Seven Days of Us

by Francesca Hornak

  Andrew just nodded slightly, as they whipped round the roads to London.

  Jesse

  ROYAL AIR FORCE LAKENHEATH, NORFOLK, 12:13 P.M.

  • • •

  Ordinarily, Jesse would have been psyched to see inside a military plane. But this, he thought as they took off, was a long way from Top Gun. It was eerie to be the only passenger. If he’d known he’d wind up here, in a medevac bubble, he wondered if he’d have e-mailed Andrew at all. You still would have, he thought. You’d still have wanted to know him—to know them. He stared out the window at the British countryside below. The quilt of little green rectangles, stitched with hedges, looked so tame. He wished he could stay suspended up here forever, never to face everything on the ground. He willed Olivia to be OK. The last time he’d seen her, before she was wheeled into her plane, she’d been wrapped in a silver blanket, her face a dead grayish color. A doctor had been trying to give her a glucose drink. He was dressed in a full hazard suit, like everyone they’d encountered since leaving the ambulance. It was like they’d been thrown into a CSI episode—he and Olivia the victims. His ring finger found the cut on his palm. How could something so tiny, so insignificant, be so huge? Would everything be different if he hadn’t grabbed the fence at that exact place? The possibility that he really might have contracted Haag fluttered inside him. You had to do what you did, he told himself. You had no choice. You can handle this. Besides, if you’ve caught it, you won’t even know yet, so there’s no point worrying. He tried to practice his relaxation techniques, consciously softening his forehead, unclenching his jaw and hands. But a cold, creeping fear was fast replacing the adrenaline from before. He wanted to wash his hands—to bleach his hands. He realized his nail was in danger of gouging the cut deeper, making things even worse. Was the nausea welling up inside him nerves, or the start of something?

  Andrew

  THE KITCHEN, 34 GLOUCESTER TERRACE, CAMDEN, 2:00 P.M.

  • • •

  It had been impossible to talk to Emma when they’d got back to Gloucester Terrace. Phoebe had sat with them in the kitchen for ages, as if she was afraid to be alone, periodically announcing how worried she was. Eventually she’d gone up to her room, leaving Andrew and Emma alone. Last night felt like a dream. He knew he ought to acknowledge the things that she’d said—or at least grovel for hiding the letter. But the image of Olivia being wheeled out of Weyfield on a stretcher, and Emma’s face as she watched, was all his mind could contain. “I’m sorry about before. What I said yesterday,” said Emma, as if she was thinking the same.

  Her hair still looked slept on, and she reached up to pat it with one hand. It was a gesture she’d always had, inherited by Phoebe. They both looked straight ahead, through the window to the modest paved garden—so unlike Weyfield’s sprawling lawns.

  He offered her his whiskey—she took a sip and handed it back. Something in the gesture felt more intimate than they had been in years.

  “You had every right to be angry,” he said. “I wish I’d just shown you that bloody letter when it arrived. Or told you about that night, what happened, at the time. If I’d known then how much trouble it would have saved, but I just, I didn’t want to ruin—”

  “Don’t,” she said. “It doesn’t matter anymore. It was all so long ago.”

  “But you do believe me that it was a one-off, don’t you? That there was never anyone, anything like that afterward? It was just a freak, stupid, stupid mistake.”

  “I believe you. I know you, Andrew. Besides, if Jesse hadn’t been there today, I don’t know what . . . I can’t imagine . . .” He put an arm around her shoulders and she let him pull her toward him.

  “The thing is, I realized that I’ve kept secrets from you myself,” she said. “And once we got like that, it felt easier to carry on that way. But I shouldn’t have.”

  He wanted to ask if she’d really meant what she’d said about how he treated Olivia, but he was afraid of digging up the fight again.

  “I should have been more open with you about still wanting to work, after the girls were born,” she carried on. “I know you haven’t been happy at The World for years. And I should have said something, because you just soldier on, and it’s no good. For any of us.”

  “It’s not your job to tell me. And besides, those aren’t secrets. That’s hindsight.”

  “Maybe. But I definitely should have told you when I found the lump. It was weeks ago. It was just easier not to, to spare everyone, until I had to. It would’ve made it real, when I could barely think about it myself. But it’s still no excuse. And it’s not so different from the things you kept from me. It’s all talking, or not talking. ‘Communication.’” She overpronounced the word to acknowledge that it was the kind of therapy-speak he loathed. How well she knew him.

  “I thought about what you said, about Olivia,” he said. “It’s not that I favored Phoebe.” He dropped his voice. “At least, I hope not. It was a difficult time for me, when Olivia was born, reconciling myself to responsibilities here—knowing I ought to leave Lebanon, but not wanting to stop. I was wrong to keep that from you, too.”

  “I still knew.”

  “I know. I know you did. It’s just that, when I came home, I already seemed to have missed the boat with Olivia. And then it was so easy with Phoebe. We always laughed at the same things. But Wiv never seemed to need me—even to, to like me all that much.” His voice shrank at the thought of Olivia in hospital, and the possibility that he might never be able to make it right.

  “Andrew, don’t!” said Emma. She reached up, her arms circling his neck, and kissed him on the lips, as she hadn’t for years. He pulled her closer against him. The reality of her diagnosis, of her death, reared up in his mind with a terrifying force.

  “I’m sorry,” she said into his neck. “I should never have said those things about you and Olivia. I was just angry. They aren’t even true. It’s different with every child, every parent.”

  He composed himself just in time to hear Phoebe coming downstairs.

  “Have you heard anything?” she yelled.

  Her singsong brought Andrew back to normality.

  “Nothing yet,” he shouted back, relieved to hear his voice back on a baritone keel.

  “We’ll call you the second we do, angel,” added Emma. They were still wrapped in each other’s arms, the phone balanced on the windowsill beside them.

  Jesse

  THE ROYAL FREE HOSPITAL, HAMPSTEAD, 5:10 P.M.

  • • •

  Jesse caught a second of an old brring brrring ringtone before Emma’s breathless, “Hello?”

  “Emma, it’s me, Jesse. It’s OK,” he said.

  “Oh, thank God. So it’s not Haag?” He could feel her relief down the line.

  “Nope. She doesn’t have Haag. So I’m all good, too. It’s over one week since she left Liberia, so there’s zero risk now. We were put in isolation separately, so I had, like, hours alone where I heard literally nothing. And then this nurse comes in and tells me Olivia just tested negative. Man, I was so happy! I was seriously beginning to freak out in this little tent—”

  “So is she all right?” Emma interrupted. “What was it? Just a nasty tummy bug?”

  “Not exactly. Why don’t you speak to her—she’s right here. I’m going to put you on loudspeaker. She has an IV in her hand.”

  He put the phone on the bedside table near Olivia’s face. Her skin was still waxy, but she was smiling.

  “Mum?” she said.

  “Wivvy! Darling!” came Emma’s voice, muffled. “How are you? What was it?”

  “Well, actually I’m, um, I’m pregnant, Mum,” said Olivia. She looked at Jesse, her smile getting wider.

  “Pregnant?”

  “Yup. Seven weeks. But I honestly had no idea. I’d been feeling sick, but I thought—I mean I didn’t even think of that. I thought I hadn�
��t got my period because I’d lost weight. It’s happened like that before, and it always comes back when I put the weight back—”

  “And it’s, it’s Sean’s presumably?” Emma butted in.

  “Of course!” Olivia said, almost laughing. “I’m not that stupid! Jesse said you knew about us. Me and Sean. I know it was a bit . . .”

  “Oh, sweetheart. Yes, we did know, we did. But all’s well that ends well. What happy news.”

  She was being very cool about it, thought Jesse, considering all they really knew of Sean was that he’d gotten Haag. But Olivia had told him a bunch of stuff about Sean that afternoon, and he sounded incredible.

  “And the baby, will it be OK after this morning?” said Emma.

  “Yeah, they did an ultrasound in prenatal, and it all looks fine. But it’s still early.” Olivia stopped for a second and then said, “They found a heartbeat,” and her face crumpled into a half-laughing, half-crying grimace, as she tried to say, “Sorry, I think it’s the hormones.”

  So that’s what she looks like when she feels something, thought Jesse.

  Phoebe

  THE KITCHEN, 34 GLOUCESTER TERRACE, CAMDEN, 5:15 P.M.

  • • •

  Olivia was passed around them all. Her mother kept saying, “Oh, Wiv!” before passing the phone to her father, who just said, “Congratulations, old girl,” in his funny, stiff way, and then turned round, away from Phoebe and Emma, to face the window. Phoebe spoke to Olivia last, taking the phone out of the kitchen so their parents couldn’t hear.

  “Thanks for stealing my jilted-at-the-altar thunder,” she said, knowing her sister wouldn’t be into squeals.

  “Yeah, sorry about that,” said Olivia. “Fainting seemed to be the only option, with all your drama.” She sounded different—her voice was weak, but it had a new brightness.

  “God, Liv, it was so stressful! How do you work in a hospital every day? You were like the one person who’d know what to do, and you were lying there being no bloody use!”

  “Well, Jesse was there. Seems like he handled it pretty well.”

  “True, take bac—” she said, before remembering she was on speaker and chirping: “Shout out to Jesse!” instead. Cringe. “So anyway, you’re pregnant!” she plowed on.

  “Yup. I’m that idiot you read about that has no idea.”

  “And you’re a doctor! Did you genuinely not realize? Just ’cause you’re such a skinny bitch?”

  “I’m always irregular. And we used protection—obviously. If you must know.”

  “Nothing’s one hundred percent! Didn’t you read Sugar and Bliss? To be sussed is a must but sex is, um . . .” She couldn’t remember the rest.

  “No! I had better things to do. Anyway, it’s still early days. I’m just ‘a little bit pregnant,’ for now—OK?”

  “Sure. Am I allowed to be ‘a little bit excited’ then?”

  “OK.”

  • • •

  Olivia was to stay in overnight for observation, but Emma insisted Jesse stay at Gloucester Terrace until his flight on New Year’s Day. Yesterday, Phoebe would have been furious. But now it seemed natural—like it would be wrong for him to go anywhere else. Walking back from the corner shop, where she’d been sent for milk and eggs, she broke into a lollopy skip on her good foot. She bounced down the pavements, joyously hard after Weyfield’s muddy paths, buoyed at the sight of so many lighted windows, so many parked cars, so many people packed into one space. The wreath she’d hung on their door in early December had withered, and she yanked it off. Inside, she breathed the smell of the house, always more noticeable after a week away. It was like number 34’s own essence, its paint or its radiators or something, with a hint of Emma’s Chanel and Cocoa’s litter tray.

  I’m going to be an aunt, she thought, hanging her coat on the Eames hooks. She could already see herself as Glamorous Auntie Phoebe, a kind of gift-strewing fairy godmother. She’d always assumed she’d be the first to have babies, while Olivia traveled the world. But this way round felt right, after all.

  The doorbell rang right behind her—it was a rumpled-looking Jesse.

  “The hero of the hour!” said Andrew.

  “Where’s the taxi? Did you have enough cash?” said Emma.

  “I took the Tube,” he said, pronouncing it “toob.” “I wanted to see the real London. And I got dinner. I figured you’d be craving Japanese after Norfolk. Don’t worry, it’s not all vegan,” he said, holding up an Itsu bag, as if he’d read Phoebe’s mind. She hadn’t really felt like the omelet her mother had suggested.

  • • •

  “Well, this calls for champagne,” said Andrew, once they were all down in the kitchen. He opened the empty fridge, where a bottle of Veuve Clicquot lay on its side.

  “To Olivia’s happy news,” he said, filling four flutes. “And to you, Jesse!” They all raised their glasses, and Jesse moved forward to clink, and Emma looked rather startled, and then clinked so enthusiastically she spilled her champagne.

  The four of them had a little celebratory picnic, sitting on stools around the island, using the disposable chopsticks and plastic spoons in the bags. There was silent, contented munching and slurping for a while.

  “Mmm, this is yummy. Thanks, Jesse,” said Phoebe. She wanted to offer some kind of olive branch, but the thought of actually mentioning the argument yesterday felt too weird. He looked up at her, noodles trailing out of his mouth, which he swiftly sucked in, splattering soy sauce on his white T-shirt. She preferred the soy sauce–splattering Jesse to Uniqlo campaign Jesse, she thought.

  “That’s OK. Just wanted to give your mom a break,” he said.

  It took a second to see what he meant. Perhaps she’d been a bit too efficient at blocking out cancer thoughts. Or perhaps she’d just been lazy, letting her mum do everything out of habit.

  “Yeah, I’ll clear this up, Mummy,” she said. “You should relax.”

  “Thanks, sweetie pie,” said her mother. “That would be great. Then I can drive a kit bag straight down to Olivia. It’s all packed.” Phoebe met Andrew’s eyes. Clearly, Emma wasn’t going to be a natural at chilling out.

  After dinner, Phoebe and Jesse were left alone in the kitchen. “That was exactly what I felt like,” she said, shoving cartons into the bin. He looked over at her from the sink, where he was dabbing at his T-shirt.

  “I needed it, too. Not that Emma isn’t an awesome cook.”

  “Sorry about yesterday, by the way,” she said, straightening a tea towel so she could turn away from him.

  “Hey, I should be the one apologizing. I should never have stuck my nose in. I was most likely wrong anyway.”

  “Don’t worry. Doesn’t matter,” she said truthfully. It was strange how George was already beginning to feel like a part of her past. Maybe the loss was yet to hit her, but somehow she didn’t think so. She looked down at her finger, freed from its ugly ring, and thought of the bill for the Proposal Package. She’d be able to laugh about that one day, she knew. For now, it made her want to tense every muscle in her body.

  “Did you hear from him yet?” asked Jesse.

  “No. I wouldn’t have expected to.”

  “He has to contact you at some point, though, right?” said Jesse. “Don’t you have a ton of each other’s stuff?”

  “Not really. He was always funny about me leaving things at his place. And he didn’t even keep a toothbrush here. He had to bring it every time he stayed, in this wash bag with his school name tag inside.”

  “Seriously? Jesus.”

  “I know. He would have had no idea what to do this morning. Which seems like a pretty big sign he wasn’t marriage material.”

  “For sure. Sickness and health and whatnot.”

  “For better, for worse . . . How about you, are you seeing anyone?” she asked.

  “Not right now.
I broke up with someone last year, when I found out my birth mom had passed away. It was kind of similar to what you’re saying. I felt like he couldn’t handle emotional shit. Like I was always emoting for the two of us. And that won’t work, long term.”

  “Mmm.” She knew now was her chance and mumbled: “What made you think George was gay, by the way?”

  “Nothing specific. I just wondered. But like I said, I was probably wrong.”

  “You might not be. I probably just got so angry because I’d sometimes wondered myself. It would explain some stuff.”

  “I had the feeling he wasn’t big on communication, right?”

  “S’pose so. He was more the strong silent type. Actually just silent. Weak and silent.”

  “And you’re not like that. So if he was gay, straight, whatever, you need someone who can talk. Next year’s going to be tough, right? You’re going to have to be there for your mom. You need someone who gets that.”

  “True.” She hadn’t thought of this either, she realized, with a jolt of shame. Until yesterday, “next year” in her head had been all about the wedding.

  “Anyway, look at you. You’re so beautiful! You could do so much better.”

  “Aaaahh. Thanks, Jesse! You’re so American!” She wasn’t sure if it was the champagne, but she reached up and gave him a hug.

  “And you’re so bloody British!” he said, in Dick Van Dyke Cockney.

  • • •

  Once Emma was back, the four of them slumped in front of an old Downton Abbey Christmas special. “I thought I’d just escaped Upstairs Downstairs,” groaned Andrew, but Phoebe noticed how he put his arm around her mother, and kept topping up her mint tea and cracking walnuts for her. It was nice to be back, squashed up on the sofa in the TV room. Watching Maggie Smith glare at a butler, she realized that Weyfield might have the roaring fires and four-posters, but only Emma was truly at ease there. Gloucester Terrace wasn’t special like the Norfolk house, but it was home.