I put the taco shells in broil in the oven. There’s a knock at the door. Billie screams, it’s not a dog I adopted, but an old coyote. I take her in my arms so she doesn’t bite the stranger’s calf. I open the door. Ah, it’s Pascal. It’s my neighbor, he’s in a pot belly and says to me: “Hi Christopher, can I talk to you for two minutes?” I leave Billie inside and close the door behind me. I ask him if everything is okay. He scratches his head, feeling uneasy. “Can you follow me?” I nod, slightly worried. We cross the small hemlock fence, then slip between the spruce trees on his land. Pascal points to the lawn. I think naively out loud. “Your lawn?” He nods, feeling uneasy. “No, no… Look…” I lean towards the lawn and see a small pine cone. The neighbor leans over too and takes the cone in his hands. We both stare at the small cone in the palm of his hand. “I feel bad, Christopher… but, my mother told me she saw you mowing the lawn and that a cone flew into our kitchen window. » I say, “Oh, I apologize.” He drops the casserole dish on the floor and says, “My mother was afraid it would go through her window.” I laugh lightly, smiling, thinking he’s joking. Not at all. Pascal is serious. I wipe the smile off my face right away. “I’m sincerely sorry. I’ll be careful, I didn’t realize it, I swear.” I look at his face, I notice that he’s not his usual self. A silence hangs between us. He doesn’t dare look me in the eye. His gaze lands just over my shoulder. I look toward my house and see smoke coming out of the kitchen window. Shit, my tacos. I run home, then turn to him, looking sorry: “Oh, excuse me, Pascal, my house is burning!”
*****
I’m walking down the sidewalk in the city center. I have an appointment at the hospital. A man in his sixties is sitting on the steps of a large building holding a crate of strawberries. He hands me a strawberry. I don’t know what’s gotten into me, but I take it and put it in my mouth. Why am I eating this? The generous Samaritan smiles at me. I return his smile by giving him a thumbs-up. I cross the street and walk for a good ten minutes before arriving at the entrance to the CHUM. My throat starts to sting and I feel slightly dizzy. Gee, did someone drug me? The waiting room is full. I look at one of the screens on the wall and wait impatiently for my number to appear. A bell rings in the corridor, a number appears like at the airport. H-0004. It’s me, H-0004! How many times have I held a piece of paper with a number on it? A hundred times, maybe two hundred times. Our entire lives are an accumulation of good news and bad news. What if this email isn’t the answer I so desperately want? What if my employer isn’t happy? What if it rains tomorrow? What if my car repair costs more than I expected? What if this fight with a friend never gets resolved? What if I have to move and can’t find a place to live? What if my mother doesn’t remember me? What about the upcoming election, and climate change, and advances in artificial intelligence? What if waiting gives us time to reflect? What if it gives us the opportunity to grow for the better? What if we’ve missed something vital without it? I’m not against waiting, I’m against stupidity. My hematologist enters the room with a big smile. She tells me she has some very good news for me. Surprised, I say, “Oh yeah?” She lets me know that we’ve managed to break the virus. My platelets have been normal for weeks now. The intravenous Gamma treatments and the cortisone sessions have paid off. I feel like a big thirty-five-year-old baby who’s been dragged around from left to right and saved. I’m a man who has no medical knowledge whatsoever. I blindly trusted complete strangers in white coats. It’s incredible when you stop to think about it. The result is that I’m still alive and it didn’t cost me anything. I’m happy, but I can’t help but imagine what will happen to me next time. Kidney stone? Liver cancer? Parkinson’s? Alzheimer’s? I have to wait. I clear my throat, I hesitate to ask this question. The hematologist reassures me, she says she has heard it all before, that nothing can surprise her anymore. I ask her, looking serious: “Is it possible to inject GHB into a strawberry?”