. The Valium had worn off completely. Swallowing hard, she tasted her last meal, scrambled eggs and hash browns. Keep it down. Where was her chewing gum? She couldn’t open her eyes or move her hands to find it now. The throb of the plane’s engines hummed through every nerve in her body. A baby began wailing and Allison wanted to join in. Please, God, don’t let me die. Tony should be here, holding her hand, talking her down.

  ‘Breathe,’ instructed a voice next to her.

  The American boy with dreadlocks and a t-shirt dotted with holes. He’d been on a gap year, backpacking around Asia. All of nineteen years old. Coming home wiser, stronger. Allison would’ve been terrified at his age.

  ‘Breathe,’ he said again. ‘We’re nearly there. Soon we’ll be on the ground.’

  She focused on his voice. He was listing off the city sights: Millennium Park, the Navy Pier, the Tribune Tower, Skydeck in the old Sears Tower (‘Now it’s called the Willis Tower and you can see as far as four states!’), the Art Institute, the Magnificent Mile, the John Hancock Centre, the Crown Fountain, the Riverwalk.

  He patted her hand, which was still gripped tight around the armrest.

  ‘It’s okay now. You’re all good. We’ve landed.’

  If Gracie hadn’t died, Allison would be marvelling at herself: booking a ticket yesterday and flying halfway across the world on her own. With instructions from the dreadlocked teenager, Allison managed to catch the train—the Blue Line—to Downtown, then the Red Line to her hotel near the hospital on the North Side. When they’d flown in, she’d spotted the ultramodern skyscrapers and the vast lake. Now, she walked past homeless people sitting on the footpath with cardboard signs asking for help. ‘God bless you, darling,’ an old, bearded black man called out to her. But she didn’t have any small change yet. The sight of so many beggars shocked her. Too many to help.

  The hotel was business-like, apart from the couches in the lobby. Patterned with bright purple flowers. Gracie’s favourite colour. Had Gracie jumped on these couches while Luke checked in? Had she copied the design into her sketch book?

  Allison glanced at her watch. With changing countries and crossing the international date line, she had no sense of time. Four-thirty in the afternoon. The same afternoon she’d left Sydney. Flying around the world, gaining a day in the process. The jet lag made her head ache.

  The man at the desk stood up straighter as she approached and snapped out a quick greeting. She asked for a room near Luke’s.

  After a few clicks on the computer, the man leant forward and spoke quietly.

  ‘I’m sorry, ma’am, there’s no guest by that name.’

  Allison stared at his mouth, the teeth white against his dark face, trying to interpret his words. Yawning, she calculated how many hours it had been since she’d left home: nineteen or twenty-one? Maybe Luke had checked out when he’d gone into hospital. He’d definitely listed this hotel on his schedule. Oh God, Gracie’s suitcase—where was it? In the hospital with him or here in the hotel luggage room? Presumably, they’d have to choose a coffin, contact the airline, the Australian embassy, the hospital, a funeral home in Sydney … the logistics made her head spin. Allison needed to lie down, just for a moment.

  ‘Can I please book a room?’

  In the shower, she washed away the day and night of travelling. Her eyes were red and closing of their own accord. An hour’s rest and then she’d go to the hospital. Just as she crawled into bed, a WhatsApp message popped up from Luke.

  There’s a flu outbreak in the ward. Concerns about an infection in my heart & lungs. They’ve put me in quarantine.

  26

  Dragging open her eyes, Allison stared around the dark room. Why had the door to her ensuite changed positions? She closed her eyes for a brief moment, hoping the world would right itself, then switched on the bedside lamp. Beige walls, brown carpet, a pine desk and a flowery armchair. Heavy bronze curtains, closed. For a few moments, Allison remained untethered in this strange no-man’s-land. And then her brain caught up.

  Chicago.

  Red numerals on the clock radio: 8.55. Had Luke been staring at his phone for the past four hours, waiting for her to call? She remembered his last message said he was in quarantine. Her thoughts were in slow motion tonight—the effect of the Valium and alcohol, jet lag and grief. In the bathroom, light was streaming through the little window. Sunshine? Good God, it was eight fifty-five in the morning. She’d slept for sixteen hours, not four.

  A hard ball of guilt lodged in her chest. She’d flown all this way to comfort Luke and on the very first night, she’d let him down.

  Picking up her phone, she checked the text messages.

  A missed call from Maz. She listened to the message of the young woman crying and wanting to talk about Luke. Allison clicked on WhatsApp.

  —Congrats on flying through your fear! Love Nadia

  —Hiya. How was the plane? How’s Luke? Ring me when you can. We’ve told the bairns—they’re right wobbly with much crying. Tomorrow’ll be better, I’m sure. Sending lots of love, Shona xxxxxxxx

  Closing her eyes, Allison pictured the school. The teachers hurting inside and trying to be strong for the students. The younger children only half understanding, missing Gracie, crying one moment, laughing the next. The older kids seeing mortality up close for the first time; this moment would rock their world. For them, it wouldn’t just be about Gracie but about their pets, their grandparents, their parents, themselves. Some of them would go home and ask: ‘Mum, what date will I die?’

  Allison scrolled through all the options for a message—email, Messenger, Facebook, Gracie’s fundraising page. Plenty of condolence messages from friends and people who had become part of Gracie’s Gang. Nothing from Luke. She called his number, but he didn’t pick up.

  Allison stood on the opposite side of the road from Chicago North. ‘You can’t miss it,’ the concierge had told her. Each time she had to cross a street, she was shocked that the cars were coming at her from the wrong direction. The hospital seemed to be spread over blocks and blocks and blocks. The main part reminded her of the Empire State Building—that Art Deco style, the same-coloured bricks. Behind were new skyscrapers of glass and steel. Gracie would have loved the turret of the old section. Especially the flag on top. ‘A fairy castle,’ she’d have said.

  Patients, doctors and staff scurried by—half of them were wearing face masks. A precaution against the flu outbreak that Luke had mentioned, no doubt. Allison would make sure to wash her hands and stay away from coughing people so she didn’t catch it and pass it on to Luke. She stared at the map; she’d downloaded it at home but hadn’t envisaged the scale of the place. Around her, she heard conversations;
she had to concentrate to decipher the strong American accents, but at the same time, it all seemed so familiar from TV and the movies—as if she’d materialised on the set of an American sitcom.

  She’d finally figured out in which direction to head when Luke rang.

  ‘I’m being sent off for chest X-rays now.’ He coughed. ‘They think I’ve got a pulmonary oedema.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Fluid in the lungs from the stress on my heart.’

  One thing after another. With Gracie’s death, the whole world had fallen apart at the seams.

  ‘Can I see you this afternoon?’ She asked. ‘Which building are you in?’

  ‘I’m on the fifth floor of block D, but I’ll probably still be quarantined. I’ll text you after the X-ray.’

  ‘Did Brian come over from Boston?’

  She prayed that someone had been here, looking after him.

  ‘He cancelled the flight when he heard about the quarantine. But he’s contacted a doctor for me. They might move me to a different clinic, away from the flu outbreak.’

  Brian understood the American medical system; he’d be useful.

  ‘Do you need me to get you anything? Toiletries?’

  Allison didn’t know how to ask about his suitcase or Gracie’s belongings. Or her body.

  Luke coughed again before he spoke. His voice came out croaky. ‘It’s my fault, Ally. I shouldn’t have pushed for her to go on this new treatment.’

  ‘You were doing everything you could. It was the only chance.’

  ‘I let Gracie down. And you. I was giving her supplements from Maz and I didn’t tell the doctors.’

  What? No, no, no. Why did he jeopardise her treatment when all those specialists were trying to help?

  ‘The ones near the blender?’ she asked, trying to keep her voice steady. ‘The Bio-Antidotes?’

  ‘Yep. Maz got them from overseas. Thailand.’

  Half an hour later, on the seventh floor, Allison found Dr Mercado’s clinic. The receptionist was dealing with a patient—a guy whose eyes appeared too big for his face. Allison scanned the small waiting area, almost expecting to see Luke sitting there, dishevelled, in the same clothes as when they’d said goodbye at Sydney airport. Tell Dr Mercado, Allison would have said. He has to know about the pills.

  A middle-aged Indian couple sat in one corner and an older white man in the other. Allison lingered by the desk. The receptionist stopped talking to the patient and eyeballed Allison.

  ‘Please take a seat,’ she said.

  While she waited, Allison googled Bio-Antidotes. An image popped up on her screen. Gracie’s face. Allison clicked on the company information. Director Maz Humphrey believes we should all be living our best life. Fully trained as a fitness instructor, Maz cares for her clients’ wellbeing. We only have one body and one life, so we should be making the most of it. Bio-Antidotes will help you do just that.

  Dear God, Maz was the director. Did she decide to set up her own company and import pills? With no knowledge. No medical experience. No fucking idea. She could kill people!

  Had she killed Gracie?

  Why would Luke have accepted Maz’s pills?

  Allison rubbed her temples and listened to snatches of the discussion between the receptionist and the patient. Treatment regime. Costs. Luke had already paid the bulk of the doctor’s fee. The patient was collected by a nurse and taken down the corridor. Allison sent a prayer along with him.

  The receptionist dealt with the other patients and finally asked Allison to step up to the desk.

  ‘Thanks for waiting. How can I help you?’

  ‘Actually, I’ve just flown in from Australia. I rang yesterday.’

  Allison hoped the receptionist might make the link without her having to spell it out. But the woman’s face remained expressionless. Was this the same woman who’d been so unhelpful over the phone?

  ‘I’ve come about a patient,’ Allison continued. ‘I was hoping to speak to Dr Mercado.’

  ‘What’s the patient’s name and how are you related?’

  How was Allison supposed to describe her relationship with the little girl who’d been living in her house? Once she said the patient’s name, the relationship shouldn’t matter.

  ‘Gracie Branson.’

  Allison waited for the flash of recognition. But the receptionist merely frowned and tapped her long fingers against the computer keys.

  ‘Gracie,’ the woman repeated as she stared at the screen. ‘Branson.’

  The answers would come now, and this strange fog would lift. Seeing Gracie in the morgue might break her heart but Allison had to do it. To apologise for letting her down. To say goodbye. She could hear Gracie talking to her: ‘Silly Lally, don’t be scared about seeing me.’

  The receptionist had been impassive, but Allison imagined her standing up to hug the traveller who’d come halfway across the world to see a dead girl.

  ‘We don’t have a patient called Gracie Branson.’

  They weren’t the words of condolence that she’d been expecting.

  ‘She came from Australia. A five-year-old girl. Gorgeous little girl.’ Allison rushed on. ‘Were you working here last week? Last Wednesday. Or was it Thursday with the time difference? Chicago is a day behind us. She started infusions on the twenty-fifth of April.’

  When Allison took a breath, the receptionist managed to answer.

  ‘I work here every day.’

  ‘Right then, you would’ve met her. She’s had three infusions for thymic carcinoma. Dr Mercado agreed to take her on his new immunotherapy trial. Her dad, Luke, was with her. You’d remember him. A gym instructor. When she … his heart …’

  The woman led Allison back to the waiting area, sat her down and gave her a glass of water.

  Sipping it slowly, Allison ignored the two new people who had arrived.

  ‘You know what happened to Gracie then?’ Allison asked the receptionist.

  ‘Dr Mercado didn’t see your friend.’ The woman shook her head. ‘He doesn’t treat children.’

  But she’d read the emails from this clinic. Luke had shown her the stories online about Dr Mercado’s successful treatments.

  ‘I know he doesn’t normally, and at first he refused. But Luke—her dad—sent a photo of Gracie in her Elsa costume. Dr Mercado said his daughter loved Frozen too. He made an exception for Gracie.’

  The woman frowned and changed her tone.

  ‘Listen, hon, this is a big teaching and research hospital. There are so many physicians here. The main reception can help you find out which one she’s seeing.’

  ‘Gracie died.’

  Around the waiting room, the patients’ heads snapped up to stare at Allison.

  The receptionist patted her shoulder. ‘I’m so sorry for your loss.’

  Not just my loss, Allison wanted to shout. A loss for everyone. The miracle of a child with so much potential. Who knew if Gracie could have been the next Frida Kahlo or Marie Curie?

  ‘The main reception will definitely be able to help you.’ The woman smiled gently. ‘I have to admit the next patients, but my colleague Violetta can take you down to the lovely ladies in the main building.’

  The lovely ladies in the main building were sympathetic and they tried to help. But like Dr Mercado’s receptionist, they had no records of Gracie Branson. Allison steeled herself to ask the next question.

  ‘Can you please check the hospital morgue?’

  But Gracie wasn’t listed there either. Would she have been taken to another morgue? A city morgue? Allison sighed and pushed away the confusion that threatened to overwhelm her. She’d texted Luke but he hadn’t answered. Still in the X-ray area presumably.

  ‘We have a number of research hospitals in Chicago,’ one of the ladies said.

  The thought of traipsing across this unknown city exhausted her; facing each labyrinth of buildings, trying to understand where to go, who to ask, and then deciphering their accents.

 
The young woman, Violetta, had been standing next to Allison, listening to the outcome.

  ‘I’ve got to grab some food from the cafeteria,’ she said. ‘Do you want to come and I can make some phone calls for you?’

  ‘That’s so kind … I’d really appreciate it.’

  Allison was always the one assisting others. Strange to be on the opposite side. Violetta smiled, showing her slightly crooked teeth. Round-faced, dark hair in a bun, purple blouse and black pants. The bright purple was exactly the shade Gracie loved. Somehow Gracie must be watching down from above, working her magic on people.

  Inside the cafeteria, with its smell of reheated food and rows of coloured plastic chairs, Allison could have been back in any big hospital in Australia. Apart from the food itself.

  ‘That counter has fried chicken, that one has subs—they’ve got Italian beef—and you can get salads or sushi over there.’ Violetta pointed to another section. ‘And there’s the grill if you want a burger.’

  Too many choices. Allison stood stock-still between the many counters while Violetta ordered a plate of fried chicken. A large man in scrubs, wearing a mask, brushed past her as he headed for the sushi fridge. He selected a container and Allison copied his movements. At the till, she struggled to figure out her American dollars, crammed in behind the orange and blue Aussie ones. All the denominations were the same colour. Finally, she handed over the right note.

  Violetta waved from a table near the window.

  ‘The hospital’s hectic at the moment—a flu outbreak in the wrong season,’ Violetta said. ‘I’m glad I’m not on the wards.’

  The smell of Violetta’s fried chicken made her salivate; it looked like KFC except for the side of baked beans. Allison couldn’t remember when she’d last eaten.