A familiar feeling of depression washed over her. How could it all have gone so wrong? It had always seemed like a good idea to her, no matter what anybody said afterwards. Overnight she’d become a kind of rising star within the organization. Before she’d suggested a unified community residence, disabled housing issues were like matching socks after doing the washing. The blind over here, the paralysed there, and autistic people somewhere else. Oops, one with severe dementia – oh well, he’s the only one, can’t do anything for him. In the end her proposal had been welcomed eagerly and was implemented with great speed: Iceland was experiencing a boom, people were enthusiastic, and there was plenty of money. If the experiment worked, more of these kinds of centres would be built when budgetary resources allowed. When she was then informed that she was being considered to run this innovative unit, it seemed fate was smiling on her, especially after she’d been an assistant director for ten years and obliged to take on all the most tiresome and difficult cases by a boss who took only the agreeable ones for himself. Now it was Glódís’s chance to allow herself that luxury. But her bliss had been short-lived.
Jakob, that damn Jakob. If only she hadn’t pushed so hard to have him admitted, right now she would be in her little office in the nice new residence, casually tallying up receipts with supermarket bills or taking a bit of time out to browse sunny places to visit for her summer holiday. But no. Now she was sitting at the Regional Office for the Disabled, answering phone calls from family members whose only role in life appeared to be to irritate her. When will a space become available? The wheelchair’s got too small. Isn’t it possible to extend my daughter’s day-care hours? Endless demands that she could hardly ever meet, with very little thanks for her trouble. Now, since they’d been preaching bloody cutbacks and savings, it looked as though the few positive conversations that she’d had with the agency’s clients or their relatives had become a thing of the past. It had given her monotonous days some colour to be able to fulfil people’s wishes from time to time. Yes, her life had undergone a complete transformation. All because of Jakob.
She felt a painful throb in the small of her back, which ran up her spine and stopped at her neck. Glódís moaned softly and reached behind her head to rub the sore area. It did little good, as she’d known it wouldn’t. She still hadn’t managed to rub away her headache. The doctor had informed her that it was a consequence of injuries she’d received when she’d been struck heavily with a broom on her lower back. Two vertebrae had been pressed together and there was little that could be done about it apart from a major operation that had no guaranteed outcome of success. Again, all Jakob’s fault. He had attacked her from behind, completely unprovoked, and the blow had sent her crashing into a wheelchair in the corridor. The blow had been so hard that she hadn’t felt the initial impact at all; the fear of being paralysed had overwhelmed everything else and she’d wept with relief when she realized that her legs hurt. Luckily other workers had happened to come along and had removed Jakob, because otherwise he would probably have continued to hammer her with the broom. In any case, he was standing over her when she opened her eyes, staring at her with his familiar sheepish expression. And then this idiot lawyer thinks the man is innocent. She’d change her opinion pretty sharpish if she got hit like that herself. Glódís found herself hoping that that would happen.
‘There’s a quick meeting in ten minutes. We’re going to continue discussing the cuts.’ The fact that the woman in the doorway had come to notify her of this meeting was one more sign that the business about the fire was slipping into the coma of oblivion. If it were just allowed to be left to rest, like Sleeping Beauty, everything would be good again.
‘Thanks. I’m coming.’ Glódís put on her most pitiful expression and continued to rub her neck. ‘I’m dying of pain. This is never going to go away.’
‘Take a painkiller.’ The woman vanished from the doorway without showing any sign of empathy. Glódís had further to go than she had hoped, particularly if this lawyer started raking everything up again. Glódís had to ensure that this wouldn’t happen; she was afraid she would just be fired. Cuts inevitably meant a reduction in staff and she would probably be among the first to go. And what then? There were few jobs available in the recession and unemployment benefits were low and didn’t last long. She knew the requirements for disability benefits well enough to be able to take advantage of her back injury and receive them, but they were next to nothing. She did have a few contingency plans, though; for example, knuckle down and perform so well that she made herself irreplaceable, contact the union and get them on her side, or play the trump card she was saving until all other avenues appeared closed. That time could very well be approaching.
For the moment, however, she had to make an urgent decision. Should she tell her superiors about the lawyer’s visit and the possible reopening of the case, or keep quiet? It would of course be worse if they found out about it later, worse still if they discovered she had kept it secret from them. On the other hand, any hope that this could turn out to be a flash in the pan would be gone if she opened her mouth. Glódís had trouble concentrating due to the pain in her neck. She let her head roll onto her shoulder and shut her eyes. With a concentrated effort she emptied her mind of worries. This self-consolation didn’t help much, however, since it merely cleared the way for other more troubling thoughts and memories. Look at me. Look at me. Look at me. This repeated itself continuously until she opened her eyes.
Glódís wiped away a tear that had slowly formed. It made a tiny wet spot on the back of her hand, which disappeared quickly but left behind a grey mascara streak that would have been almost invisible if she weren’t aware of it. This reminded her uncomfortably of her job as the centre’s director: it had lasted only a short time, but had managed to leave behind a black smudge on her soul. She straightened up and went to the meeting.
The nurse knew he was forgetting something, but couldn’t think what it was for the life of him. His shift was ending and this wasn’t the first time that he’d had this nagging feeling at the end of the day. His job was hectic and it was impossible for him to finish everything; more often than not he had to put off visiting patients and spending quiet time speaking with them, as he would have preferred to do. The strictly necessary tasks had to take precedence, and in recent days the lack of staff had meant that these were divided between fewer pairs of hands. He wasn’t actually worried that he’d forgotten something important; he’d administered all the necessary medications and those who’d been scheduled for examinations or x-rays had gone and returned. No, this was something different.
‘How’s your stomach?’ He bent down to an old man hunched in a wheelchair at the edge of the corridor. The man had obviously embarked on too long a journey and not made it to his destination, wherever that was.
‘What time is it?’ His pink gums shone. His dentures lay in his lap. Every word was accompanied by a wet smack.
‘It’s almost four o’clock, my friend.’
‘Are you the doctor?’ More wet smacking, and the final word was such an effort that a tiny bit of saliva ran down the man’s chin.