Debra Mann’s house is tidy. Not only tidy, either, but clean. She says she thought, “Oh my god,” just before I arrived at her Halifax condo, “there’s dust on the coffee table. I forgot to dust the coffee table.” But if there is dust there, it’s invisible to the naked eye, just like the human immunodeficiency virus that’s been hanging around in Debra Mann’s body for more than half of this 41-year-old’s life.
There is something, though, that can be seen. And it stands out in this two-bedroom pool-view condo, among the orderly knick-knacks, vacuum cleaner-lined carpet and dish-free sink: a full bag of garbage sitting slouched against the cabinets on the white vinyl kitchen floor.
I sit down. She makes tea. We start to talk. Then we’re silent, heads up like small forest animals listening to decipher the snap of nearby branches, as the garbage bag slowly sags and then slumps to the floor on the other side of the half-wall separating the kitchen from the dining area where we’re sitting.
Mann rolls her eyes and huffs as she drops her shoulders in exasperation. Her son Stephen was supposed take it out.
“I thought he might be a bit more compassionate about taking out the garbage,” she laughs about her 15-year-old son. “But there it is. It’s been sitting there for two days.”