‘Orange juice?’ Mam says, dragging the trolley-table thing from the end of my bed closer to me.
I shake my head.
‘Okay, okay.’ Mam sounds weirdly disappointed that I don’t fancy juice two seconds after waking up.
I try to sit up but it’s so hard. My arms are insanely heavy; as if they belong to someone else and I can’t really control them. My breathing feels a bit funny too, like someone really big is sitting on me. Squashing me.
‘Okay, let’s take it easy,’ Mam says, sliding her hands under my arms. She puffs out as she hoists me up.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say.
‘What? What on earth are you sorry for, kiddo?’ Mam says, letting go of me to adjust the pillows behind me.
I’m wobbly, trying to sit by myself for a few seconds. Mam places her hand on my shoulder and eases me back. When I’m supported by a mound of soft, fluffy pillows I realise how uncomfortable I’ve been all night.
‘Just for everything,’ I say.
‘Listen to me, Kayla.’ Mam suddenly becomes very serious and I think she’s about to cry. I wait for her to excuse herself for a second. She thinks I don’t notice when she goes outside the door to take some deep breaths or dry her eyes.
‘None of this is your fault. None of it.’
I want to believe Mam but I know it is my fault. If I’d just told Mam when my leg first started hurting last year my cancer wouldn’t have spread and I’d probably be better by now like some of the other kids here. But I was so obsessed with basketball. I didn’t want to miss a single game. Look at me now. I’ll never play a game again. And I’m starting to worry I might never even leave this room.
‘Some water?’ Mam asks.
‘I’m not really thirsty,’ I say, my eyelids starting to droop. I think I’m ready to go back to sleep.
‘Kayla, you really need to drink something.’
I pull a face.
‘You heard what the doctors said last night.’
I stare at Mam blankly. I don’t remember the doctors coming in and I definitely don’t remember them saying, ‘If she doesn’t drink orange juice, she has to drink water.’
Mam stops fidgeting and sits down again, taking my hand. She squeezes it gently.
‘What did the doctors say last night?’ I ask, not sure I really want to know.
‘Ah, you know, this and that.’
‘Mam. Please?’
‘It’s the chemo,’ Mam’s voice crackles. ‘The doctors aren’t happy with how it’s working. It’s making you really sick…’
‘Chemo makes everyone sick,’ I say, pausing to take some breaths as if I’m puffed out after scoring five baskets. ‘Sean threw his guts up in the games room a few days ago. It’s was so gross. All bile and carrots—’
‘Kayla…’
‘Why are there always carrots in puke? Like, always. Even if you haven’t eaten carrots in ages, I just don’t get it—’
‘Kayla,’ Mam repeats, gently.
I finally look up at Mam and her eyes are so serious and teary.
‘Kayla your kidneys are struggling,’ she finally says.
‘And…?’ I ask, not really that surprised. The other kids in the games room talk about stuff like this all the time. Everyone is affected in different ways. Everyone loses their hair like me, obviously, but one of the girls on the ward had blonde hair all her life but when it started to grow back after chemo it was black and curly. I thought it was nice but she was completely freaking out. And one of the younger kids is so skinny I’m afraid to touch her but she’s always so smiley and running around with lots of energy. I guess wonky kidneys is going to be my thing. I wonder if that means I’ll have to pee more, or maybe my pee will change colour – that would be weirdly cool. Maybe I should bring Mam down to meet some of the other kids. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind talking to her about how their treatment is going. It might help her to understand and freak out a bit less.
‘Kayla,’ Mam says again and I realise I’ve zoned out trying to think of everyone’s chemo schedule today and wondering who’ll be in the games room later for a game of Fortnite. I still haven’t got a win and it’s bloody mortifying. There’re six-year-olds kicking my arse for God’s sake.
‘Kayla, sweetheart, the doctor’s want to stop the chemo,’ Mam whispers.
‘Oh my God, really?’ I say, suddenly more energetic than I have been in days. ‘Really? Really?’
Mam shakes her head.
‘What?’ I ask. ‘This is good news. I mean chemo is over. I think we can deal with all the kidney stuff as an outpatient. The girl with the blonde-now-black hair only comes in once a week or something like that now.’
Mam’s face is blank.
‘It means we can go home soon, right?’ I ask, scared that the doctors are talking to Mam about serious stuff and leaving me out of the conversation. It’s always bad when they leave me out of the conversation.
Mam is as still as a statue. The only thing moving are her eyes as she blinks.
‘Home to Cork, Mam. I know it’s been weird for you staying with Dad…’
Tears start streaming down Mam’s cheeks. ‘There’re trials, Kayla. We can try trials.’
‘Trials?’
‘Yes. It’s complicated.’ Mam sweeps the tips of her fingers under her eyes. ‘It’s new stuff; cutting edge. Not every patient is even eligible, Kayla.’
I didn’t realise I was crying but tears are running down my cheeks now too. ‘Mam, I don’t understand. I thought you meant I was done with chemo because it had worked. I want to go home.’
‘Sweetheart, we have to keep trying. These clinical trials—’
‘I don’t want to be part of some experiment,’ I say, frustrated.
‘They’re not experiments, they’re scientific advances. I’m meeting Doctor Patterson today.’ Mam looks at her watch. ‘In an hour. And I’m going to ask him all about it. I’ll know more then and we can talk about it, okay?’
‘Whatever.’ I flop my head back, way too exhausted to think about any of this anymore.
‘Kayla. You will get better. Okay?’ Mam says.
‘I know,’ I say, and I wonder if I suck at lying as much as Mam does. If I was going to get better, we’d be packing our cases now that chemo is over. Not talking about other options that mean more needles, more blood transfusions, more operations, more hell. And it might not even work. Suddenly, I realise that Fortnite isn’t the only battle I’m not winning.
Thirty-Eight
Heather
‘Shh, she’s asleep,’ I say, as Gavin comes into Kayla’s room.
Gavin looks as bad as I feel. ‘How is she?’ he asks.
‘Better than last night but still not great.’
Gavin shakes his head as he watches our sleeping daughter.
‘Did you talk to Charlotte?’ I ask.
Gavin doesn’t answer as he continues to watch Kayla. He’s jumpy and agitated and I know the answer, but I ask again anyway.
‘Gavin? Please tell me you at least tried to bring it up with her?’
‘She brought it up with me, actually.’ Gavin sounds annoyed and I’m not sure if his frustrations are directed towards me or at Charlotte.
‘Really?’
‘Yeah.’ Gavin shoves his hands into his pockets and shuffles on the spot. ‘She found a letter. One explaining all the donor stuff.’
‘Oh.’ I’m almost certain I put that letter away in my room. Maybe it fell out of my bag in the kitchen or something. I need to be more careful. It must be the tiredness.
‘She’s not happy,’ Gavin says.
‘About the letter?’
Gavin shuffles, awkwardly. ‘About us not telling her. Not telling her sooner that stem-cell donation might be an option.’
I shake my head. ‘Yeah, okay. Fair enough. But we didn’t even know until last night whether any of this was going to be necessary.’
‘I thought I was doing the right thing,’ Gavin says, dragging his hands around his f
ace. ‘I didn’t want to stress her out unnecessarily over something that might never even happen.’
‘Well, now that it is happening what has she said?’
‘We didn’t actually talk about it,’ Gavin says. ‘Not properly.’
‘What?’ My hands slam onto my hips. ‘Why not?’
‘Because, Heather, it’s not that simple. This is a messed-up situation. And Charlotte is scared. And now that she thinks I’ve been hiding stuff from her she’s completely freaked out and doesn’t trust me. And she definitely doesn’t trust you.’
‘So, you had a fight?’ I say, worried that Gavin is putting a silly row with his wife over something as important as Kayla’s treatment. It’s almost as if he doesn’t know how serious this is. Or as if he doesn’t want to know.
‘Eh, it’s a bit more than a fight, Heather,’ Gavin snaps. ‘It’s not as if she’s annoyed with me for leaving the toilet seat up, you know.’
‘You’re acting like a child,’ I say, pretty annoyed by Gavin’s snarky attitude.
‘Heather, I will talk to my wife. But you need to calm down and stop pushing so hard. The time has to be right.’
‘Jesus. Gavin, how can you be so calm? Will Charlotte sign the consent form or not? I can bring the forms home with me. She doesn’t even have to come into the hospital if she doesn’t want to. But we need her consent.’
Gavin looks at me with teary eyes and it’s the first time I notice how bloodshot they are. I wonder if he got any sleep at all last night.
‘Call her,’ I say, softening. ‘Ask her now. Or, I can ask her if you want to avoid another row.’
‘No. Jesus no. Are you mad?’ Gavin says, and I immediately shift my glance towards Kayla, worried that he’ll wake her. ‘Charlotte would lose her mind all together if you jump in.’
‘But I can explain.’
‘Heather, no.’ Gavin’s eyes widen and round like saucers. ‘It’s not your place. Molly is Charlotte’s daughter. Mine and Charlotte’s. This really is nothing to do with you.’
‘Nothing to do with me? Are you for real?’ I hiss. ‘Look at her, Gavin. Just look at her.’
Gavin’s eyes swell with tears as they sweep over our sleeping daughter tucked into her hospital bed.
‘Tell me again how this has nothing to do with me.’
‘This is so hard.’ Gavin sighs. ‘It’s too hard.’
‘Gavin, sit down,’ I say, pointing to the chair beside me, noticing how pale he’s suddenly become. I’m worried that he’s going to keel over.
‘I know it’s hard,’ I say, but I’m lying. I can’t understand why Gavin is so reluctant to talk to Charlotte about this. I can’t understand how he’s not ecstatic that Kayla and Molly are a match. Molly’s stem cells could save Kayla’s life. It’s fantastic news.
‘I have to go into work for a few hours today,’ Gavin says, dragging shaking hands through his hair.
‘What? Now? But you only just got here.’ My eyes narrow, suspecting this is an excuse to put off going home and talking to Charlotte.
‘The place is falling to pieces without me. We’ve lost two big clients already this month. I need to be more present.’ Gavin pauses and drops his head into his hands. ‘But I need to be here too.’
‘I know,’ I say, and this time I really do understand. My life before Kayla’s diagnosis seems like a lifetime ago already. I exist now only as a mother of a sick child. I’m not a person in my own right anymore, I don’t have the time or inclination to be.
It’s taken me quite a while to realise that I’m lonely. Kayla is spending more and more time sleeping and I miss our chats and Friends binges. When I’m at Gavin’s place I usually hang out in my room, trying to give Charlotte her space and not invade her privacy. My friends at work who were so supportive when Kayla was first diagnosed only call or text now when they realise they haven’t in quite a while and their moral compass compels them to check in. One of the girls told me last week that someone new has been hired to fill my role and our boss loves her, so goodness knows if my job is even there to go back to when the time comes.
It’s a similar story with Kayla’s school. The teachers called and offered support initially. They even held a fundraiser and donated the funds to the National Cancer Organisation in Kayla’s name. But as days and weeks drag on, life continues for everyone else as normal while we’re stuck in this never-ending loop of treatment and surgeries and ups and downs. And despite my best intentions, I can feel myself growing bitter and jealous.
I’m jealous for Kayla. Jealous of her teammates continuing to play basketball without her. Jealous when Kayla shows me photos on Instagram of her friends out shopping or going to the cinema or simply being normal, healthy teenagers.
I’m jealous for me. Jealous of the girls in work chatting and gossiping over morning coffee. I’m jealous of their friendship with my replacement. I’m jealous of their financial stability, bonuses and day-to-day routine.
But mostly I’m jealous of Gavin. I’m jealous that although he’s here as much as he can be, he goes home to a healthy, happy child. A child he can hug without worrying he will hurt her delicate bones. A child he can watch eat a meal without fear that everything is going to come back up. A child he can play with, run with, skip with. And mostly, a child he can watch grow, become a woman, maybe get married and have children of her own. In recent days, as I watch Kayla lose even more weight, I worry that all of those things will be snatched from her. From me.
‘Will you tell here I was here?’ Gavin asks, cutting into my burning thoughts.
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘I’m not expecting her to wake for a while. They’ve given her some pretty strong meds.’
‘Okay, well, I’ll only be a couple of hours and—’
‘And then you’ll talk to Charlotte,’ I cut across him, seizing the opportunity to try again.
‘You know I want Kayla to get better more than anything in the world,’ Gavin says.
‘Prove it,’ I say, resenting him for feeling the need to tell me that. Of course, I know how much he wants our daughter to be well again.
‘Molly is four, Heather. She is four years old,’ Gavin says.
‘I do know how old your little girl is, Gavin.’
Gavin takes a deep breath and stands up. He lifts his hand out of his pocket to place it on my shoulder. ‘You’re an amazing mother, Heather. You always have been. I know you would do anything for Kayla. Anything at all to help her.’
I nod, a little thrown by his sudden change of direction and calmness.
‘Well, Charlotte is an amazing mother, too. She adores our little girl and she will stop at nothing to protect her. Do you understand?’
I nod again, and I can’t find words. Fear settles into the pit of my stomach as I begin to worry that Gavin is trying to tell me that he won’t talk to Charlotte about this, or worse still that if he does she’ll say no.
‘This is hard for her, Heather. Charlotte loves Kayla. She loves her as if she were her own. But the honest truth is that she’s not and Molly is.’
‘So, what are you saying?’
‘I’m saying, give me some time. Let me talk to her when she’s calmer. Less upset. Less afraid for Molly and how traumatic all this could be for her.’
‘But we don’t have time,’ I say, tears gathering in the corners of my eyes. ‘They want to stop the chemo, Gavin.’
‘They what?’ Gavin’s voice is suddenly too loud for the confined space. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Shh,’ I say, pressing my finger against my lip, worried Gavin will wake Kayla. ‘I’m telling you now.’
Gavin looks at our sleeping daughter and shakes his head. ‘You know what? It doesn’t matter. They can’t stop chemo. We’ll tell them they can’t do that. It’s madness.’
‘Gavin, her kidneys are failing.’ The look of disbelief on Gavin’s face cuts through me. ‘And… And…’ I pause and try to catch my breath, as if just trying to say the next words out loud is choking me. ‘A
nd they’ve found another growth.’
Gavin sniffles and drags his arm across his teary eyes. ‘Where?’
‘Her pelvis. It’s only small, but it’s new and…’
Gavin makes a sound like an animal caught in a trap. I know this sound. I make it too. Sometimes just inside my own head when I can’t bear to watch Kayla go through any more. But I push the noise deep down and don’t let it out because Kayla is leaning on me and I have to be strong.
‘Is it… is it spreading? Gavin asks.
I don’t reply. I can’t form words.
‘Does Kayla know?’ he asks.
I shake my head.
‘Good. Good. We don’t want to scare her.’ Gavin picks up his coat off the chair and slides in his shaking arms.
‘You’re going?’ I say.
‘I have to.’
‘Right. Yeah. Work,’ I say, unable to believe work is even coming into his head right now.
‘I’m going home,’ Gavin says. ‘To talk to Charlotte.’
Thirty-Nine
Heather
The door to Jack’s office is slightly ajar and I can see him through the gap, sitting at his desk writing. He looks stressed out. I can only imagine how difficult his job must be. I don’t think I could ever work here. I take a deep breath, raise my hand and knock three times.
‘C’mon in,’ he says, casually.
I push the door back and step inside, unsure whether to close it or not behind me. Maybe he likes it left a fraction open for some fresh air. I think I’d like it to be. I decide to leave it open.
‘Hi, Heather,’ he says, dropping his pen on his desk and standing up.
He’s not wearing his usual white coat over scrubs and he has a tie around his neck today instead of a stethoscope. His tailored navy suit is a stark contrast to the running gear he wore last night. He’s dapper.
‘Have a seat,’ he suggests, pointing to two large leather chairs waiting at the far side of his desk.
I nod and sit into the nearest one as he walks out from behind his desk to close the door.
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