by Celia Bryce
‘What’s that?’
‘About Kipper …’ There was a moment of not knowing what to do, a second of not being sure, then Megan laid her hand over his, afraid she might hurt him. Her fingers rested on his wrist, her palm pressed lightly into his. She could feel his pulse beating against her skin. Jackson swallowed. It looked painful, as if his throat was raw.
‘What about Kipper?’
‘… she died.’
Megan nodded. ‘I thought she might have.’
She didn’t ask how he knew – of course he would know, the Pied Piper of Hamelin, leading all the children on a Mr Henry hunt, of course he would. She didn’t even wonder at how she’d almost felt it would happen when Kipper went home that day to see her kitten, to give him a cuddle. And now it felt so long ago, and far away, like something from another time. ‘But she’ll still be keeping an eye on Brian.’
‘Yes.’ Jackson’s fingers curled sleepily, lazily, but didn’t let her go. ‘Better watch out, Brian. No more … climbing … trees …’
Megan sat watching a scarlet berry as it formed in the drip, following the drop as it sank into the small red ocean that would make its slow way round Jackson’s body. Drop by drop, beat by beat. Keeping him safe.
Jackson’s hand relaxed into drowsiness. Megan watched his face as it too melted into sleep. She watched and watched until his breathing grew deeper and slower.
His lips looked dry, cracked. They might be sore when he woke.
Gently slipping her hand from his, she found the little tin of vaseline in her pocket, squeezed off the lid and dipped in her finger. She brushed a thin film of balm across Jackson’s lips, his smiling, storytelling mouth, now silent, now still, yet moving, as if his flesh were glued to hers for that moment and for all the moments.
She would have stroked his face too, every bit of it; she would have run her fingers over his head, over the joins in his skull, the lines and ridges, so clear beneath his skin; she would have trailed them over his brow and his closed eyes, over his cheekbones, so fine, so prominent an artist might have drawn them, a sculptor might have chiselled them; she would have laid down on the bed next to him, if it would stop anything else hurting him.
Megan stood up, content to leave him now, but pressed her fingers to him, one last time, kissing them gently against his lips.
She moved away at last.
Her fingertips glistened. She gazed at them under the light from the lamp above Jackson’s bed, as if they weren’t her own fingers at all, as if they didn’t really belong to her. She brought them to her mouth, resting them on her lips, and tasted those remnants of balm, those tiny traces of Jackson, like kisses, still on her skin.
Thirteen
Megan believed in miracles. Sometimes when you least expect it they just happen, she reckoned. Sometimes she prayed for them, though not the way Mrs Lemon did, with rosary beads, or lighting little candles in church.
The miracle she most wanted, right now, would be for her to get down to Theatre and for the surgeon to find her tumour all gone. But if that wasn’t possible, then just to see Jackson before she went.
Only that didn’t seem to be possible.
He couldn’t come to see her. She wasn’t allowed to see him. It was too early, he was still asleep, still feeling poorly after his operation.
There were too many reasons. Siobhan said that she could wave at him as she passed his room, would that be OK?
It wasn’t. She’d finished her picture of him last night, staying up late until it was done. She wanted to show him before she went for her operation.
And somehow she got herself into such a state, as Siobhan said, that they had to give her something to settle her down. It made her full of wooze, full of clouds, and her words came out like glue.
‘Canhenot comehere?’ Megan begged again.
‘He’s got to stay in bed. He had a big operation yesterday.’
‘ButIwannaseehim.’
Siobhan patted her hand. ‘I know you do, but there are … other pebbles on the beach, so …’ Megan looked up, though it was hard. Siobhan was being so mysterious, with that smile on her face, talking about pebbles and everything. ‘And one of them is right here. To see you. A real surprise visitor.’ She stepped aside and there he was, right next to her bed.
‘Dad?’
Megan had to check, to be completely sure, had to focus her eyes to get him all in. There he was, tanned, dark even, against his white shirt, smiling at her. His eyes still blue, hair still grey and thin, his middle still round, cuddly.
But he shouldn’t be here.
‘AmIgoingtodie?’
Suddenly Megan was convinced that she was. People did with cancer sometimes. Look what happened to Kipper. That’s why Dad was here. It had to be the reason why he was here.
‘Course not, silly billy.’ He leaned over and dropped a kiss on her forehead.
‘Where’s Mum?’
‘Just behind me, see?’
There she was, smiling as if it was a party, not an hour or so before Megan had to have her head cut open. ‘Hello, love. This is a nice surprise, isn’t it? Having him here.’
Megan frowned, then looked at Dad. ‘Butwhy’re youhere? Toldyounottocome.’
‘Because you’re having an operation. I’ve not worked every hour God sends not to be able to come home for that! And Grandad’s not here to check they do it right, so it’s down to me.’ He gave a little laugh. ‘I would have come last night, but the flight home was hours late.’ He hung up his jacket. ‘You don’t really mind me being here, do you?’
She’d made him promise not to come but now he was here. It wasn’t right … and yet …
‘Notgoingtodie?’
‘No. Definitely not.’ Dad sounded very sure.
‘WillyoubeherewhenIcomeback?’
He sat down next to the bed and gently nudged her arm. ‘Just let them try and stop me. I’ll be waiting here for as long as it takes. Me and Mum.’
‘Howlongwillittake?’ There was a hesitation. Megan gazed up to see Dad brushing something out of his eyes.
Mum answered. ‘A few hours maybe.’
‘But you …’ Dad gave her another nudge, ‘will think it only lasted a minute. Honestly. You won’t know a thing about it till you wake up.’
Megan closed her eyes. It was easier than trying to keep them open, but all of a sudden tears began to ooze out of them and there was no way to stop it happening. Maybe it was relief at seeing Dad, maybe fear of the operation, but she was helpless.
‘Now then, sweetheart. Don’t worry.’
Dad found a tissue and dabbed it at her eyes, but Megan couldn’t stop. Tears drained down her cheeks, on to her pillow, seeping through to the plastic cover under the pillowcase. They streamed into her ears. It was like a tap turned on full.
‘They know where the tumour is,’ Mum said, ‘and the operation’s going to take a bit of time … but it isn’t over-complicated … They’ll make sure you’ll have plenty of stuff to keep you comfortable afterwards, stop you hurting.’
Dad’s voice came, gentle, persistent. ‘Injections, into your tube. Probably. That’s what you’ll have. They won’t let you hurt.’
The words weren’t helping because it was out of her hands, this crying. Mum squeezed her hand. ‘It’ll be fine, love.’
‘Come on, give us a hug,’ Dad said. ‘And as soon as you’re back on the ward, we’ll ring Grandad. He says he’ll wait by the phone.’
Notes and X-rays were balanced on her stomach. They felt heavy, solid. Siobhan was there, and Mum, with her arm through Dad’s. Everyone looked upside down. The ceiling drifted past. They were going along a corridor. The man pushing the trolley was chatting to Mum and Dad. He said he was from Poland. Sounded like that footballer. Who was it? She shifted her head to see the man from Poland, but he was upside down like everyone else. That couldn’t be right.
Pictures. Poppies in fields. Landscapes. A child with big dewy eyes. A horse. Signs for places Jackson would
have gone. They all sailed slowly past her. Mum and Dad were talking to her now. Saying it wouldn’t be long before she’d be coming back up the corridor. Then a turn, and through two doors.
‘Dad?’
‘I’m here, sweetie. And Mum. We can come with you till you get the anaesthetic.’
‘Thassgood.’
They were in a room. All glass cupboards, all lights and full of people in green.
‘Hello. Megan, isn’t it? Do you remember me? Dr Singh. I’m the anaesthetist. I came to see you on the ward. Do you remember?’ She had a high voice full of laughter, full of smiles. There was a red mark in the middle of her forehead.
‘Yesss,’ Megan answered.
‘Now then, dear, I’m going to put this needle in your hand and give you something to make you go fast to sleep.’
‘We’ll just be waiting outside,’ Mum said, her voice a whisper, like a secret just for her. ‘Just outside that door. Once you go to sleep. We’ll be there, me and Dad, and you’ll see us in no time.’
‘Yessss,’ Megan said.
‘Now, dear, I’m putting the needle in, just a little scratch.’ Just a little scratch. There was a click, a snap.
A nurse came over with a syringe full of something milky-looking. She smiled at Megan who blinked up at her but couldn’t make her mouth move.
‘Now,’ the anaesthetist said. ‘I want you to count to ten for me. Will you do that, dear? Count for me now. One … two …’
‘Three …’
Cool fingers on her wrist, just sitting there, gently. A slight pressure. ‘Pulse eighty-four.’
Something on her arm, a hiss and a wheeze, growing tighter until her hand ached and all the blood stopped. Then slowly back, thump, thump, thump. Another hiss and the tightness disappeared.
‘BP a hundred over sixty.’
Awake. Almost. Asleep. Almost. A drowsy delicious in-between thing drifting around like mist. She couldn’t catch it. Nothing belonged. Sleep came but wouldn’t stay. She wanted it to stay, wanted to keep her eyes closed, to stop them shivering open, but sleep went away again, wakefulness came.
Words. All around her. She recognised them but not the voices.
Where was she? Ah, what did it matter? It was a nice feeling, this. In and out of clouds and sleep and waves and warmth.
Lovely. Lovely.
She half opened her eyes to see the lights hanging in strips above her. Too bright. Eyes closed again. The lights stayed there like pictures.
Something around her head. A band. She couldn’t feel her ears. Maybe they’d gone away, somewhere else. No, that wasn’t right.
‘Megan … hello, Megan. Time to wake up.’ A warm hand took hold of hers. ‘Come on. Open your eyes, Megan.’
She tried but they were glued shut.
‘Squeeze my hand. Come on.’
Squeeze.
‘And again, come on.’
Squeeze again.
‘She’s fine. You can take her back to the ward.’
All a dream. Just a dream.
But there was Dad.
A miracle.
Fourteen
Megan remembered nothing about the time after her operation. It was just a blank space. She’d been very ill, spiked a fever they told her later, showing her the temperature chart, the line shooting up like an arrow to the sky. It was touch and go, they said, really touch and go.
It wasn’t until the line began to make its jittery way down the chart that Megan began to feel better and the blank space began to fill up with words, only they were like random pieces of a puzzle, all there but in no order at all. It took for ever to sort it out, and when it was complete, Jackson wasn’t there. Neither was Siobhan or Sister Brewster. Where were they all? The questions tumbled about in her head. Where am I? Am I in the right place?
All around her were strange nurses, checking her, tidying her, washing and drying her, because she could hardly lift a finger to help herself.
When, finally, she was able to sit up, all shaky and weak, she was in her old room and there was talk of going home, that being the best place, now that her operation was all over and she was on the mend. But she didn’t want to go home, not if Jackson was coming back.
She had to see him.
Relentlessly, the days moved on till it was her last one, and still Jackson wasn’t back. Or maybe he was, and they didn’t want her to know. That was it. Of course it was. They didn’t want them to be together. Someone must have seen them that day in her room. They’d put him on the adult ward to keep them apart.
Megan wandered, a little unsteadily, around the place, looking for Jackson but all she found were children. They were so young. One had a mask over his face attached to the oxygen line behind his bed. He looked very pale, apart from his cheeks, which glowed like small red apples.
There were parents playing with their children, or reading to them, some just holding hands. One boy vomited into a bowl. He looked at the contents in complete surprise. His head was as bald as an egg.
A little girl lay flat on her back with a drip attached to her arm. She was fast asleep. Maybe she’d had an operation. Maybe she was waiting for one. Whatever it was, her mum looked very tired, leaning into the bed, eyes closed, her hair in rats’ tails.
There was the octopus, sitting in the corner. There were the dolphins, swimming up walls. On the windows, pretty starfish, shells, mermaids, sea horses. How hadn’t she seen these things before? Maybe she’d been too fed up to notice when she first came in, so long ago.
She wandered past Jackson’s old room and found someone else lying in his bed. It was a girl about the same age as him. Somehow that was shocking. The girl turned her head, looked at Megan. She was pale, wispy, her arms like twigs, eyes huge. Her body hardly made a lump under the sheet.
The Nurses’ Station. Sister Brewster was there, talking to one of the ward auxiliaries.
‘Where’s Jackson?’ Megan said, interrupting, not caring.
Sister Brewster exchanged a look with the auxiliary who picked up some charts and bustled away with them. ‘I was busy talking, Megan. You could see that.’
‘Yes, but where is he?’ She felt weak now, after all that walking, and wanted to sit down, but she wouldn’t. Not till she knew.
Sister Brewster gathered together some pieces of paper, straightening them up as if it was vitally important they be straightened. A young doctor Megan didn’t recognise rushed up to the desk, grabbed a stethoscope and rushed off.
‘Forgot this,’ he said. ‘Hi, Megan. You’re looking good! Home today, hey?’
He tore down the ward, not waiting for an answer.
Megan turned back to Sister Brewster, determined to stay until there was an answer. A baby cried a weak little note from a nearby room. Someone shushed it gently.
‘He went home, Megan. You know that already. You’ve asked every single nurse,’ Sister Brewster said with a sigh. There was something in her voice now, softness perhaps.
‘I thought he had some more treatment to get,’ Megan persevered. ‘He said he did, before he had his operation.’ She stood and waited. Sister Brewster looked down at the papers studying them for a few seconds.
‘Yes, that’s right, but … there are some treatments you can have at home. It’s a better place really. More comfortable. No restrictions. Most people prefer it, really …’
Megan waited to hear something about rules, about breaking them, about haircuts, razors, mortuaries, staying up too late. There was nothing. Sister Brewster merely cradled the papers against her chest.
‘Will he be coming back?’
‘No, Megan, he won’t.’
Megan stared down at her slippers. Mum had bought them specially. She hated slippers, hated having to wear them. They made her feel like a baby.
‘Is he never coming back?’
‘No,’ came the reply, gentle, final. ‘He isn’t.’
But how could that be right? Jackson wouldn’t have gone without saying something. He would have said g
oodbye.
Megan raised her eyes to meet Sister Brewster’s. She held them, determined not to look away first, determined to hear a different answer. She didn’t care how busy the ward was, she didn’t care that somewhere, very close, the weak-sounding baby was still crying and wouldn’t be comforted.
She wanted a different answer.
It didn’t come.
Fifteen
Dreaming. Everything fuzzy, falling apart. A puppet with no strings. Too early, too dark. Trying to catch hold of something, but it was sliding away.
‘Megan, love. I have to get going soon.’ Everything a whisper, like secrets. ‘Come on, love, up you get. I want to be on the road – soon as the traffic dies down. It’ll take me a good two hours.’
Grandad’s birthday. Oh no. The party she didn’t want to go to. And didn’t know how to say it.
Mum’s cool hand on her forehead. ‘Are you feeling all right?’
How could she ever feel all right again? ‘Course, Mum. Just forgot to set my alarm.’
It had been a long time since she’d had to.
‘You do feel better, don’t you?’
It was three months since she’d left hospital. Megan smiled, so that Mum would know she was OK. Keeping bright. Keeping cheerful. Letting her know it was all right. Easy-peasy. ‘Stop fussing, Mum.’
Mostly she did feel better. Really. And she was glad to be away from the ward and elephants on curtains, and octopus beanbags and little ones, and Sister Brewster.
Only.
Megan slid her fingers under the pillow … just in case … just to see if everything was still there. And of course it was. Nothing had magicked them away. Nothing could.
Mum opened the curtains and sunlight swept in. She was wearing Dad’s dressing gown. Blue towelling. And just a short thing but it swallowed her up, bunching around her waist, making her look fat. Her hair was wet from the shower, her cheeks pink.
Why was she still standing there if everything was such a rush?
‘What’s wrong?’
‘I was just wondering, if you wanted to … change your mind about … the hospital …? I could make a detour. The new unit’s so special and you’ve been invited.’