Angels in Our Hearts

by Rosie Lewis

  It wasn’t for me to ask questions in this situation, so I didn’t, but that didn’t stop me understanding both the subtext and the nurse’s expression – both of which seemed to indicate that Mrs Conley had been moved so that the other patients on the ward could get some sleep.

  Again, I filed it away, and when I entered the room I was heartened to see that she was looking brighter and a good deal less pale. And this time, as per my promise, I didn’t linger. If it felt intrusive to be close by in the bay on the main ward, it felt doubly so in the cramped side room she now occupied. Plus there was only one chair, which was right by the bed, so, after saying hello and pulling a book of Sudoku puzzles from my handbag, I explained that I’d go down and sit in the hospital café, and return to collect Adam in an hour.

  Though once I got to the café, which was chock full of people, I abandoned the puzzle book within a matter of minutes, not least due to my inability to complete one. Instead I called Mike, who’d just returned to the lodge they were staying in. He was full – as people on adventurous holidays usually are – of the snow and the sun and the fun of it all, and made solicitous enquiries about whether I was bored to tears.

  ‘How’s the little lad doing?’ he asked. ‘Not too upset to be stuck with you for longer?’

  I’d texted him this news earlier in the day. ‘On the contrary,’ I told him, ‘though he’s obviously missing his mum. I’m at the hospital now, as it happens, killing time while he visits her. Then it’s home for tea and no doubt another game of chess. But what about you? What about Tyler? I’ve texted him twice today and heard nothing.’

  ‘I’m not surprised, Case, he’s loving it. Absolutely adores it. And he’s so good. It’s like he was born to ski, it really is.’

  ‘Steady on. Last time I looked he didn’t have a mouthful of silver spoons, love.’

  ‘No, but seriously. I’ve been thinking. We could do this if we saved up. You know – next winter. Make it our next big holiday. Because I’m loving it too. And …’

  And on he went, and I think I made all the correct responses, though, in truth, I shuddered at the thought. My choice of holiday attire tended towards bikinis, sarongs and flip flops – not enormous fleecy snow suits and giant boots.

  Still, we’d see, and after speaking to Tyler I decided not to rule it out. He really was so full of it, and why wouldn’t he be? He was a sporty teenage boy. And more importantly, I knew his younger brother – still with their biological father – got treated to all kinds of exotic holidays.

  So, well, maybe. For Tyler. Somewhere sunny and not too cold. It was only when I put the phone down that it struck me that the pair of them were in cahoots, which at least put a smile on my face as I hurried back to collect Adam.

  He already had his coat on when I arrived and seemed in much better spirits, and his mum looked in good spirits too. And though I still wondered if I shouldn’t send him out on some spurious errand so I could ask his mum about his friend Harry, I opted not to. Their arrangements re teatimes were none of my business – I could almost hear Mike saying exactly that in my ear. So instead I led him out, with a promise that we’d return the following teatime, and resolved that we’d say no more about it.

  And it seemed as though Adam had very little to say himself. Once again he seemed preoccupied and barely spoke on the journey home. And then, even more curiously, he said he didn’t want anything to eat – the first time he’d refused food since he’d come to me.

  ‘Are you sure?’ I said. We’d only had a snack before going to the hospital, after all. ‘Or did you have something to eat with your mum?’

  It seemed unlikely. Hospitals didn’t generally extend to feeding visitors, and I doubted his mum, with no other visitors, would have any contraband.

  He shook his head. ‘I just don’t feel like anything, that’s all.’

  I felt his forehead, automatically. ‘How are you feeling in yourself?’ I said. ‘Does your tummy hurt?’

  This time he shook his head emphatically. ‘I’m just tired,’ he said. ‘Is it all right if I go to bed?’

  ‘What, at this time?’ I asked him. It wasn’t even seven. Then, ‘Of course. If you want to. If you’re not feeling yourself. Shall I come up and tuck you in?’ No, he didn’t want me to do that. ‘Then I’ll pop up in a bit and see how you’re doing. How about that? If you’re feeling better, I can easily make you something then.’

  This seemed to satisfy him, and he headed off upstairs, leaving me with little to do bar prepare my own tea and, while doing so, to reflect that he’d had a stressful few days. And that even if stress wasn’t making him feel poorly, it was possible that he’d picked up a tummy bug in school. Happily, however, when I checked on him before eating, he was tucked up in bed, sound asleep.

  Left to my own devices at an unexpectedly early hour, I decided that, after writing up my daily report, I would spend the evening in my pyjamas, watching the soaps and then perhaps a movie. It was only rarely that I did this, mainly because Mike and Tyler liked their own programmes – which I didn’t mind, because I was usually one for pottering in the evenings: sorting uniforms and work clothes, making up lunches for the following day and generally not sitting down for very long. But tonight, for a change, I decided I would be a couch potato and, since there was nothing on, film-wise, that I fancied staying up for, I decided I would treat myself to an episode of CSI.

  I’d just pressed ‘play’ when I heard footsteps on the landing. At first I didn’t jump up because there seemed to be no need to. Simply Adam, having woken up and headed for the loo. Still, I listened, because he might well be on his way downstairs, and when that didn’t happen, and no flush happened either, I pressed ‘pause’ and headed upstairs to see if he was okay. And halfway up the stairs I realised he was being sick.

  Bless him. No wonder he’d been so pale and tired-looking, brewing one of those bugs primary schools tend to incubate, and which go round the pupils like wildfire. I reached the top of the stairs and knocked on the bathroom door. ‘Sweetheart?’ I called, over a second bout of retching. ‘You okay? Can I come in?’

  I turned the handle anyway. But it was locked, leaving me unable to do much, though moments later I heard the toilet flush and the bolt being slid back, then Adam appeared, holding his glasses in one hand and a tissue to his mouth. ‘Oh, bless you,’ I said. ‘No wonder you didn’t want anything to eat. How are you feeling now? Any better for getting it all out?’

  Adam wiped his mouth with the tissue, and a bunch of clammy hair from his forehead. ‘I’m okay now,’ he said. ‘I just felt really, really funny. But I’m okay now I’ve been sick.’

  ‘I’m sure you are,’ I reassured him, though privately I doubted it. Stomach bugs were notorious for lulling you into a false sense of security then sneaking up on you a second time. Which was why I didn’t offer him anything to eat. ‘Well, you hop back into bed,’ I told him, ‘and I’ll go down and fetch you a glass of water. Though only sips, okay? Give your tummy a chance to settle.’

  But when I returned with it, the instruction had been pointless anyway, because Adam was once again fast asleep.

  And he remained so for the rest of the evening. Despite my near certainty that there would be another bout of vomiting before he was clear of it, the bug, if bug it was, didn’t trouble him again.

  Which allowed a new thought to worm its way into my brain. Perhaps it hadn’t been a bug. Perhaps it had just been anxiety. After all, I hadn’t actually seen any sick, had I? Perhaps he was just suffering extreme nausea due to separation anxiety – perhaps being away from his mum was affecting him in unexpected ways. Perhaps there was something in the business of his reported ‘weak stomach’. Perhaps, after all, I had been barking up the wrong tree, and his not being allowed to go to tea with school friends was all wrapped up in some ongoing mental health issues – which might or might not be related to the somewhat stiflingly close (to my mind, at any rate) relationship he had with his mother. It wasn’t unheard of, after all
.

  Which round of thinking, mostly conducted as I lay awake in the small hours listening for sounds from across the landing, only served to remind me that, when it came to hearts and minds, nothing was simple. Almost every situation was complex and multi-factorial, and though I was in no way qualified to make any kinds of assumptions, I should at least note my thoughts down for John. After all, in the absence of background problems or otherwise, perhaps this little family would benefit from some input from social services, after all.

  Chapter 5

  Tuesday

  Adam was up and about before I was the following morning – perhaps unsurprisingly, since he’d slept for so long. And was apparently fine, batting away my concerns about his sickness and assuring me that what he mostly was was starving.

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ I said, feeling reassured by both his colour and his demeanour that it was safe enough to take him to school. ‘Though let’s go easy, eh?’ I added, watching him wolf down his breakfast. ‘Don’t want you getting sick all over again, do we?’

  ‘I’m fine, honest, Casey,’ he told me between mouthfuls. ‘It’s probably just my weak stomach. I’ve been to the doctor’s lots about it. Didn’t they tell you?’

  By ‘they’ I presumed he meant either his teachers or social services. And, given I wasn’t fully convinced he’d been physically sick just now, it prompted me to ask him a question.

  ‘Are you often sick, then, love? You know, randomly, like last night?’

  He shook his head. ‘I have been. Not lots, but sometimes. Mum’s had me up the doctor’s, like I said, but they don’t know what’s wrong with me. That’s why I have to be careful what I eat.’

  Curiouser and curiouser. On the one hand he’s sick with some mystery stomach ailment, I thought, and on the other he’s chowing down Coco Pops. Careful what he ate?

  I had a feeling I could strap a feed bag to his head and fill it with anything, and this lad would eat it.

  It made no sense. Nothing about Adam seemed to make sense. ‘Come on, then,’ I said. ‘Breakfast time over. Run up and clean your teeth, and then let’s hit the road.’

  Adam was chatty all the way to school, full of the highs and lows of the day ahead. It was Tuesday, which was good because it meant they had an art session, but on the downside they also had a test for their exams. Best of all, though, was apparently what I’d packed into his lunchbox, which – he’d already hauled it out of his bag and checked – was a four-finger Kit Kat, as a treat. ‘That’s, like, mental!’ he’d enthused, which, as I waved him off, struck me as one of the most normal ‘boy’ things he’d yet come out with. What a strange, isolated life he clearly lived that a chocolate bar could create so much buzz.

  As had I, it seemed – a new face at the school gates invariably did – because just as I turned to walk back to my car I saw Harry’s mum, Verity, waving at me. She came over, her two-year-old grizzling and wriggling on her hip. It was a little girl, and she reminded me of my granddaughter Marley Mae. Put her down and she’d be off like a shot.

  ‘Any luck?’ Verity wanted to know.

  I shook my head. ‘No, sorry.’

  ‘Such a shame,’ she said. Then, without preamble, ‘What’s wrong with her?’

  I could have answered that, readily – with questions rather than answers, though it was definitely not my place to pass comment. But it seemed I wasn’t going to need to, in any case.

  ‘I honestly don’t know,’ I said. ‘I’ve only met her – Adam’s mother – twice. And to be frank, I didn’t ask her. Adam asked me not to.’

  Verity rolled her eyes. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘People, eh?’

  I wasn’t sure how to respond to that. But, again, there was no pregnant pause in our conversation, as Verity went on to tell me that Harry was relatively new to the school – they’d only moved to the area the previous autumn. And it seemed she was thrilled by the friendship he and Adam had struck up, because, to use her words, the two of them were ‘two peas in the pod’, both slight misfits, untroubled by the joys of popularity, and how sad she was that Adam’s mum seemed so reluctant to let her child go round to play.

  I sympathised, thinking of Kieron, as I naturally would, remembering how much he’d struggled at primary school. It must be tough for poor Harry, having a whole new world to navigate – tough for his mum too, I didn’t doubt.

  ‘Have you met her yourself?’ I asked her.

  ‘Barely,’ she said. ‘She’s not what you’d call sociable –’ She gestured around us, where wisps of chit-chat floated on the air above various pockets of mums and other carers. The school gates were one of the most social places I knew. ‘She never speaks to anyone – just grabs Adam and hurries off. That’s when he’s in school, of course. She has him off almost as much as she sends him in.’

  ‘So he does get ill then?’ I couldn’t help but ask, thinking of his episode the previous evening. That and the confounding business of him eating like a particularly hungry horse.

  Verity leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘According to some of the other mums, he isn’t ill at all. Some say that it’s been that long since she had a man in her life that she just keeps the poor lad home for a bit of company.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘All a bit Norman Bates, if you ask me.’

  I shuddered at that thought, but at the same time I couldn’t help but laugh. ‘Oh dear,’ I said. ‘The gossip train is on form, then!’

  Verity shifted her disconsolate daughter on her hip and sighed a world-weary sigh. ‘And hurrah for that,’ she said, with feeling. ‘Only fun I ever get.’

  Once I’d climbed back into my car I noticed Verity had joined another group of mothers – no doubt to fill them in on who I was, now, as well. Still, that was fine – in return, she’d given me plenty of food for thought. In fact, if the gossip was only half true, it painted quite a sad picture of Adam’s life. If he did get genuinely ill, or had a ‘sensitive’ tummy, then it couldn’t be much fun for him or his mum to have such assumptions made. And if it was true – that she was keeping him off school for her own, selfish, purposes, then that was just as bad, if not worse. Either way, the seeds of doubt I’d sown now appeared to be sprouting. I couldn’t imagine that he was living a normal childhood.

  After going for lunch to my sister Donna’s café, and having a catch-up – and yes, a gossip – I spent the rest of the time left before going to collect Adam in doing the laundry and changing various sheets. And I wondered how it must be to be Adam’s mother – how I’d feel if I was plopped into a life a bit like hers. Yes, she went out to work, apparently – a care home, John had said, hadn’t he? But how must it feel to be in a family of just two? Just him and her. No one else, either to call on, or to help out. I found it hard to imagine, because I’d barely managed half a week and the walls of the house were closing in on me.

  So it was in a thoughtful mood that I collected Adam and took him to the hospital, this time via tea at a burger joint en route, which excited him greatly – junk food, yes, but I felt a powerful need to treat him. Then, having left him with his mum, who said she was feeling much better, I went down to the hospital café to call Mike.

  But no luck. Mike’s phone just kept going straight to voicemail. So, having left a message, I settled instead for a coffee and a jam doughnut and a leaf through a women’s magazine, till it was time to collect Adam and take him home again.

  It was 3.30 a.m. when I heard Adam being sick again. I knew because the alarm clock was the first thing I saw when the sound of retching jolted me awake. It had been an uneventful evening, Adam once again seeming subdued when I took him home, and keen to do his homework – just some reading – and head straight to bed.

  I’d slept fitfully again myself, my mind too full of questions, and Verity’s words still very much to the fore. I’d written up my report and sent it, but I’d stopped short of sharing the bulk of my thoughts with John, unsubstantiated as my worries all were. I was also miffed – not to say anxious – that I hadn’t h
eard from Mike yet. It wasn’t like the Alps were on the moon, after all. And though I had an emergency number on the sheet from school, I was reluctant to try it – had something happened I knew they would call and tell me.

  I pushed back the covers, grabbed my dressing gown and hurried to the bathroom, the door of which this time was at least still ajar. ‘Are you all right, love?’ I asked Adam, hurrying to kneel down and comfort him as, on his knees, he was hugging the toilet, his glasses abandoned on the bathroom floor.

  He raised a hand, as if to stop me from getting too close, and I settled on sitting on the side of the bath instead, while he heaved and retched into the toilet bowl. It must be a bug, surely, or – and I felt a pang of guilt – maybe he really couldn’t stomach the rich food he’d eaten. He finally finished, breathing heavily as he reached for the loo roll, and I wondered if I should perhaps call out the doctor.

  But when I voiced my concern he was adamant he would be fine – which, again, was something quite outside my experience. No child of his age that I’d ever previously come across took the business of being sick with such apparent unconcern.

  Still, he was happy enough to be led back to his bedroom and submitted readily enough to my taking his temperature, which was normal. Once again I tried to get my head round the idea that he really was just a sickly little boy. But sick with what? Nothing quite seemed to fit. Adam really was a puzzle – he looked weak and unhealthy, yet he ate really well and had plenty of energy. So what was going on? I really couldn’t fathom it.

  I stayed with him till he fell asleep again, and again I couldn’t settle. Just what was wrong with this boy?

  Chapter 6

  Wednesday

  I had already decided it would be best to keep Adam off school for the day, so I didn’t wake him up in the morning and crept around the house quietly so as not to disturb him. I was therefore surprised when he bounded into the kitchen, at 7.30 a.m., all smiles and already in his school uniform.