by Louise Beech
I buried my face in a cushion – even though I had no witness – and cried the way children do; greedily, loudly, unabashedly. When I was done I wiped my eyes with a corner of the artfully stained dress and realised I’d marked the cushion, as though I’d bled there. As though a pastel nurse had pricked my finger end to read its blood and spilt some.
I realised blood would soon be our life.
It was time to call Jake. I didn’t want to. During the night I’d even considered letting him escape the upset. Why not tell him when he returned on his leave in two months? What could he do anyway, out there in a warzone? Might the news detract him from his duties, put him in danger?
But I knew him – I knew he’d want to know; have to know.
Our last call had been in the middle of October, out of the blue. He couldn’t make promises about when he’d next ring – a sergeant in charge of a twenty-eight-man platoon in Kabul isn’t able to nip off to the phone whenever he fancies. I knew this and accepted it, so I never tried to anticipate our next conversation. So when he did manage to get through, it was a pleasant surprise.
I got my welfare card from the drawer in the bathroom cabinet, where it was hidden beneath old cream bottles and vitamin packets; it was the most precious thing I owned right now, so I feared carrying it around or leaving it where burglars might search for valuables. All army wives are given them when husbands tour unreachable places. On this credit-card-sized slip is necessary emergency information, most importantly a helpline number so soldiers can be contacted in extreme circumstances.
This was an extreme circumstance.
I told the operator Jake’s full name, rank and number so he could be alerted. She said it might be an hour until he called back so I asked if he’d ring my mobile and gave her the number.
Upstairs I finally changed out of my too-short nurse dress and washed my powdery face. Which clothes should I wear to learn how to inject my own child numerous times a day? What colour complemented blood? Festive green? Bleakest black? Perhaps I should pick my favourite dress with pink roses that I’d worn to a recent family christening, when Rose had said, ‘There are tiny little me’s all over it!’ Or was a dress so cheerful making light of her diagnosis?
I put on leggings and a jumper, and went to Rose’s room. Opening the door was like opening the lid on a favourite perfume bottle – its scent was familiar and uplifting and stimulated all my senses. She lived in chaos; papers and ribbons and socks and DVDs and stuffed toys and toothbrushes were scattered across the floor and surfaces. I’d long ago given up nagging and following her around with a bin bag. It seemed that, as in maths, where two negatives make a positive, two orderly parents make a messy child.
The bed was unmade; only one part was straight – its pillow, with two books beneath. Tornados have a clear, calm centre with low pressure; Rose’s books were this centre. While she might happily drop clothes in her wake, discard paper without a thought, she never went to sleep without putting her latest reads beneath her head, as though the words might somehow penetrate her dreams.
I took them out. She was reading War Horse and The Snow Goose. Animals were her favourite characters.
‘Animals are more interesting than people,’ she once said. ‘People do my head in. But animals always behave so much more better. They’re never dickheads.’
To which I’d, of course, said, ‘Language,’ and we’d argued about my swearing and how she was only copying me.
I needed to get back to the hospital. I put Rose’s books in a bag with some snacks, a toothbrush, hairbrush and some of her clothes. Then I drove through the pre-dawn streets, no radio, no distraction, but no peace.
When my phone rang I didn’t even look to see who it was. I pulled over by Rose’s school and answered, my hand shaking.
‘Are you okay?’ asked Jake, no hello or other greeting. Usually we began gently, using affectionate nicknames and slightly shy from having not spoken in weeks.
‘I’m fine,’ I lied. ‘It’s not me, it’s…’
‘Rose? God, is she okay?’
‘No. Yes. I mean – she will be.’
‘Will be? What’s happened?’
‘She collapsed,’ I said. ‘It was all so crazy, so fast. She was…’
‘What do you mean “collapsed”? Why? Where is she now?’ I understood Jake’s panic, his need to demand answers. I’d been in that place only hours ago and so now I wanted to ease his anxiety as Gill had mine.
‘She’s in the hospital,’ I said, ‘still unconscious, but they…’
‘Where are you?’ he demanded.
I could see him as clearly as I would if he’d been sitting in the passenger seat next to me – thick reddish hair grown out a little because he was home on leave, pale skin dotted with freckles, chin cut in half by a cleft, and eyes that studied me from beneath eyebrows too beautiful for a man. Eyes that I’d never been able to escape, frequently fought against, often surrendered to, and always looked at for security. I wished he was there.
‘I’m in the car,’ I said. ‘I’ve been home to…’
‘Home? Shouldn’t you be with her?’
‘I was – I am.’ I tried to get him to understand. ‘I had to get changed, get the card with your number on, get her some…’
‘I told you to carry that card around in case there’s an emergency and you need to call me!’ His voice reached a pitch I’d only heard a few times before, once when Rose went missing in a department store and we found her after a frenzied twenty-minute search, trying on women’s bras.
‘I was afraid I’d lose it,’ I said. ‘Look, I’m driving back to the hospital right now; I only stopped to talk to you. I didn’t want her to wake without her favourite books. Jake – she collapsed.’
‘Why?’
‘They said she has diabetes.’ It felt like someone else said the words.
‘What? I don’t understand. How? I mean, she’s nine.’
‘It’s not like that – there are two sorts apparently and hers is just random. It’s no one’s fault. Remember I told you a few weeks ago how she was thirsty a lot? I feel so bad that I didn’t do anything then! I thought she was playing up. Missing you. I told you remember and you agreed and said she’d settle down.’
‘I did, yes. But maybe if I’d been there I’d have known it was something more.’
‘So you’re saying I should’ve known?’
‘No,’ he said softly. ‘I didn’t mean that.’
‘You did. And you’re right. I’m terrible.’
‘No, you’re not.’ He paused. ‘Is she going to be okay? I just can’t take it all in. What happens now?’
‘Injections. Forever. But yes, they say she’ll be right as rain in a few days.’ I braced myself for a question I feared the answer to. ‘So will they let you come home?’
Jake didn’t speak. I imagined I heard gunfire, but it was only a truck backing up on the opposite side of the road.
‘They should let me yes. I don’t know how soon, I’ll have to find out.’
‘I’ll cope until then,’ I said, and added, perhaps more to convince myself, ‘I will. I don’t want you to worry; you have to stay safe. I’m sure I can manage this for a day or two until you’re here. How hard can it be? They’re going to show me how to do it all soon. I’ll be fine. Rose will be fine. I promise. I’ll look after our little pal.’ We’d always affectionately called her this and as I said the nickname my throat closed up.
‘I wish I was there for her,’ said Jake.
‘I know. But I’m here.’
‘You need to get back to the hospital.’
‘You want me to go?’
‘I just want you to be with her, in case she wakes up,’ he said. ‘God, I feel so useless!’
‘You’re not. You’re just doing what you signed up to do. Last week Rose had to do this project about who her hero is – she wrote about you. You keep yourself safe and I’ll keep our little pal safe.’
When he didn’t speak I knew
all the words he wasn’t saying.
‘I’ll get back to her,’ I said.
‘I’ll ring as soon as I possibly can with news of when they might release me. You’ll call the helpline if anything else happens, you promise?’
‘Of course I will – but it won’t.’
‘I love you, Natalie.’
‘Love you too.’
After hanging up I sat still for a moment. Sunlight began to slide its way along the roofs and trees, its fingers not yet quite long enough to touch my car. As natural light took over, the electric lamps died. Soon Rose would rely on injected insulin to do what was the natural job of her pancreas. How I wished I could give her mine.
I telephoned each of my parents. They’d separated when I was eleven, amicably, different natures dividing them like fields and forest. My mum lived on the Isle of Wight now with a man much younger, someone who lived life with the same vigour. My dad lived a bit closer, but his secluded nature sometimes made it seem as though he were as far away.
Each responded differently, but completely as I’d expected. Mum wailed and asked when she should come up, to which I insisted there was no need. Dad calmly asked practical questions and for facts about the nature of the illness. I gave them what they needed.
Then I drove back to the hospital.
Rose was still sleeping. A faint blush of red now coloured her cheeks. I’d wanted to call her Little Pink when she was born because the midwives had said what lovely skin she had. Quite rightly, Jake suggested she might be mocked at school, and so we settled on Rose.
I put her two books under the stiff hospital pillow and sat back in the chair. A nurse I’d not yet seen came in with one of the blood-reading devices.
‘Oh, you’re back.’ She pricked Rose’s finger end. This time my daughter jerked away. ‘She’ll be awake soon and she might not be herself – she’ll be dead crabby. She’ll want to eat everything in sight for days until her blood sugars stabilise.’
‘When can we go home?’ I asked.
‘Usually it’s after a few days,’ she said. ‘This morning Shelley, our diabetes nurse, will come and sit with you and explain everything fully. There’s plenty of support, but she’ll give you that information.’
‘Thank you.’ I suddenly realised that I too was hungry. When had I last eaten? I’d picked at Rose’s chips yesterday lunchtime, finished her yoghurt.
As though she’d read my mind the nurse asked, ‘Can I get you a cup of tea and some toast?’
‘Oh, that would be wonderful.’
When she left I stood by the window and watched the traffic build below. Nothing changed, not really. What happened in our small hospital room made no difference to the morning congestion; our frontline wasn’t newsworthy, Rose’s diabetes no headline.
I could see the river from here, the odd boat, the bridge. My breath clouded the glass and through its fog I thought I spotted the brown-suited familiar stranger strolling merrily past the ambulances. I wiped the condensation with my sleeve and looked more closely, banging my forehead on the window. I heard a whistle on his lips, that rich accent. Perhaps he was heading for the docks, for the sea. But it wasn’t him – this man was blond and had a briefcase and umbrella.
I turned to go to the chair and as had happened yesterday when Gill tried to persuade me to sit down, a curious line came into my head: You’re going to be picked up, I tell you. The room swayed like I was at sea. This must be exhaustion, I thought. I held on to the metal bed and shut my eyes a moment.
‘They’ll be picked up.’
I opened my eyes again. Rose was watching me, eyebrows frowny.
‘Hey you,’ I said softly. ‘What was that you said?’
‘What was what I said?’ She sounded just like she did when I woke her too early on a weekend.
‘Something about being picked up?’
She shrugged and I realised I was interrogating her. ‘How do you feel?’
‘Hungry,’ she snapped.
I touched her damp forehead. ‘You will be. The nurse is coming back in a minute and I saw a food trolley go past earlier.’
‘What am I doing here?’ she demanded. ‘This bed is too hard.’ She noticed the drip in her arm. ‘What’s this for?’
‘Don’t pull on it, you’ll hurt yourself.’ I tried to hold her free hand but she shook me off. ‘It’s putting some important medicine into you.’
‘Why? What’s wrong with me?’
I could only think of one word and she wouldn’t understand it. I was rescued by the return of the nurse, holding a cup of tea and some toast and jam.
‘Ah, you’re awake,’ she said to Rose. ‘I bet you’re hungry, eh? What do you think you’d like?’
‘Don’t care,’ she said.
‘Tell you what.’ The nurse put my drink and food on the cabinet. ‘I’ll ask them to bring the trolley back so you can pick whatever you like. Okay?’
She disappeared again. I sat closer to Rose – her smell was off, alien, a mixture of sleepy child and sterile sheets.
‘Look under your pillow,’ I said.
She shrugged, ignored me.
‘Go on, look. I put your books there, just how you like. I couldn’t see a bookmark in any of them – sorry. Maybe it fell out? But I bet you’ll remember where you were up to once you start reading.’
She shrugged again. ‘Where’s Dad?’
‘He’s away, remember. He’ll be back just as soon as he can be.’
‘But I want him now.’
‘I know. I rang him and told him you’re here. Even if he set off for home right now it’d take hours, even days, to get here. He’s thinking of you.’
Rose still wouldn’t look at me.
‘Why don’t you look at your books?’ I pulled one from under the pillow but she didn’t react. ‘Well, you can read when you feel like it.’
Rose pushed my hand roughly and the novel flew across the room, falling like a parachute carrying lifesaving supplies.
The nurse returned with a plate of toast and fruit and some milk, which she put next to my food before retrieving the book.
‘War Horse? I saw the show in London,’ she said. ‘Have you seen it?’
Rose shuffled farther away from me, didn’t answer. The nurse put a hand on my arm and whispered that she would be unreasonable like this for a few hours. She said we should wait until then before we explained everything to her.
But how would I ever tell Rose that the finger-prick tests and injections she’d soon endure while conscious would continue at home, forever? That what she might think was merely hospital procedure – medicine to make her better like Calpol – was in fact her new life. That if she didn’t have it, she might die.
‘Why don’t you eat your toast and we’ll look at War Horse together?’ I said instead. ‘Like we used to in the book nook.’
Rose shook her head. ‘Get it away from me,’ she cried. ‘I don’t want it. You think I’m stupid. Books won’t make me feel okay. All the animals in them are dickheads – and you are too!’
My phone began ringing, demanding attention over Rose’s outburst. I tried to calm her but had to take the call. It was Jake – as I left the room to speak to him, Rose’s words followed me; their vowels and consonants clinging to my clothes like the sterile hospital odours.
‘I won’t be able to come home,’ was all I fully heard from Jake. Then broken bits of explanation about how Rose was “in no danger” and her condition wasn’t what they assessed as “life threatening” and so didn’t “warrant compassionate leave.” He’d be home in two months on his already arranged leave. I could hear how distressed he was about it but my own feelings of abandonment were stronger, and cruelly I hung up on him, regretting my haste immediately.
I went back into the room.
Rose sat, arms crossed, and as though to have the final word she said, ‘I’m done with books.’
All the stories died that morning.
Until we found the one we’d always known.
3
FIND THE BOOK
Both as well as can be expected. Extra water and food keeping us going.
K.C.
Four nights I slept on a foldout bed next to Rose. It was too low for me to watch her sleep, whispering the curious, nonsensical language of dreams, but also hidden enough for me to use my phone to search secretly online for information about diabetes.
I was haunted by what I found. I heard whispered words like kidney failure and heart failure long after I’d turned my phone off. I heard blindness and hypo when being busily tutored in my imminent new care role by numerous professionals. I heard risk of stroke and nerve damage when trying to sleep.
Often during the night I left our little room and walked up and down the main stairs, over and over, until my knees hurt and my forehead sweated and my heart raced. I wasn’t sure if I was running towards or away from something. I wanted to call out for help but had no name to call.
When I finally fell back asleep I dreamt I was on a boat.
It was small, perhaps only big enough for ten people, and it tipped and swayed with the waves’ motion. Tins of something clanked together at one end, and a notebook or log or something else papery fluttered nearby. I touched the rough pages – it was too dark to see much so my fingers did the reading. Beside me, never waking, someone slept. No matter how I shook him and demanded, ‘Why am I here? Who are you?’ he never stirred.
I woke each morning to the smell of the sea, queasy with exhaustion, hoping Jake had rung back so I could apologise. No missed calls.
I drank strong coffee, and put on a smile for Rose, and was determined to learn how to care for her properly. Diabetes Nurse Shelley was my daytime mentor, coaching me in the use of finger-prick tests to read blood levels, and in how to prepare and give injections, and where on the body was best to administer them.
Having failed maths at school, I struggled with the numbers. The desired blood sugar reading for a diabetic is between four and ten, though this range varied depending on which website I read at night or which nurse answered my endless questions. Shelley said it would take time to get Rose down to such levels and that I shouldn’t worry if her readings were still as high as fifteen for some weeks yet.