by Lucy Gordon
At the end of the third day Dr. Canning said, “She’s definitely stronger. We now have a window of opportunity. I told you she had about eight months. That was nearly five months ago. Now I’m going to say eight months again, starting from now.”
“And that’s the best she can hope for?” Carlyle demanded.
“Yes, unless—”
“Unless?” Briony asked in agony.
“I once gave Emma only a ten percent chance of surviving an operation. Now I’d put it as high as fifty-fifty.”
Carlyle gripped Briony’s hand painfully. “But if we waited, surely her chances would improve again?” he persisted.
The doctor shook his head. “No, she’s reached a peak. From here she’ll slip back.”
The grip on Briony’s hand grew tighter. “If she has this operation—and it fails—she’d still have some time left, wouldn’t she?”
The doctor’s eyes were full of pity as he shook his head. “If it fails,” he said gently, “she won’t come round.”
Carlyle was beginning to gasp as if he were fighting for breath. “But surely we don’t have to make a decision right this minute? A few days—”
“Not even that. The best surgeon in this field is David Warfield. He usually works abroad, but by a lucky chance he happens to be in this country for a week. I’ve already spoken to him, and he could do it tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow!” Carlyle exclaimed. “No, it’s too soon. I need time to think.”
“I’m afraid I can only give you an hour before I have to let the surgeon know.” Dr. Canning added gently, “I know that fifty-fifty still isn’t very good odds.”
“I need to get out of here,” Carlyle said harshly.
Briony followed him as far as the car park, but before he reached the car he stopped. “I must walk,” he said. “I just can’t take all this in.”
Although it was only early evening, darkness had fallen, and the streets gleamed with the rain that had fallen earlier. Briony fell into step beside him and they walked in silence for a mile, Carlyle setting such a pace that she had to hurry to keep up.
After a while they reached a park. Carlyle made his way across the grass to a children’s playground, with roundabouts and swings. In summer it must have been an enchanting place, but now it was bleak and deserted. He went to sit on one of the low benches, and Briony sat beside him.
“I used to bring Emma here, a couple of years ago,” he said. “She’d shin right up to the top of the climbing frame, and hang from her knees while I stood below, terrified.” He gave a short laugh. “She wasn’t bothered.”
He pointed to the three slides, one small, one medium and big. “You’re supposed to start on the little one and work your way up to the big one,” he said.
“But I expect she went straight onto the big one,” Briony said.
“Yes. And the seesaw. She loved that, until she began to find it tame. She liked being ‘bumped.’ Do you know what that means?”
“Going up and down very hard and fast, so that you hit the ground with a bump,” Briony said. “I used to do it. The harder, the better.”
“She came down terribly hard once, and caught her foot underneath. I thought that would cure her, but next time she just did it again. She had so much energy and courage. She was so strong—” His voice shook.
Briony put her arms about him. There was nothing even she could say to help him at this moment.
“I can’t do it,” he said harshly. “I can’t let them take her into an operating theater tomorrow, knowing that I may never see her again. I can’t do it.”
“Not even to give her a chance of life?” Briony whispered.
“Life?” he demanded bitterly. “Does she really have a chance of life? You heard him. Fifty-fifty. What kind of odds are those?”
“They’re better odds than she’ll have in eight months’ time,” Briony reminded him. “I know it looks hard now, but suppose you say no. How will you feel when the time comes for her to die? You’ll wish then that you’d seized the chance. It’ll be too late, and you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.”
He turned a livid face onto her. “You want me to do this?” he demanded. “Do you know what you’re asking?”
“Of course I know,” she reminded him.
“She’s stronger than she’s been in months—but she could be gone in a few hours—”
“I know,” she cried in agony. “I’ve been through that. I’ve lived for months with two images in my mind—Sally full of life and energy, and Sally dead and cold—and only a few hours between them. That’s what’s so terrible—how it can change so quickly.”
“And knowing that, you still want me to take the risk?”
“Is anything too much to ask, for her?”
Dumbly he shook his head. “But I don’t know if I can make myself do it,” he said. “I’ve never thought of myself as a coward, but I am—unless you’re there—”
She took his hand and held it tight against her breast, enfolded in both hers, wondering if he was ready for what she had to say next.
“There someone else I think we should ask,” she said.
“Who?”
“Emma herself. It’s her life. Tell her the odds, and if she wants to take the risk, that’s it. I think I know what her answer will be.”
He looked at her a long time without speaking. The hand she held was dreadfully cold. At last he nodded. Together they left the park and returned to the hospital.
Emma was sitting propped up by pillows. She looked alert and happy, and her color was good. Briony’s heart almost failed her. Within a few hours…
When they’d all hugged each other, she looked at Carlyle, waiting for him to speak. But his eyes, meeting hers, were desperate, and he held on to his daughter’s hand as though he would never let it go.
“The doctor thinks I’m better,” Emma declared with the light of battle in her eyes. “He’s amazed at how strong I am.”
“Yes, you are stronger,” Briony said, sitting on the bed. “But you’ll never be really strong until they do something about that wonky heart of yours. It won’t get well on its own.”
Briony hesitated, uncertain how to say the next bit. But then her eyes met Emma’s. The child’s exuberance had been replaced by a kind of gravity, as though Emma had suddenly understood that the time for childish things was past. Carlyle said nothing, but sat looking from one to the other, understanding that they were communicating without words.
“Can they do it now?” Emma asked at last.
“It depends on you,” Briony said. “If you want to.”
“What is this?” Carlyle asked. He looked at Emma. “Am I imagining things? How much do you—”
“I was sure Emma knew,” Briony said.
There was something almost motherly in the way the child patted his hand. “You didn’t want me to know, so I didn’t. But I always knew really.”
“But—how?”
“You always had time to take me out,” she said simply.
There was nothing for Carlyle to say, nothing for him to do but bow his head. Emma reached up her arms to him to enfold him in a gesture that was oddly mature in its protectiveness. Briony watched them for a moment before leaving the room. It was up to them now. Her part was done.
She waited in the corridor for about half an hour, until the doctor came to find her. “I’m afraid I have to know soon,” he said.
At that moment the door opened and Carlyle emerged. He looked at the other two for a moment, then nodded without speaking.
“I’ll call David Warfield at once,” said the doctor, and hurried away.
Carlyle sat beside Briony. He seemed very calm. “She’s not afraid,” he said. “All this time I’ve thought I was protecting her, but she—” His voice shook and he buried his head in his hands. He recovered himself at once. “She knows what she wants. All or nothing. You were right. She never even thought of compromising.” He was silent for a moment, then he spoke again in a
strained voice. “She knew she might be dying because I made time for her.”
“Don’t brood about it,” Briony said. “It isn’t as important as the things that draw you together.”
He nodded. “She spoke about Helen,” he said. “If the end comes—she’ll be with her. That’s why she’s not afraid.”
Dr. Canning came bustling back. “It’s all set. The surgeon will be here early tomorrow.” His face softened as he looked at them. “He’s the best there is.”
Carlyle nodded. “Can we stay with her tonight?”
“Of course. But try not to let her talk. The nurse will be giving her a mild sedative so that she gets a good night’s sleep.” He saw a slight change come over Carlyle’s face. “Is something the matter?”
“I—no,” Carlyle said hurriedly.
But Briony understood. Tonight of all nights Carlyle might have been able to do what had always been so difficult, to open his heart to his child, and speak freely. It could have been his last chance. But it was too late. Emma’s journey had begun. The tide was rushing on, carrying her with it, perhaps forever.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
EMMA looked up excitedly as they went into her room, and Carlyle smiled at her. It was the hardest thing he’d ever done. “All ready for the big day?”
She nodded vigorously. “I wish it was tomorrow,” she said.
“Do—do you, darling?” he just managed to say.
“I want them to do the operation, and then it’ll be over and I’ll be better. And I’ll go to camp and do ballet classes and—and everything.” She looked anxiously at Briony. “I can, can’t I, Mummy?”
“You can do anything you want, darling.”
She sighed. “That’s all right, then.”
Carlyle met Briony’s eyes and she knew what he was thinking. How could he say the things he wanted to say, things that would imply goodbye, to this child who was so confident of recovery?
While he wrestled with his dilemma the door opened and a nurse came in. “It’s time for her sedative,” she said.
Emma swallowed the pill and lay back. Her eyes were still open but already she was growing drowsy. “‘Night, Mummy,” she murmured. “‘Night, Daddy.”
They kissed her, then sat, one each side of her bed, watching until she fell asleep. She lay almost motionless for the whole night, while they kept vigil over her, knowing that it might be for the last time.
She woke early. “Is it tomorrow yet?” was her first question.
“Yes,” Briony assured her.
Carlyle took Emma’s hand and looked into her face. It seemed to Briony that words trembled on his lips, the words he’d never known how to say before, but could surely say now.
And then, suddenly, it was too late. A nurse bustled in, then another. In moments the machine was in motion. Despite the early hour David Warfield was there already, greeting Emma cheerfully. In appearance he was the most nondescript man Briony had ever seen, of medium height and coloring and indeterminate age. Even his voice was without personality. But Dr. Canning had insisted that for this operation there was no one like him in the world.
He had a few kindly words for Emma’s parents, but quickly returned his attention to his patient. “The sooner we get started, the better,” he said.
As Emma was about to be wheeled away, she said, “Goodbye, Mummy. Goodbye, Daddy.”
“Goodbye, darling,” they both said.
Then she was gone, spirited away to regions where they couldn’t follow her.
“Goodbye,” Carlyle murmured.
“She didn’t mean it like that,” Briony said.
“I know. She’s so brave—and so small.”
Hours passed. They sat holding hands, speaking now and then. But there was really nothing to say. Once the door at the end of the corridor opened and a nurse came hurrying through. They tensed, sure that she’d come to tell them the worst, but she passed by and out of sight. They fell back, feeling their hearts thudding painfully.
Another hour. Two. The nurse who’d given Emma the sedative approached, walking at a sedate pace. She stopped in front of them.
“I’m sorry—” she said in a tone of gentle concern.
It was all over. The nightmare had happened. Emma was dead. Carlyle’s hand froze to Briony’s and his face was ghastly.
The nurse was still speaking. “Sorry you’ve had to wait all this time. It’s taking a little longer than we thought.”
The world returned to some sort of normality. Briony whispered, “What?”
“It took a little longer than Dr. Warfield expected. He’s finishing now.”
“You mean, she’s alive?”
“Yes, she’s holding on. They’ll be wheeling her into Intensive Care soon. You can go along there and I’ll bring you some tea.”
At the door of Intensive Care they met David Warfield who told them that the next twenty-four hours would be critical. They could sit with her.
Worst of all was seeing Emma lying, a small, frail figure, amid a mountain of machinery. She was attached to tubes, monitors, drips, and she lay frighteningly still. A nurse watched her closely. There was only room for one other person beside Emma’s bed.
“You sit with her,” Briony whispered. “I’ll call Joyce and tell her how it went.”
Hour after hour. The thin green line went across the monitor screen, its regular blips reassuring them of life. Every breath was a victory. Carlyle sat still until his body ached. At last he rose and went to join Briony, sitting a little distance off. They stayed together in silence, until suddenly he said, “You were right.”
“About what?”
“You said I should talk to her. I wish now that I had. I didn’t know how, but I should have tried. I told myself I’d done everything for her. I gave her you, the best gift of all. But I know that I was really trying to cover my own deficiencies. And now—now—I think of all the things I’d like to say to her—and perhaps I’ll never get the chance.”
“But you do have the chance,” Briony said urgently. “You have it now.”
“But she couldn’t hear me.”
“You don’t know that. Unconscious people can often hear things. The doctors told me that at the hospital when Sally was ill. And I know it’s true.”
He looked at her quickly. “How?”
“Because—” It was the most painful secret of all, and one she’d thought she could never speak of, but she would risk any pain for this man. “Because when Sally was in a coma, in her last moments I took her hand and told her that I loved her. And I felt her squeeze. She hadn’t moved until then, but she squeezed my hand quite firmly. That was the last thing she did. It was her way of saying that she’d heard me, that she understood. It was her goodbye, too, but at least I know that she died knowing how much I loved her.”
He looked across at Emma. “Couldn’t you—”
“No,” Briony said. It hurt her to refuse him anything at such a moment, but she couldn’t afford to weaken about this, for Emma’s sake, and for Carlyle’s in the long years ahead.
“It’s you she needs,” she said. “Because if the worst happens, and you have to give her up—” He bent his head in agony, and she stroked it tenderly. “If that happens,” she whispered, “you won’t be giving her up into a void. Helen will be there to receive her from you. And it must be you who does that, not me. It must be your hands that give her to Helen. Do you see?”
After a long moment Carlyle raised his head. His face was deadly pale but very calm. He went to sit beside Emma and took her hand in his. Leaning forward, he began to talk to her quietly.
At first Briony couldn’t hear what he said, but as night fell and the ward grew quieter she caught some of the murmured words, and knew he was talking about the funfair. She heard, “Oswald and Oswald,” then her own name.
It was hard for him, talking to someone who never responded, and after a while his inspiration dried up and he looked to her in urgent plea.
“Talk about the weddi
ng,” she suggested.
He gave her a look of gratitude, and began telling Emma how lovely she’d looked coming down the aisle, the horse-drawn carriage, anything he could remember.
Night. A new shift of nurses arrived and Carlyle had to leave the bed while they performed their routines, checking, making notes. There was tea, sandwiches, the offer of beds for the night. But they declined. They wouldn’t leave her.
“Talk about the future,” Briony advised him. “About the things you’re going to do together.”
He nodded and took Emma’s hand back into his.
“You’ll be well again soon,” he told her, “and you can start dancing class again. Mummy would have been a ballerina if she hadn’t married me. When you were born she said you’d be a better dancer than she could have been. And you will be. I’ll come to see you dance, and I’ll be so proud.”
Briony moved away, dismayed at a little feeling of hurt that tugged at her heart. She couldn’t be thinking of herself now. But the way Carlyle had said “Mummy,” obviously meaning Helen, had given her a small shock. For months Emma and Carlyle himself had called her Mummy. But Emma’s real mother was Helen, and as the little girl lay between life and death it was Helen who was with her. And it was right that it should be so.
She went out into the corridor. The other two didn’t need her now. She drank some more tea, and called Joyce again to say that Emma was holding on. But everything she did had a dreamlike quality.
When she returned to the ward Carlyle was still talking softly to Emma, the inspiration now seeming to come without trouble. Briony sat by the wall and watched them. Now and then she heard the word “Mummy,” She tried not to listen but she couldn’t help it. As the small hours wore away she knew that the flash of physical jealousy she’d felt for Deirdre was nothing to the jealousy of the heart she felt for Helen.
Emma had lain all night without moving. It seemed impossible that her spirit could fight on longer against weariness and pain. As the dawn broke Carlyle looked down at his child and it seemed to him that she was smaller, as though she was already slipping away. He took her hand and placed his lips close to her ear. There was one thing still to be said, something that all the talking came down to in the end.