I shake my head and pull myself to sit up even straighter. I move too quickly and sharp pain darts from my knee right down to my toes and it feels as if my whole leg has burst into flames. Mam notices immediately and hops off the bed.
‘Oh God, Kayla,’ she says. ‘What is it? What hurts? Is it your knee?’
I catch my breath and choke back some tears. ‘I’m okay,’ I lie. ‘I’m fine.’
‘Maybe we should go,’ Dad says, his voice even wobblier than he is as he stands up. ‘You should probably get some rest. It’s been quite a day.’
‘I agree with your dad.’ Mam starts ruffling the pillows behind me, actually making me super uncomfortable. ‘You really should get some rest.’
‘But I don’t want to go,’ Molly says. ‘I like it here with Kayla.’
‘C’mon, Molly,’ I say, patting the space Mam has left on the bed beside me. ‘You wanna sit up with me? I got a new game on my phone. I think you’ll like it.’
‘Sneaky sneak?’ Molly squeaks.
‘Sure.’ I nod, having no clue what that is; it’ll probably take me two hundred years to download on the crappy hospital broadband.
Molly hurries over to the bed and it’s hilarious to see her try her best to climb up. She grabs the sheets for grip but has as much luck as she would climbing Everest.
‘Dad,’ I say. ‘A little help, please?’
‘Oh, Kayla. I’m not sure…’
‘Dad. Please. Put those lifting skills to good use.’
‘Gavin,’ Mam says, looking at him unsure.
‘Guys,’ I say, firmly catching both my parents’ attention at once. ‘I’m fine. Molly is fine. We just want to sit together and play a game on my phone like normal. Can we please do that?’
Mam and Dad look at each other, both shaking their head and I actually want to scream. Molly continues to tug on the sheets and she’s either going to tumble back and burst her head open or drag me right off the bed while they hum and haw.
‘Okay, Molly,’ Dad says, sliding his hands underneath her arms and scooping her off the ground. ‘But you have to be very, very careful. Kayla has a very sore leg and you can’t hurt her,’ he warns.
‘Like my hurty bit.’ Molly points to her plaster again, and I smile.
‘Yes,’ Dad says as he sets her down on the bed next to me. Molly snuggles into me, and straight away tears burn in my eyes and if I blink, they’re going to come spilling down my cheeks and Mam and Dad are actually going to flip out with worry.
I pass Molly my phone and bury my face in her delicious, apple-smelling hair. Mam and Dad huddle in the corner whispering, as if when they keep their voices low and calm I won’t notice they’re talking about me.
‘You don’t have Sneaky Snake,’ Molly says.
‘Oh, sorry.’ I lift my head, ready to take my phone back and offer her a different game.
‘S’okay,’ she says. ‘It’s downloading now.’
‘Molly you’re my hero. Do you know that?’ I giggle.
‘Don’t be silly, Kayla,’ Molly says. ‘I can’t fly.’
Twenty-Three
Kayla
The door creaks open and Charlotte comes into view.
‘Mammy!’ Molly yells, too loud for the small room and much too loud for right next to my ear. ‘I’m playing Sneaky Snake on Kayla’s phone. Do you want to see how long my snake is? He’s super big, isn’t he, Kayla?’
‘He is,’ I say.
‘In a minute,’ Charlotte says as she opens the door wider but doesn’t come in.
A smell of mashed potato and Dettol wafts through. It’s rank. Molly and I look at each other and scrunch our noses and stick out our tongues. But Charlotte doesn’t close the door behind her, she remains standing in the doorway awkwardly with her hands behind her back. It’s as if she’s waiting for someone to tell her it’s okay to come in.
I look at Mam and Dad, they’re still deep in whispery conversation. Dad is looking at Mam, nodding and agreeing with whatever she says, but Mam is looking at Charlotte the same way I looked at Roisin Kelly for a month after she put chewing gum in my hair in science last year.
‘Mammy close the door, quick, quick,’ Molly says, as if the corridor is some dark portal and my room is another dimension where it’s safe. ‘It’s stinky out there.’
‘Yeah.’ Dad looks up and makes a face. ‘It really does smell awful out there, what is that?’
‘Lunch,’ I say.
‘Oh Jesus, really?’ Dad says.
‘Well, hospitals aren’t exactly known for their delicious food, now, are they, Dad,’ I say.
‘God, I don’t know which is worse. Your poor leg or having to eat that crap,’ Dad jokes, and I laugh.
‘Gavin,’ Mam says, crossly.
‘What?’ Dad shrugs. ‘Oh c’mon, Heather, something has to lighten the mood. I thought it was funny.’
‘It was,’ I say.
‘I do know your knee is very painful, Kay,’ Dad says. ‘I was just trying to cheer you up, that’s all.’
I know,’ I say.
‘I also know I’m bringing you something decent to eat tomorrow,’ Dad adds. ‘How does McDonald’s sound?’
‘I love McDonald’s,’ Molly shrieks and bounces on the bed.
‘Molly, Molly, calm down,’ Charlotte warns, hurrying towards us.
The door shuts with a loud bang behind her and startles us all. I laugh. So does Molly. But my parents and Charlotte are all mega serious.
‘I don’t think you can bring food from elsewhere into the hospital,’ Mam says.
‘What?’ Dad folds his arms. ‘Why not?’
‘I don’t know,’ Mam says. ‘Health and safety, I s’pose.’
‘Rubbish,’ Dad says. ‘If you can bring in home-made muffins, then I can bring a burger and chips. And if I can’t, I’ll sneak it in under my coat. They’ll never know.’
‘Dad.’ I smile. ‘You absolute rebel, you.’
‘Speaking of sneaking things in,’ Charlotte says, finally revealing her hands from behind her back.
‘What’s that?’ Molly asks, pointing to the takeaway cup Charlotte is holding.
‘Oh my God. Is that a hot chocolate?’ I ask, hopeful.
The large cream-and-gold cup isn’t from the canteen downstairs. I recognise the logo from the place around the corner that Mam was telling me about.
‘With extra marshmallows,’ Charlotte says.
‘Yesssss.’ I smile.
‘I like hot chocolate,’ Molly says, sad that there is only one cup.
‘We can share,’ I suggest, quickly.
‘You, young lady, need lunch,’ Charlotte tells Molly. ‘They have a nice tomato soup downstairs. We should go get some.’
Molly shakes her head. ‘I hate soup.’
Dad lifts Molly into his arms and she wraps her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck.
‘I like McDonald’s and hot chocolate,’ Molly says. ‘It’s not fair.’
‘C’mon, munchkin.’ Dad smiles, patiently. ‘You know Mammy doesn’t like you eating that junk.’
Charlotte passes me the hot chocolate without words and winks. She turns her back and walks towards the door.
‘Right,’ she says, opening the door. ‘Let’s get you some soup, Molly.’
‘Charlotte,’ I call. ‘Can you stay? Just for a little while.’
Charlotte turns around and looks at me with wide, unsure eyes.
‘It’s just, I haven’t really seen you in ages. It would be nice to catch up.’
Charlotte smiles and I can see she’s searching for the right thing to say.
‘I’m sure Dad can get Molly her soup, can’t you, Dad?’
Dad nods.
‘So,’ I say. ‘Can you stay?’
Charlotte looks at Mam and neither of them even blink. Jesus, this is worse than any beef I have with Roisin Kelly.
‘Actually, Mam. Maybe you could go downstairs with Dad,’ I say. ‘I know you haven’t had a chance to eat any
thing today. And no, offence, but you look awful.’
Mam snorts and forces a laugh. ‘Ha, thank you, Kayla.’
‘You know what I mean,’ I smile. ‘Seriously, though, go get a coffee at least. I’ll still be alive when you come back.’
‘Kayla.’ Mam shakes her head, and I wish I’d phrased that differently.
I point to the door jokingly. ‘Go. Go on.’
Mam looks at Charlotte. ‘Well, if you don’t mind?’
‘Of course not,’ Charlotte says. ‘I’ll stay with her.’
‘Okay. Thank you. I won’t be long.’
‘Can we go to McDonald’s, Heather?’ Molly says, leaning out of Dad’s arms to reach for Mam.
Dad puts Molly down and Mam takes her hand.
‘You know what, Molly?’ Mam says. ‘That’s a great idea.’
Twenty-Four
Charlotte
I sit in the plastic seat next to Kayla’s bed as she sips on her hot chocolate. There’s a slurping sound every few seconds and Kayla giggles with her big blue eyes peering out over the top of her cup.
Kayla isn’t as pale as I was expecting, or as frail. In fact, if it wasn’t for the cannula in her hand I could easily believe she’s just tucked up in bed enjoying a lazy Friday afternoon.
‘How are you feeling?’ I finally build up the courage to ask.
Kayla lowers the cup and looks at me very seriously. My tummy somersaults.
‘Full,’ she says. ‘This thing was huge.’
I take the empty cup from her, twist in my chair and toss it into the small chrome bin behind me. It rattles more than I thought it would as the cup lands in the centre.
‘Score!’ Kayla cheers, raising her hands about her head.
‘Ugh, not exactly,’ I say, standing up when I notice the cup wasn’t completely empty and milky chocolate has dribbled down the side of the bin and onto the floor. I pull some baby wipes out of my bag and clean up. ‘You can never have enough of these with a four-year-old on your hands.’
I know it was a lame joke but I thought it might have roused at least a sympathy giggle from Kayla but she’s miles away. There’s obviously something she wants to talk to me about. And in private, if she tried so hard to get rid of her mother. But I’ve no idea what it would be and waiting is making me nervous. I don’t want to bulldoze my way in and drag it out of her, but if it’s important I’m sure we’ll need time to talk about it and I doubt Heather will stay gone long. Even if they do take a trip to bloody McDonald’s.
‘Does it hurt?’ I finally ask, throwing the grungy wipes in the bin and using some fresh ones to wipe my hands. I toss those in too and make my way back to the seat.
‘Not really,’ Kayla says when I sit down. ‘It’s more annoying than sore. It’s boring just sitting here, not even being able to walk down to the games room. Even though it’s crap down there. Broken jigsaws, half-coloured-in colouring books. But there’s a TV and a pool table.’
I study Kayla’s bright eyes and fed-up expression. I remember after my C-section I couldn’t move for days and it took me weeks to feel semi-normal again. Kayla is so full of energy. It’s hard to believe she’s recovering from a general anaesthetic. I guess that’s the difference between surgery at fifteen and at thirty.
‘This hurts, though.’ Kayla raises her arm and my eyes fall to the cannula that’s half the size of her hand. ‘It keeps stabbing me. Last night, I forgot it was there and I rolled over and Oh. My. God. It was torture.’
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘I’m not great with needles either.’
‘Or Molly,’ Kayla says. ‘She really doesn’t like them, does she?’
‘No,’ I admit. ‘She doesn’t. And I don’t blame her.’
‘Dad said she freaked out when they tried to take blood earlier.’
I take a deep breath and wonder what the hell Heather has been saying.
‘She doesn’t understand, Kayla,’ I say, gently. ‘She’s only four. And, to be honest, even if I tried to explain, I doubt it would make any sense.’
‘It doesn’t make any sense to me either,’ Kayla says, suddenly looking tired.
‘What doesn’t, sweetheart?’ I say.
‘Why would you let them do that to her?’ Kayla shakes her head. ‘She’s not sick. I am. She shouldn’t have to be poked and prodded like that.’
‘It was just a blood test, Kayla,’ I say, calmly. I sound exactly like Gavin when he tried to reason with me. ‘It hurt for a little minute, but she’s fine now. She will be fine.’
Compared to everything Kayla is going through, a simple blood test seems inconsequential. But then that’s no consolation to a confused four-year-old. Kayla is so sweet to be concerned for her little sister. I smile, proud of her.
‘What’s the test for?’ Kayla says. ‘Mam and Dad had blood tests too. But no one has told me why exactly. Are we all at risk of this cancer?’ Kayla takes a deep breath, and horror splashes across her face. ‘Oh. My. God. Could Molly get this? Could she get sick too?’
‘No, no, no.’ I swallow, and I stand up and turn my back on Kayla for a moment feeling like such a damn hypocrite. Of course, one of my first concerns was that Molly could get sick too. It could be a gene. Something Gavin has passed to his kids. I’d be a liar if I said I don’t still worry. But I can’t let Kayla see that. ‘These tests see who’s a match for you, Kayla. No one else is sick. Okay?’
‘A match for what?’
‘I don’t know, Kayla,’ I say, pacing. ‘Options, I suppose. They want to keep all options open.’
‘Is that why you and Mam are fighting?’ Kayla asks.
I shake my head. ‘We’re not fighting.’
‘Oh come off it, Charlotte. You and Mam barely said two words to each other earlier.’
‘It’s complicated.’
‘Not really.’ Kayla shrugs. ‘You’re Molly’s mother, Mam is mine and then Dad is in the middle with both of us being his kids. I can kind of see why you’re all killing each other.’
‘We’re not,’ I say, and it comes out sharper than I mean it to.
‘Mam is living in your house,’ Kayla says. ‘That has to be awkward for a start.’
‘Well…’
‘And then there’s Dad trying to keep the peace.’
Not exactly, I think, realising I’m growing bitter, feeling that he’s growing close to Heather while pushing me aside.
‘And Molly. Poor Molly. She hasn’t a clue what’s going on,’ Kayla says. I’m about to reiterate Molly’s age and innocence but Kayla keeps talking. ‘And me. Then there’s me. And it’s all my fault.’
‘Kayla, no,’ I insist, devastated that she feels this way. I push the chair out of the way and climb up on the bed beside her. ‘None of this is your fault. None of it. You can’t control getting sick.’
‘My knee has been sore for ages. Like really bad. And getting worse and worse.’
‘Oh, sweetheart.’ I wrap my arms around her as she cuddles close to me.
‘I didn’t tell Mam,’ Kayla sniffles. ‘The last time I told her she said I was overdoing it. Training too hard, playing too many matches. I thought if I told her how bad it was she’d make me stop playing basketball altogether.’
‘And you love it so much, don’t you?’
Kayla nods and I feel her shoulders rise and fall as gentle crying shakes her body.
‘It’s my whole life. It’s the only thing I’m good at.’
‘That’s not true, Kayla. There are lots of things you’re good at.’
‘No there’s not. Mam is all arty and bakes these amazing cakes that everyone loves, and I can’t even get a C in Home Ec. Dad is mad clever with his big maths brain. I hate maths. Molly is so good on the piano already even with her tiny fingers. I just have basketball. I’m crap at everything else. And now I don’t even have that anymore.’
‘Oh, Kayla, sweetheart. Time. Give it time.’
‘No.’ Kayla shoots upright and twists to look me in the eyes. ‘It hurts, Charlotte, it reall
y, really hurts.’
‘Your knee?’ I ask.
‘I should have told Mam,’ Kayla cries. ‘I should have just told her. If I told her last year, then none of this would have happened. See, do you believe me now? It really is all my fault.’
I don’t bother with words. There’s nothing I can say that will make her feel any better right now. I just sit and hold her as large angry cries shake her whole body. I take slow, deep breaths and I know the pain in my chest is the feeling of my heart breaking.
Twenty-Five
Kayla
October
I lie in bed with the blanket pulled right up to my neck. Someone must have tucked me in at some point. Mam, obviously. I’m roastin’. The hospital is always mad warm. But, even though I’m cooking away under the covers, I don’t move. It’s way too much effort. I’m awake but my eyes are closed. It’s early. Before seven. I know without checking my phone. At seven the breakfast commotion starts. Bowls of cereal and glasses of juice rattle on trollies pushed along the corridor. And no matter how badly I’ve slept, or how exhausted, or how sick I am, there’s no sleeping past seven in this place. I don’t mind so much this morning. I’ve been awake for ages already. Hours maybe and I’m glad everyone else is finally awake, too. And I’m hungry for the first time in days. I think I’ll try some toast. The nice catering lady will be so happy. She’s spent all week trying to get me to eat and when I kept refusing, mostly because I was too busy throwing up from the chemo, she seemed so disappointed.
There’s a soft knock on the door and I open my eyes. My mouth goes fizzy thinking about hot toast with melted butter and a glass of orange juice. I giggle – I never thought I’d see the day I got so excited about toast.
There’s another knock, but the door doesn’t open like usual.
‘Erm, come in,’ I say, and it comes out like I’ve a really sore throat or something.
The door doesn’t open. Oh for God’s sake. I pull myself to sit up. My arms are wobbly, and the effort knackers me. I clear my throat and it’s a bit phlegmy and gross. Don’t be sick. Don’t be sick. Please don’t be sick. I check that there’s a puke tray on the locker next to my bed, just in case. I take deep breaths and it helps. My tummy calms down. I’m not going to start today by throwing up. Progress.
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