Story #2
Separation
The Felchers synchronised long before they arrived at Box Hill Emergency. Peter'd insisted upon it, before they left the apartment. “It's embarrassing enough, Berny,” he'd said, his face less than inch away from hers. “If we can't walk on top of everything else, I'm not going. It's as simple as that.”
Three or four hours later, as they approached the reception desk, his voice was still ringing in her ears. With every step, she heard, “Left, right. Left, right. Left, right. Left.”
Behind the counter, a large unpleasant woman exhaled sharply through her nostrils.
“Hello.” Peter said, cheerfully, pausing to read the receptionist's name-tag. “ Florence, is it? We'd like to see a doctor. As soon as possible. Berny and I, we're in somewhat of a... predicament. Not sure how it happened, exactly.”
Bernice wanted to die. She wasn't sure what was more embarrassing – the four legged march they'd perfected back at the apartment – or Peter's unwavering confidence. He acted as if there was nothing wrong, which just made everything worse.There was no shame in his voice. None, whatsoever. Nor a single bead of sweat. He was calmer than pond water.
Florence, pressing her glasses hard into her forehead with her fat discoloured index finger, said, “Yes?” She spoke like a cobra, spitting poison. “What can I do for you?”
“Well,” replied Peter. “As you can see...”
“You're going to have to be more specific,” said Florence, taking a long tired pause, before hissing through the gaps between her teeth and reluctantly adding, “Sir.” Her face twisted into an expression of sheer disgust as she said it, as if the word tasted foul. She let her glasses slide down the bridge of her nose, peering over the top of them. Her naked eyes, locked on the Felchers.
“Please,” Bernice said, on the verge of tears.
Florence raised a hand causing her lime-green nail extensions, nearly as long as her fingers, to wobble. Then, she extended a pinky and proceeding to shovel earwax from her inner ear into a neat pile on the counter. “Do you have private health insurance?”
“No,” replied Peter. “Not as such.”
Dislodging a sticky, dark-orange chunk of wax from her fingernail, with the tip of a pencil, Florence yawned, “Medicare cards?”
“No,” Bernice said. “We're, uh, temporary residents.”
Making a thick smacking sound with her gums, claw-like fingernails scraping at the seemingly endless supply of dry skin and wax inside her ears, Florence said, “It's quite substantial, you realise. The out-of-pocket fee.”
“How substantial?” asked Peter.
“Somewhere in the vicinity of two, maybe three, thousand.”
Bernice started to cry.
“Three thousand?” Peter hesitated, took a deep breath, and said, "Surely not.”
“Afraid so,” Florence replied. Taking off her glasses, and resting them between her teeth, she added, “You shouldn't travel without basic insurance, you know.”
“No!” Peter barked, finally starting to lose his cool. “We're citizens.”
Bernice, speaking at a less-than-dignified volume, said, “He doesn't know what he's saying! We're not citizens. We're temporary residents and we need help. Please. Have mercy.”
Florence shifted in her seat, raising her ass from the leather cushioning to make way for a fart. All the while, she maintained eye contact with Bernice. “Maybe you should try asking the doctor.” she said. “I don't make the rules, you know?”
“Here,” said Peter, slamming his Medicare card down on the counter. “Just help us, okay?”
“Felcher,” she said, as she punched in his details. “Is that Dutch?”
Red-faced and speaking through his teeth, Peter said, “No.”
Tapping at keys idly with her novelty fingernails, Florence continued to copy his details into the hospital database. “Welsh?” she said. “It's Welsh, isn't it?”
“What?” Peter half-shouted, promptly repressing his outrage and adding a whispered, “No.”
Florence maintained her indifference. “German, then?” she asked, handing back the card, her voice unmistakably disinterested.
“No. Look, I don't fucking know, okay?”
“No need for that kind of language, sir.” Florence said, turning her attention towards Bernice. “I'm going to need your details, too, Mrs. Felcher.”
“Miss.”
“Oh,” replied Florence, with a raised eyebrow. “Of course.”
Tears mixing with the liquid snot dripping from her nostrils, Bernice produced her healthcare card and dropped it on the counter. “How long before we see someone?” she asked, struggling to pronounce every syllable.
“Felcher,” Florence muttered to herself, her gaze shifting from the healthcare card to Bernice and back again. “I assume you were married, at some point. The two of you, I mean.”
“What?” said Peter. “No. Absolutely not.”
“It's just, well, Felcher is such an uncommon name.”
“How long?” Bernice persisted.
Florence rested her glasses back against the bridge of her nose. Typing three words a minute, one key at a time, she said, “Can I ask, are the two of you related?”
“Of course we're related,” snapped Bernice. “He's my brother. We're Siamese twins.”
“I see.” Florence stopped typing, taking a moment to give the Felchers one last long, judgemental assessment. “And what, might I ask, is the nature of your emergency?”
“It's personal,” replied Peter.
Wiping away her tears, Bernice demanded, angrily, “How long before we see a doctor?”
“That depends,” replied Florence. “On the nature of your emergency.”
Peter spoke, before his sister could say a word. “I told you,” he said. “It's personal.”
“Well, then. I'm going to have to put you at the back of the line.”
Bernice slammed a fist down on the counter, nearly losing balance. “You want to know what the emergency is?” she said. “I'll tell you what the god-damned, mother-fucking emergency is.” Then, she closed her eyes and filled her lungs with breath, her body trembling with adrenaline.
“No. Berny. No. Whatever you're thinking–”
Three seconds later, they were separated. Bernice and Peter Felcher, standing half-naked, by the Box Hill Emergency reception counter. Brother and sister, separated at last. Both of them, screaming incoherently.
Both of them, bleeding profusely from their genitals.
