When the phone starts to ring, I hang up. I didn’t expect it to start ringing so soon.
I imagine the lady throwing off the duvet and getting out of bed. She’s probably really annoyed now.
I take a deep breath like Miss Williams tells Damo to try to do before he starts fighting. Sometimes it works, but not always. I don’t think it’s because of the breathing. I think it’s because Damo just happens to be someone who likes fighting. He says he’s going to be a boxer when he grows up and I think he’ll be a pretty good one.
Anyway, I take a breath and then I hold it and then I start to let it out, dead slow like Miss Williams tells us, and by the time I’ve dialled the last number my breath’s all out and the phone starts to ring again.
‘Didn’t you hear me the last time? I said, “Fuck off.” ’
That’s about the worst curse word you can say. Sully says there’s another one that’s even worse than that but he won’t tell me and Damo till we’re teenagers. Kids say ‘fuck’ all the time but it sounds way worse when an adult says it. I don’t know why.
I say, ‘This is Milo McIntyre. Is that Kat?’ I spent ages wondering what I should call her. Mrs Kavanagh? Or Miss? Or Katherine, like her mam calls her? But, in the end, I decided to call her Kat, like Ed does.
She doesn’t say anything for so long that I think maybe she’s hung up or something, so I say, ‘Are you still there?’
She says, ‘Who is this?’
I’ve already told her that I’m Milo McIntyre but I say it again anyway. She might wear a hearing aid, like Mrs Barber. In a loud whisper I say, ‘THIS. IS. MILO. McINTYRE.’
‘Who?’
‘Milo McIntyre.’
‘Do you know what time it is, young man?’
Adults only ever call you ‘young man’ when they’re annoyed with you. Miss Williams calls Damo ‘young man’ all the time.
I look at my watch. ‘It’s oh-one-twenty.’ Sully taught me and Damo the way you say the time in the army. People sound older when they say it like that.
There is a pretty long pause and I can tell she’s thinking about what to say next, so to save her the trouble, I say, ‘I’m ringing because of Faith. I’m Faith’s brother. Well, I’m not really her brother anymore, except that I still feel like I’m her brother. And she’s still taking care of me and she still sort of feels like my sister, but I’m not sure if I’m supposed to call her my half-sister now, like when Celia’s baby comes along. Or half-brother, if he’s a boy.’
‘Jesus, slow down will you?’
I don’t know why I said all that stuff about Faith. It’s not anywhere on the page where I’ve written what I’m supposed to say so I won’t forget anything.
‘Sorry.’ She sounds cross.
‘Milo. That’s your name, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’ I already told her that. Loads of times.
‘You’re Faith’s brother, aren’t you?’
‘Yes.’ I don’t say any of the stuff about half-brothers or half-sisters again.
‘Milo, look—’
‘You sound like my mam.’ Sometimes, you end up saying things you never meant to say. Like Kat sounding like Mam. That’s not on my page either. But it’s true. She says my name just the same. With loads of O at the end.
‘Do I?’
‘Yes. Mam was from Ireland. Just like you. From Galway. Do you know Galway?’
‘Eh, yes.’
‘She lived in Galway and then she went to London and she met Dad and they both lived in Galway for a while. After they got married. Six years I think. And then they got Faith. She was eighteen months old. Dad said Faith was a baby when they got her, but eighteen months is one and a half and I think that’s more like a toddler, don’t you?’
‘Ah . . . I don’t . . . I suppose . . . I haven’t really given it very much thought.’
‘Did you give away any other babies? Besides Faith, I mean?’ Nobody else has thought about this, but Faith could have loads of other brothers and sisters she doesn’t know about. Or half-brothers and half-sisters.
She doesn’t say anything for a while and I’m just about to say, ‘Hello? Are you still there?’ when she says, ‘No, I didn’t. It was just . . . it was one baby. It was Faith.’
‘Do you have any other children? Ones you didn’t give away, I mean?’ They’d still be Faith’s half-brothers or half-sisters, wouldn’t they?
‘No.’
She sounds dead tired all of a sudden. I’m worried that she might say she has to go so I look at my notes and I begin. ‘Do you think you could come over? To Brighton? That’s where we live. I think Faith might be happy again if she got to see you. And if she’s happy again, then Dad won’t make me go to Scotland to live with him and Celia and the new baby.’
The lady says nothing so I go right on talking.
‘I mean, Dad and Celia are fine and everything and I’m sure it’ll be nice to have a new baby half-brother or half-sister. It’s just . . . I won’t get to see Damo every day. Or Carla. Or go to my lifesaving classes.’
Kat coughs, like there’s something stuck in her throat. She says, ‘I’m sure there must be lifesaving classes in Scotland.’
‘They wouldn’t be the same.’
She says, ‘I know what you mean,’ and the way she says it, it’s like she really does know.
‘So you’ll come?’
She must have been holding her breath because now she lets out the biggest, longest breath you ever heard. I bet she’s got huge lungs. She can probably hold her breath underwater for at least one length.
Then she says, ‘Milo, things aren’t as simple as that, I’m afraid.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because they . . . they just aren’t.’
‘Is it because of the money?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The flight? I know it’s dead expensive but I still have pretty much all my First Holy Communion money left cos I didn’t get to spend much of it in Dublin.’
The lady doesn’t say anything after that. I wait for a while and then I say, ‘So I have some money left over and you could borrow it and you could fly over and you wouldn’t even have to stay in a hotel because you could stay here. You could stay in my mam’s room. It’s empty now. Faith cleared it out after she found the papers in the attic.’
‘What papers?’
‘The ones about being adopted.’ Sometimes adults can be pretty slow on the uptake.
‘Oh.’
‘She was pretty upset about it because she didn’t know she was adopted. Not like Jessica.’
‘Who’s Jessica?’
‘She’s just this girl in my school. She’s in year seven. Her parents told her she was adopted when she was a baby and everybody knew she was adopted. But Mam never told Faith. And then Faith found out by accident when she was looking for Mam’s rosary beads and that’s why she went to Ireland. So she could talk to you about it. But you were at the meeting.’
‘What meeting?’
‘I don’t know which one. Your dad said you were at a meeting and it was a really important one and that’s why you couldn’t ring back. I think that’s what he said anyway. That’s why we didn’t get to meet you.’ I don’t know why I’m telling her all this stuff. I look at my notes and see what I need to say next.
‘So, anyway. You could stay with us. When you come over, I mean. And I could cook. I’m not bad for my age. Do you like pancakes?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Pancakes. Do you like them? I put chocolate and banana in them.’
‘Ah . . .’
‘You can use Nutella as well. If you don’t happen to have any chocolate to melt.’
‘Milo?’
‘You can slice the banana chunky or thin, depending on how much you like bananas. I love them so I slice ’em dead chunky.’
‘Milo?’
‘Yes?’
‘I can’t come over.’
‘You don’t have to come right away.’
‘I just . . . I ca
n’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s just . . . Ed hasn’t been well and—’
‘Ed? What’s wrong with him? There’s a flu going round here. Sully got it when he was home from the war so he couldn’t go back when he was meant to and his mam was so happy she said I could have a sleepover next weekend, and she never lets me have a sleepover anymore on account of us setting off the smoke alarm that one time.’
‘No, it’s not the flu. It’s . . . he had a . . . it’s his heart. He needs to have an operation.’
‘Did he have a heart attack?’ I really hope Ed didn’t have a heart attack because George Pullman’s granddad had one of those and he dropped dead on the spot.
‘No, they didn’t say . . . they’re calling it an episode. Something like that. He’s always had a weak heart, from when he was a baby. That’s what they said, after he was born.’
‘He looked dead healthy when I met him.’
‘He said it was lovely meeting you.’
‘He’s legend at Mario Kart, he really is.’
‘He’s—’ She stops right there and I wait to see if she’s going to say something else but there’s nothing but silence down the phone.
I say, ‘Maybe Ed could come with you? When he’s better, I mean? You could both come. I could take Ed to my lifesaving class. I told him all about it. He said it sounded great. He said he swims too but he doesn’t do lifesaving. I could show him some of the techniques I’m learning.’
‘Milo, I’m sorry.’
‘What for?’
‘I can’t come. Not now.’
‘But sometime, right? You can come over sometime? Later, I mean. Not right now. I don’t mean right now.’
‘I don’t know. Everything is . . . up in the air at the moment. With Ed and . . .’
‘But he’s going to get better, right? You could come then. When he’s better.’
‘He’s having an operation. Tomorrow. Today, I suppose. I just came home to . . . I don’t know really.’
‘Tell Ed I said good luck.’
‘I’m sorry about . . . the way I answered the phone. It’s just . . . I thought you were someone else.’
I’m glad I’m not the person she thought it was. It sounds like that person is going to be in for it whenever he does ring.
She says, ‘I’d better go.’
‘Me too. I’m supposed to be in bed. Asleep by now.’
‘Faith doesn’t know that you’re ringing me?’
‘No way. She’d kill me if she knew.’
She says, ‘I’m sorry,’ again, but I don’t know what for.
‘Hopefully Ed will be better soon and you can come over then.’
‘Milo?’
‘Yeah?’
But then she just says, ‘Goodbye,’ before she hangs up.
I’ve lost track of time. There’s something about hospitals that makes time drag. Or stop altogether. I went home for a couple of hours during the night. Mum said I should get some sleep. I didn’t sleep. I don’t know what I did. Milo rang while I was there. He talks about Ed like he’s known him for years. Ed has that effect on people. He’s just that sort of man.
Now it’s the next morning and Ed is having a procedure. That’s what the consultant called it. A procedure. Like it was nothing.
Thomas says, ‘Hey.’ He is sitting on the chair beside mine. He reaches over and puts his hand on the back of my chair. When he smiles, I think, just for a moment, that everything is going to be OK.
I stand up. Start the pacing thing again.
‘How long has it been now?’
‘Not long. Don’t worry, Kat. He’ll be fine.’
‘How do you know?’ He sounds so sure.
‘He’s in good hands.’ I walk past his chair and he reaches for my hand. Presses it between both of his. Coaxes the warmth back in.
‘You’re frozen.’
‘I’m always frozen.’
‘Do you want some tea?’
I nod. I don’t want tea. But the getting of it. The drinking of it. The process of it. All that helps pass the time.
When he comes back with the tea, I say, ‘You don’t have to stay, you know. I’ll ring you. When he’s out of theatre. As soon as he’s out. I’ll give you a ring.’
Thomas shakes his head. ‘I’m better here.’ I don’t tell him how relieved I am. How grateful.
We drink the tea.
My parents are still in the chapel, lighting candles. For all the good that will do. They arrived at the hospital about half an hour after me and Ed. Staff in green and blue scrubs were waiting for us when I skidded to a stop at the door. They had a stretcher, an oxygen mask. Blankets. They looked like a group of people who knew what they were doing. Reliable. That’s the word that comes to mind when you look at such a bunch of people. I felt relief. When they lifted Ed out of the car with their efficient, reliable hands. When they placed him – so gently – onto the stretcher. Covered him in blankets. Put the oxygen mask over his face. Stepped back. Smiled at him. Smiled at me. I thought – just for a minute – that everything was going to be all right. Then someone pulled a lever and someone pushed the stretcher away from me. It went down a corridor and there were double doors at the end and the doors swung open and the trolley was wheeled through, then a nurse put her hand on my arm and said, ‘Don’t worry. Your brother is in good hands.’ And the double doors swung shut and the relief drained away and fear was all that was left.
Thomas says, ‘Kat? You OK?’
I shake my head. ‘I should have known something was up with him. I wasn’t paying enough attention.’
‘You got him here as quickly as you could.’ When Thomas smiles, his eyes change from grey to green. He is wearing wellingtons and an ancient wax jacket. There’s a bit of hay in his hair. He was mucking out the stable – where he keeps his one goat, two pigs, three hens, the garrulous goose and the lamb-bearing ewe – when I rang him.
I reach up and pull the hay out of Thomas’s hair. Habit, I suppose. I hand it to him and he takes it and I look around the room, even though there’s nothing much to look at. Just some faded linoleum and three hard-backed armchairs that don’t belong together.
We wait. My parents return from the chapel.
Dad says, ‘Any news?’
I shake my head. Thomas says, ‘Not yet.’
The consultant said it was a routine procedure but that didn’t stop him getting us to sign forms with lists as long as your arm as to what could go wrong. Transparency. That’s what he called it. Covering your arse, more like.
Mum says, ‘Tea?’ Everybody nods, and she looks relieved. That she has something to do. Something to fill the space between the start of Ed’s procedure and the end.
After she’s got the tea, Mum retreats to the corridor to pace it. Dad stands as close as he can to the operating theatre without being in the way.
Thomas and I stay where we are.
We don’t say much. Having him here, in the room, squashed into the narrow chair beside mine, isn’t strange. I suppose it should be, when you consider everything. But it isn’t. It’s a comfort. Like the embers of a fire on a hard day in November. It’s almost as though I think that, once Thomas is here, nothing bad will happen. Nothing bad will happen to Ed.
Time somehow passes. I don’t know if it’s a lot of time or a little but it passes all the same. I don’t think about anything in particular. If pressed, I’d say I’m thinking about Ed but I couldn’t tell you for sure.
Thomas sits so still, you’d be forgiven for thinking he is asleep. He has a capacity for stillness that is rare, especially in someone so long. His legs stick out in front of him, providing an impediment – and almost certainly a tripping hazard – to anyone entering the room. I used to trip over them in the beginning. Then I got wise and commanded him to ‘call them home’ before he got a chance to fling them around the place.
Later, Thomas gets me a coffee. Not one from the machine. He goes to the deli on the corner to get it. A d
ecaf-cappuccino with skimmed milk, one and a half sachets of Demerara sugar and a light dusting of chocolate powder on the top. It’s perfect. It’s definitely the best thing that’s happened all day. Maybe even longer than that.
I don’t tell him that. Instead I say, ‘Thank you.’
This part of the hospital is quiet. There is something unnatural about the quiet. As if the world is holding its breath. Waiting for the bad news. Or the good, I suppose.
I think about bargaining. And then I dismiss the idea as ridiculous. And then I go right ahead and bargain anyway.
With whom, I couldn’t say.
‘If you make sure Ed is OK, I won’t drink for a month.’
Nothing.
‘OK, two months, then . . . Fine. Three . . . What the hell, I won’t touch a drop for the whole bloody year. I’ll be a . . . whatdyacallem . . . a teetotaller. For a year. Twelve months. So long as Ed is perfectly fine. He has to be one hundred per cent perfect or the deal’s off.’
Thomas looks at me. ‘What did you say?’
‘Nothing.’
‘You did. You said something.’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘You did. Something about a deal.’
‘I didn’t.’
We go back to being quiet again.
A face appears round the door and I jump. It’s not a particularly horrific face. It’s a perfectly acceptable, round little face, with spectacles and worry lines where spectacles and worry lines have every right to be. It’s just that, curled as it is round the door, it looks a little disembodied.
‘Katherine? Katherine Kavanagh?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m Dr Collins, the cardiologist. I’ve just spoken to your parents. They’re in with Edward. They asked me to come and find you.’
‘He’s out of theatre?’ I stand up so fast the chair topples backwards. Thomas stands up too, puts his hand on my shoulder and says, ‘Steady,’ in the same tone he uses on his goat when the goose gets her goat up and she goes on one of her sunflower-fuelled rampages.
I put both hands on my face. The tips of my fingers are cold, despite the dense heat of the waiting room.
I say, ‘How is he?’ Thomas stands beside me.
‘Edward presented with an acute arrhythmia, very probably brought on by his congenital heart condition, which doubtless was the cause of his collapse and loss of consciousness.’
Lifesaving for Beginners Page 28