‘Has she seen him?’
‘Not yet.’
That was enough! I pushed past Preston and walked down the corridor and into the reception area. ‘Where’s the waiting room?’ I asked the nurse at the desk.
‘First left, go to the end of the hall, through the double doors, turn right, go down the stairs and it’s the second on your right.’
I decided not to listen halfway through. Being female, I would stop and ask again.
‘Where’s the waiting room?’ I said after getting to the double doors.
‘Down that way, there’s a sign’ the doctor said.
When I walked in, she was drinking a can of Irn Bru on a plastic chair and reading Red magazine. How could she read a fucking magazine now?
‘So what did you figure? We’re worth a thousand each?’ I said.
It was her turn to freeze. ‘You again? Who are you?’ she said.
‘I’m Georgie Marion. You might remember me. I used to call you Mummy.’
To my surprise, she broke into an immediate hysteria which involved holding her head in her hands, rocking back and forth, sobbing like a baby and saying my name over and over. This totally scuppered my plan, which was:
a) to tell her to go fuck herself if she thought we’d pay her anything,
b) to tell her to go fuck herself if she played the ‘I’m sick. I can’t help it’ card.
‘That’s bullshit,’ I was going to say. ‘See, I do have a disease. And so does Kay. We didn’t choose to have it. We didn’t inject it into our arms or sniff it up our noses. And we can’t decide to not have it. You, on the other hand, have chosen. You have chosen to be a selfish waste-of-space junkie and now you are going to choose to save your daughter.’
Then I was going to haul her to her feet and drag her, kicking and screaming, into Kay’s room, where the sight of her poor beautiful daughter would force her to help.
But she was crying her eyes out. She was saying my name over and over. ‘Oh my God, Georgie, Georgie, my Georgie.’
‘We’re not going to give you any money,’ I said.
‘Of course, of course, I’m sorry,’ she said, wiping her face with her sleeve, convulsing with tears. ‘I don’t know what I was thinking … My head’s all over the place … You are so grown up.’
I grabbed her hand and helped her to her feet. ‘Come and meet your other daughter.’
26
It had been thirteen years since she left. Since Will had waited at the window of their marital home, expecting her to return from a simple trip to the shops. During those years, he’d gone through the usual stages – anger and denial and all that – and until the kids had fallen ill, he had probably been firmly routed in acceptance. As he watched his lovely girl lying on the hospital bed beside him, he wondered if any of those old feelings would return. He doubted it because all he felt was worry for Kay and all he could think was how he could help her.
She wasn’t coping well with dialysis. Perhaps he hadn’t monitored her closely enough. Perhaps he hadn’t noticed that she was studying too hard, or forgetting to take her medication, or eating poorly. He would do better from now on. And perhaps there was a longer-term solution in the waiting room.
No, in the corridor.
Standing before him in the doorway of this hospital room.
Was that her? Was that the woman he used to adore? The one he cried over for years? The one he thought was better than him? She was frail and old looking, like an anorexic art teacher. He hated to admit such shallow thinking at this moment, but Cynthia was exceedingly unattractive. Had he really loved her once?
‘We don’t have the money,’ Will said. He looked into the eyes he used to think were deep and saw nothing. ‘We just have two very sick children.’
What she did next surprised him. She walked to the bed, took Kay’s hand, kissed it, fell to her knees, and prayed … ‘Dear God, let her be okay.’ She then looked up at Will and Georgie, tears streaming: ‘Of course I’ll help. I’m not a bad person. I’m a good person. Of course I will.’
*
In the room opposite, the nine-year-old girl had fallen asleep. Her father had gone home. Her mother was putting water in the vase. After she’d filled it and placed it on the windowsill, she looked over into Kay’s room and caught Will’s eye. She smiled at him. They were in the same boat, were they not? A sick child surrounded by an abundance of comfortable love.
This illusion was interrupted by two things. First it was by Will, who said, ‘Right, keep her here, Georgie. Don’t let her out of your sight. I’ll go get the doctor.’
And then by the doctor who had dealt with the girls since their diagnoses. Will knew where his office was. He’d sat in it many times, the last of which was when he’d asked not to be tested yet, not till he found another donor.
‘William!’ Mr Jamieson said as Will rushed through the door. ‘Are you all right? I’m glad you’re here. Sit down, sit down. I’ve been wanting to talk to you about your parents.’ Mr Jamieson turned his Van Morrison CD down. ‘Brown Eyed Girl’ faded into the background.
‘My parents?’
‘They came in last week.’
‘Really? I didn’t know. That’s not why I’m here … I have some amazing news.’
Mr Jamieson was taken aback by Will’s urgent excitement, but he was an important Mister, so his news should go first. ‘Sit down, take it easy. Relax.’
Will wouldn’t sit down.
‘They were tested, Will. They didn’t want to get your hopes up, which is probably why you hadn’t heard about it yet.’
‘They were?’ Will couldn’t believe his ears. They’d done it.
‘I’m afraid both have unsuitable tissue types. There were other considerations as well. Your mother in particular may not be healthy enough to withstand major surgery and recover completely. It’s not good news. They can’t be donors.’
Will’s heart sank – this was option 2) in his notebook, gone.
But only for a moment. It didn’t matter any more. ‘I’ve found Cynthia,’ he blurted. ‘She’s here. She’s agreed to donate. How quickly can you test us both? We want the operations done as quickly as possible.’
‘Mr Marion, calm down. I’d like you to take a seat, please.’
‘I don’t want to sit down. Didn’t you hear me? She’s here! She’s said yes!’
Mr Jamieson walked slowly to the door, closed it, then walked even more slowly back to his desk. ‘I suggest you sit down,’ he said.
Will could feel the optimism dribbling out his ears. He flopped into a chair and said, ‘What?’
‘I treated your ex-wife yesterday. She’d overdosed on heroin.’
‘And?’
‘And … I need to speak to her before I speak to you.’
‘Just tell me. What is it?’
‘She used heroin for over fifteen years, Will. Do you know what that can do to your body?’
Will’s neck lost its ability to hold up his head. As it dropped, all the air inside him came out.
‘In addition to the effects of the drug itself, street heroin often contains toxic contaminants or additives that can clog the blood vessels leading to the lungs, liver, kidneys, or brain, causing permanent damage to vital organs.’
She’d gone and screwed up her fucking kidneys. The realisation slowed every sound and every movement. Small moans infiltrated his breathing.
‘Will?’ Mr Jamieson said, walking around his desk to perch himself on the front of it. He’d learnt this technique from his wife, an oncologist in the Beatson Clinic. ‘You don’t want to touch them,’ she’d told him after her husband came home one night. He’d had a difficult session helping a patient explain to his family that he no longer wanted to dialyse – i.e. that he wanted to die. The wife had grabbed him and hugged him for four minutes. He had snot on his shoulder afterwards. ‘But you need to show them you’re human,’ his wife explained. ‘An inch of bum on the desk edge and a sigh does the trick.’
Mr Jami
eson sighed. ‘I’m very sorry. We just have to wait for the right donors for your girls.’
‘Of course.’
‘Is there anything I can do?’
Will couldn’t answer him. He couldn’t even lift his head. Was he still breathing?
‘Mr Marion? I’m afraid I have to get on now.’
‘Of course,’ Will said quietly, slowly standing and leaving the room.
* * *
Will’s pace quickened as he retraced his steps back to Kay’s room. He pushed the door open so hard that it frightened Georgie and Cynthia, and woke Kay.
‘You useless bitch!’ he yelled, moving towards the still-kneeling Cynthia. ‘You fucking useless bitch!’
‘Dad!’ Georgie put herself in front of her father. He’d gone mad. He was going to kill her mother.
‘Dad, stop!’ Kay said weakly. ‘What’s going on? Who’s this?’ She pulled her hand from Cynthia’s grasp. Who was this woman? Why was she kneeling at her bed? Why was she holding her hand?
‘This?’ Will said pointing at Cynthia. ‘This is the woman who abandoned you when you were three. This is the woman who wanted to screw a drug dealer rather than look after you. This is the woman who chose heroin and a thug over us. This …’ Will was still trying to get away from Georgie’s stronghold. He wanted to hurt her. ‘This is the woman who chose to screw up her organs. You screwed them up, Cynthia. They’re useless to us. Get out of here. Go away. GET OUT OF HERE!’
Georgie released her grasp. She and Will stared at Cynthia, who was now sitting on the floor beside Kay. She’d stopped crying. She didn’t realise it, but her face was unable to hide her true feelings. She could get out of here now. She’d offered, done the right thing, been unselfish – as she always had been – and now she could go and relieve some stress and talk to Heath. He’d make her feel better. She deserved to feel better. Should she stand up straight away? Or protest first?
‘It can’t be,’ she was the kind of person to decide on the latter. ‘I must be able to help.’
‘You can’t,’ Will said. ‘As ever, we’re better off without you. Just go.’
She turned to Kay, who had said nothing. Kay’s expression was kind, but no more than that. She rolled onto her side so that Cynthia could no longer look at her. ‘You were always the pretty one,’ she said, touching Kay’s hair.
Georgie bit her lip.
‘I’ll go, then,’ Cynthia said.
The mother in the room opposite watched as Cynthia left the room. As it turned out, these two families had nothing in common.
27
For some reason, Will had skipped ahead to the fifth page of his notebook and was now writing on it.
There were many reasons for this, in fact.
First, he had phoned his parents to thank them for being tested. This is how the phone call went:
MOTHER MARION: Well, it’s the least we could do. I’ll put your father on.
FATHER MARION: We have the wrong tissue type, son.
WILL: What did you say?
FATHER MARION: I said we have the wrong tissue type, son.
WILL: I heard what you said.
FATHER MARION: Then why did you ask me to repeat it?
WILL: I’m fucking tired of you, Dad.
FATHER MARION: What did you say?
WILL: I said I’m fucking tired of you, Dad.
Will hung up.
Not long after the phone call, Will hit Georgie. He’d done this a few times when she was younger. Usually a pathetic tut-tut to the hand which shocked her into submission and tears but punished him much more. He always felt so guilty and ashamed afterwards that he threw all parenting skills to the wind and gave Georgie whatever she wanted for at least a week, so long as she tried to forget what he had done. He’d never hit Kay. She’d never pressed his buttons the way Georgie had.
Somehow, corporal punishment had seemed less inappropriate when Georgie was much shorter than him. This evening, he had started a fight with virtually a grown woman – wrong in itself – but even more terrible considering the unwritten rule that children should never hit their parents back.
She’d pushed him to the limit again.
That old excuse.
She’d called him a failure.
No reason to threaten her … One more word young lady!
She’d said if it wasn’t for him maybe Cynthia would never have turned to drugs.
Still not grounds to grab her and hold her against the kitchen wall with his arm.
If it wasn’t for him, she would be healthy and happy and Kay wouldn’t be at death’s door.
That was it. That was enough. How dare she?
* * *
It happened several hours ago, but his hand was still red from the connection with his daughter’s face.
He began chanting a skipping-rope game the girls used to play when they were younger.
No missing a loop. If you do you’ll get no soup. No excuses will be taken less you go to Doctor Bacon.
He was drunk, which was probably the second reason for his note-taking on page five of his jotter.
Georgie, he wrote in one column.
Kay, he wrote in the other.
Using his ruler, he drew a line down the middle.
He underlined the names with the ruler.
He made two columns under each name, headed Pros and Cons.
Before writing anything further, he took another swig from the second bottle of red wine he had opened that night. Where was she? he wondered. After the face slap, he had slid down the kitchen wall and cried like a baby. He hadn’t seen or heard anything for several minutes. During that time, she must have left. He’d got up eventually and checked every room. She was no longer in the house. She’d left the front door open. She was somewhere else altogether. Where had she gone?
He returned to his work in progress … the pros and cons of Georgie Marion, sixteen years old.
The pros and cons of Kay Marion, also sixteen.
Where was Kay? In hospital still, resting as she had been instructed, with Mr Jamieson and the nurses taking better care of her than he had. Making sure she took her medication and that she ate properly and rested and would recover in time for her exams.
Will took the last swig from the bottle. The notebook was beckoning but he needed another bottle and a joint. He couldn’t do this without dope.
Where was it?
When had he last had some? Years back, Linda had come over with a small bag. ‘Here, Good Guy,’ she’d said. ‘You need to chill out.’
He rummaged through the filing cabinet in the corner of the room. Didn’t he put it in the D file a few years back? Clever, hey? D for dope. Could’ve chosen G for grass or C for cannabis – the options were endless – but he’d gone for D all those years ago as nothing else in his life seemed to start with D. What in his life started with D? Hmm. Dry cleaning – who’d file anything about dry cleaning? And anyhow, none of his clothes required ironing, let alone dry cleaning. There was something in his life starting with D now, he thought. Death.
It wasn’t in the D file.
Oh, that’s right, he remembered. He’d moved his stash when he realised the girls might go in there for dance timetables and put it under M (for marijuana), where it would rest alongside mortgage documents that were of no interest whatsoever to them.
Aha! A small plastic pocket next to his latest mortgage reminder. It had one of those press-shut plastic seals at the top. It was still there, and inside was a small lump of greenery.
What was he doing? What had he just written down? Since the diagnosis, the option had been in the back of his mind, he supposed, in the same way that winning the lottery always had, or smashing Cynthia over the head with a large metal object had, but he never thought he would knowingly take it from the back and move it to the front, that he would let it travel to the pen in his hand so it would be written down in his notebook, that he would now be anaesthetising himself in order to consider it seriously. It was ridiculous.
He should never have let the idea enter his mind at all. He should rip that page to shreds.
But what was he doing? The dope! Ah, there it was. He was on a roll to make a roll and would finish one thing at a time.
He had some tobacco in a pouch taped under his desk. And some papers in an old box filled with street maps of Glasgow, Arran and York (he’d taken the girls to York for a weekend three years earlier. It was pretty stressful. Georgie made it known that she found everything about the city boring).
Licking the papers and sticking them together felt nice, a ritual that had always soothed him.
Still, he should never have hit her.
He placed some of the dry tobacco on the paper then crumbled some of the stale weed on top of it, like pepper. He fashioned a roach from the corner of a box of multivitamins on his desk and rolled the neatest joint he had ever rolled.
Just like riding a bicycle.
28
That guy was following me. I’d known since the corner of Buchanan Street and Argyle Street but I didn’t want to let on. He was about ten metres behind me now. Every time I turned my head slightly to the left or right, he stopped and pretended to look in a shop window. Either he wasn’t very good at it or he didn’t care if I saw him.
The cold air pinched at my left cheek. I hadn’t looked, but I could feel the shape of my father’s hand imprinted there. Prick. I should have hit him back. Why didn’t I? Maybe because I’d never seen him so out of control. Oh, dull composed father of mine.
‘Georgie, your mother is never coming back,’ he’d said when I was three and again and again till I was ten. ‘She likes bad things. We should count our blessings,’ or some such shit.
‘Georgie, you’re sick, darling. You need dialysis.’
‘I know the whole list thing is hard, but we need to be patient.’
For the first time ever, he completely lost it: yelling and screaming in the hospital, trying to hit that wretched feral stray who was my mother. That’s what happens when you store shit inside for a lifetime. It rots, then explodes.
Donor, The Page 10