I t is late morning on a Wednesday, and I’m sitting at the kitchen table collapsing in on myself, because I am ill. I feel dizzy, and feverish, and achy, and I have done for two days. I’m gently resting my damp forehead on the table when my wife walks in.
“I don’t understand why you have to act,” my wife says.
“What?” I say, swivelling one red eye up to look at her.
“Why do you always have to act like you’re ill?” she says. “Why can’t you just be ill?”
“All the groaning, all the sighing,” she says.
“The cough is a symptom, not an affectation,” I say.
“I took all the pills,” I say. “There are no pills left.”
The truth is that the nature of my illness is a little bit episodic. It tends to let up for an hour or two in the afternoons – the aches vanish, the cough abates, my head clears – only to reassert itself around dusk. Under these circumstances, it seems to me a consistent display of discomfort across the day helps the casual observer understand the condition in the round. It also prevents the casual observer from claiming that the illness only manifests itself when it’s time to take the bins out.
“Anyway, if you’re that ill, go back to bed,” my wife says.
“I can’t,” I say, pointing to my open laptop. “I have to work.”
“You don’t look like you’re working,” she says. “You’ve got your forehead on the table.” I suppress a deep sigh.
“So, to sum up your performance notes for the morning …” I say.
“I have to go out now,” she says, bending down to tie her shoe.
“… you’re basically suggesting that I internalise my suffering, while wearing my busy day on my sleeve more,” I say.
“I’ll bring you back some pills,” she says.
“This has been so helpful, thanks.”
At lunchtime the middle one, who I’m pretty certain bequeathed me this illness, comes downstairs to forage. His lingering, week-old cough precedes him.
“Here he is,” I say. “Patient Zero.”
“A little bit,” he says, turning to me. “Are you ill now?”
“Yes,” I say, “although apparently I’m doing it all wrong.”
“You know what he’s like,” my wife says. “He always has to act the whole thing out.”
“What you really want,” I say, “is for me to mime being healthy, even though I feel terrible.”
“Is there milk?” asks the middle one.
“But that would mean living a lie,” I say. “Also, I’m not that good at acting.”
Over the next 24 hours my symptoms remain stable, but my mood sinks further: I’m bored. I’m tired of inhabiting this illness, and I’m tired of the illness inhabiting me. I want to be better, and I begin to wonder if an acting-led approach might be part of my recovery: perhaps I could fake wellness until I make it. But that would mean accepting my wife’s feedback.
When I wake up on Saturday, I immediately sense that the illness has passed to my wife.
“What’s wrong with you?” I say. “Have you got the thing?”
“I feel so sick,” she says, her voice cracked and far away.
“Do you need anything?” I say. “Any pills?” She shakes her head slowly, closes her eyes and pulls the duvet over her head. It is, I have to admit, an assured performance – a little underplayed for my taste, but convincing.
I would normally take a small measure of grim satisfaction from the tables being turned like this, except: I’m still ill. The duvet flaps down again.
“Will you walk the dog?” my wife asks.
“Me?” I say. “But I still feel like shit!”
“I can’t move,” she says. The duvet flaps back up.
Half an hour later I find myself standing in the park in the pouring rain, hood up, head pounding, eyelids itching and heavy, watching the dog chase squirrels from tree trunk to tree trunk. I cough, and my whole frame shakes. This is so believable, I think, and no one is here to see it.
