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through it
when out of the corner of her eye she saw the receptionist leaning over the high
front counter, pointing at the door to her right. The allergist was waiting. Elena
put the magazine down, took out her earphones, smiled at the receptionist and went
in.
    The allergist was a middle-aged man named Dr O’Breen, bald on top but with grey-blond
hair falling down around the back and sides. His suit needed cleaning, there was
a fake flower in his lapel. Hello Elena, come in, he said, nice to meet you. That
was funny him saying that, she thought, like their meeting was somehow a surprise
and not just another prearranged consultation like the dozen she’d already had.
He gestured to the chair. On the desk was a black cardboard box with a band of packing
tape reinforcing it all the way around the top. The box had begun to split from overuse.
It was the kind of packing tape her mother used to patch the old atlas she kept on
the top shelf in her bedroom cupboard. A thick rubber band held the lid of the box
in place.
    Well, said the allergist, I hear you’ve not been well—do you want to tell me about
it? Elena mechanically went through the story, starting from when she had first felt
ill at school, including the doctors and specialists she’d seen. O’Breen made a few
notes. And you just don’t feel well, he said. Is there anywhere in particular? Headaches?
An upset stomach? Any rashes or itches? Elena sketched a general picture of how she
felt, which in a sense was a combination of all of the above and more, bound together
by a constant tiredness that even now made her wish she was out in the waiting room
again, her music on, her face hidden in the magazine, her eyes drooping and her mind
drifting away into sleep. I see, said the allergist. Well. He moved the black cardboard
box in front of him and began to take off the rubber band, something he had obviously
done so many times that Elena couldn’t help being mesmerised. O’Breen stretched it
in and out between his finger and thumb then let it snap onto his wrist. He lifted
the lid off the box.
    Inside was a wooden tray holding, at a quick glance, about fifty little vials. All
these vials had labels; from where Elena was sitting she could see Wool, Latex, Paint,
Rayon. Now Elena, said the allergist, we are going to do a few little tests to see
if there is something in your daily life that might be making you unwell: to do this
I will need you to roll up your sleeve. O’Breen was gesturing with a flat hand at
the left sleeve of Elena’s cotton top; again it felt like a gesture rehearsed and
performed a thousand times. As soon as the sleeve was up he came around beside her
and, scribbling with a black biro on her forearm, explained the procedure. In each
spot, he said, I’m going to put a little drop.
    There were about a dozen biro marks on Elena’s forearm now: strange symbols, numbers,
letters, each designating the thing to go there. One by one O’Breen took from the
wooden tray a vial corresponding to the marks and put down a tiny drop. Elena read
some of the labels as the allergist moved quickly through them: Dog, Cat, Mouse,
Dust, Pollen. He deposited the last drop and took a sterilised needle saying, quickly,
like it barely needed mentioning: You will feel a little scratch. Then he ran the
needle through each drop, scratching the skin as he went. When he’d finished he put
the needle into a yellow tub, arranged the vials back in their tray with the labels
up, put the lid on the box, slid the rubber band off his wrist, stretched it around
and let it go with a snap. O’Breen pushed the box aside. All right, he said, leave
your sleeve up, pop out into the waiting room, and after fifteen minutes we’ll see
what we’ve got. I’ll call you back when we’re ready. The allergist had already turned
his back on Elena as he went around the desk to his chair. Elena took this as her
cue.
    Out in the waiting room the receptionist smiled like she must have done a