Genius

by Clare Nonhebel

CHAPTER 46

  It was a false alarm. No doubt there would be a few more of them.

  Keith opened his eyes to find a ring of white, stricken faces around him. They were all there: Mum, Dad, Grandad, Andrew - and a young girl Keith had never seen before. Andrew must have phoned Jessica. She was crying more than any of them.

  Hazily, he said, 'I'm all right. I'm okay.’ His voice sounded hollow.

  His mouth was dry and his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. He would have liked to ask for a drink but he couldn't remember the word for it right now. Perhaps one of them would think of it. They were all staring at him.

  'Hello, darling,’ said his mother, coming forward. Her voice was bright. She always felt it was best for him if everyone pretended nothing was wrong. He wasn't sure why that was: whether she really believed that he wouldn't realize there was a risk he would die, or whether she was asking him to pretend he was fine and not to display any difficult emotions that she might not be able to soothe away.

  She smoothed his pillow now, stroked his hair away from his face and kissed him, then rearranged his hands on the hospital counterpane. Finally she repositioned the bottle of Lucozade on the bedside locker. He tried to turn his head to look at it, to give her a hint he was thirsty, but she didn't notice. She was looking at Jessica, who was sobbing uncontrollably. It was not a look of sympathy but a look that said, louder than words, Behave yourself.

  Andrew was trying to comfort her, uncomfortably. The look he received from his mother was equally clear: you shouldn't have brought her.

  Keith summoned all his energy and lifted his hand. 'Here,’ he said to Andrew.

  Andrew left Jessica and moved to his side.

  'No,’ said Keith. He moved his hand again, in Jessica's direction. 'Come here.’

  Andrew stood back and drew Jessica by the arm, gently, to stand by his brother's bed.

  'Hi,’ said Keith. His fingers twitched, in the semblance of a wave. He smiled.

  'Hi,’ she said. Tears streaked her face. She looked younger than her thirteen years. She took the hand he held out.

  'I heard a lot about you,’ said Keith. 'Nice to meet you, Jessica.’ His breath ran out before the end of her name, which came out as Jessi ...

  The girl broke into a fresh burst of crying. 'Sorry,’ she sobbed. She looked unseeingly round at the whole family, addressing her apology to all of them. 'Sorry. My mum used to call me Jessie ...’

  She was pulling away from Keith's hand, about to run out of the curtained cubicle and out of the hospital ward, away from this family where she didn't belong. Keith tightened the grip of his hand, as much as he could, and widened his eyes at Andrew, who understood. He moved forward and put his arm round her shoulders, awkwardly, aware of his mother's eyes boring into him with unspoken messages: Get her out of here; she's upsetting Keith.

  Grandad pulled up a chair and gently pushed the girl into it.

  'Here,’ he said.

  Keith smiled at him. The girl slumped forward, her head on her arms on the bed, and sobbed more loudly. There was a note of fear in her crying, Keith heard. She had been trying to stop herself doing this for so long, trying not to upset people - her dad probably, and now Andrew's family. She was afraid of their reaction, afraid to be seen as causing more grief to people who were already grieved, yet she had reached the point where her own grief couldn't be held in any longer, and now she was frightened it would overwhelm her and all of them and she would have started a flood she couldn't stop.

  'Sorry,’ she kept saying, in between sobs.

  With immense effort Keith lifted his hand and laid it on her head. 'I'm sorry,’ he said. 'I'm sorry your mother died. You've had a rough time.’

  Grandad stood behind her still, between Andrew and his mother. His father held back.

  Keith looked across at his mother. She knew him well enough to know what he was saying to her; she wasn't the only one who could give speaking looks - instructions she would never acknowledge but expected the receiver to obey.

  Keith held her gaze for a minute, looked back at the girl and then back at his mother: You do it. She needs a mother.

  His mother looked away. When she looked up again, reluctantly, Keith was still staring at her. She turned back to the bedside locker, rearranged the box of tissues and the Lucozade.

  'Want a drink, darling? It was a long fit; your throat must be sore, isn't it?’

  When he didn't answer, she was forced to meet his eyes again. The look was more insistent - across to the girl, back to her. She resisted: Haven't I got enough on my plate?

  She poured a drink and held it to his lips. He pursed them shut. She tried again, pretending she hadn't understood his message. His father, growing uneasy at this silent battle of wills, looked at his watch. The girl's sobs were more painful now; despair was creeping in.

  It seemed to Keith she was crying for all of them. Only Andrew was joining in, quietly. Grandad was clearing his throat; Dad was taking directionless steps forward and back in the confined space; Mum was trying to be busy; Keith was getting angry. His family was not good at expressing grief; they were using this poor girl to do it for them. The least they could do in return was comfort her.

  He gave up hinting, turned to his mother and said clearly, 'Look after her.’

  Slowly, she put down the glass and moved to the other side of the bed. Grandad moved aside to let her pass. Standing behind Jessica, she put a hand awkwardly on her head, on top of Keith's hand. Keith pulled his hand away. His mother's stayed there. He could see her struggling to choke back her emotions, and he knew what his gesture spoke to her: Take care of her. Let go of me. His look at her now held sympathy: I know.

  His mother helped Jessica to her feet and hugged her. The girl's sobs subsided the moment his mother's started, and it was Jessica who composed herself first and led the way out of the cubicle, saying to Andrew, 'I'll take her to the cafeteria and get her a coffee.’

  Andrew went to follow her but his father said, 'I'd leave them to it, son.’

  They pulled up chairs and sat down, the men of the family together.

  'Andrew said you got me a modem for the computer,’ Keith told his dad. 'Thank you.’

  His father was embarrassed. 'Thought it might make it easier for you to stay in touch with those friends from the disabled group you're always writing to.’

  'It will. Quite a few of them are on e-mail and kept asking if I was.’

  'Well, now you're one of the technocrats!’ His father leaned forward, serious suddenly. 'Your mother said you feel you're at the end of the road. Do you?’

  'No. Not yet. Just at the end of having operations. They won't do me any more good, Dad. I've had all the improvements my body can take.’

  'I've been talking to Mr Abdul. He thinks something more could be done to ease the pressure on your hip.’

  'That's what he's just done this operation for,’ said Keith.

  'No, he thinks if they operated on the femur ...’

  'No,’ said Keith.

  'I told him it was too soon to think about it. Give you time to get over this one before any talk about the next stage.’

  'There is no next stage,’ said Keith.

  'Isn't that a bit defeatist? You're usually keen to try anything.’

  'Anything that will help,’ Keith corrected him.

  'There was something else he suggested,’ his father said diffidently. 'He thought he might be able to ease the strain on your breathing.’

  'How?’

  'Because your ribs are indented, he says there must be pressure on the lung. So...’ His father hesitated.

  'So, he wants to remove my ribs,’ Keith supplied. 'Turn me into a jellyfish.’

  'No. Just remove one. And reset the one below it.’

  'Reset it?’ Keith craned his neck to get a better look at him. 'You mean break it, then reset it.’

  'Yes.’

  'Dad,’ said Keith. 'I've never asked you this. Will you give me
an honest answer?’

  'Sure. What is it?’

  'How do you feel about all this? I mean, for fourteen years you've been with me before, during and after fifteen operations. How does it make you feel when someone says, "Mr Harper, what we'd like to do next with your son is break his ribs?"’

  His father lowered his head. His hands were gripped together in his lap.

  Andrew and Grandad were silent. Andrew was white as a sheet. Keith knew they were both feeling for his dad. It was a terrible question to ask him. But then, thought Keith, it was a terrible situation. If no one ever allowed him to voice those questions openly, each one of them would have to face them in his or her own mind, privately and alone, after he died. He wanted to spare them that if he could.

  His father's shoulders were shaking. Jessica's open grief had unsettled all of them. It was a family rule not to show each other their real feelings. Keith felt it was high time the rule was broken.

  'Your dad's always done what he thinks best for you, Keith,’ said Grandad. His tone was reproachful but gentle.

  'I know that,’ said Keith. 'It's been a heavy responsibility for him. And now I want to take it for myself. I want to make the decisions.’

  'I've never forced you,’ said his father. 'We'd never have done anything unless you agreed.’

  'And I did agree,’ said Keith. 'But now I've decided to live out what's left of my life without any more operations. And I want you and Mr Abdul to agree with me, even if you don't really think I'm right.’

  Grandad cleared his throat. 'When you say, "what's left of my life ..." what are you thinking of, Keith?’

  They had discussed this among themselves, he could tell. How long does he think he's got? How much has he been told? Does he have some instinctive knowledge of when he's going to die or is this just depression, being morbid?

  'What prognosis have you been given for me?’ he asked. 'How long have the doctors told you to expect me to live? You've never told me.’

  'They all say different things,’ said his father. 'Most of them say it's impossible to estimate. So much depends on the person, how much of a fighter he is, the individual spirit. We've always just taken it one day at a time, son. When you were a baby, no one really expected you to live, and we've had fourteen years of you now.’

  'Give me a rough estimate,’ said Keith.

  His father shrugged but didn't meet his eyes. 'How can anyone tell?’ he said.

  'I'd find it much easier,’ said Keith, 'if people were honest with me. I'm not a child.’

  'Are you angry?’ his father asked.

  'Yes,’ said Keith.

  'Son, believe me, we've tried to do what's best for you, always. Don't be angry with us.’

  'Why shouldn't he be bloody angry?’ said Andrew. 'I would be.’

  'Andrew.’ His father put a hand on his arm. Andrew shook it off.

  'Answer his bloody questions,’ he said. 'Don't give him all this bullshit. Tell him what you told me.’

  'Andrew, will you please let your mother and I deal with this in the way ...’

  'He doesn't want to be dealt with!’ Andrew shouted. 'He wants the bloody truth.’

  'There's no need to swear at me. Why don't you go down and join ...?’

  'You tell me,’ said Keith. 'Tell me what they told you, Andrew.’

  His brother hesitated. His father's expression warned him to silence.

  'Please,’ said Keith.

  'Mr Gannet, who has left now, said it was only due to your spirit you'd survived this long,’ said Andrew, almost inaudibly. 'He said you could go at any time. Particularly if you keep having fits.’

  'Thank you,’ said Keith. 'And thank you for bringing Jessica to see me. She's a very nice girl. And Dad, thanks for getting me the modem. I appreciate it. Could someone please give me a drink now?’