We Own the Sky

by Luke Allnutt

  Anything we need, I thought as I walked back up Parliament Hill. Anything we need? Maybe not being on the phone to your new girlfriend. Maybe not staring at the barmaid’s breasts when I’m telling you my son has a brain tumor.

  * * *

  Anna was in the living room when I got home, sitting on the sofa with the laptop on the coffee table.

  “Is he still sleeping?” I said.

  “Yes, I just went up and he’s out like a light... Sorry about before. I know Lola means well but I just couldn’t...”

  I sat down next to her. She had done her makeup and tied back her hair. “I’ve gone through the list of neurosurgeons and put all the contact info into a spreadsheet. I printed one out for you. We can just split it up and work our way down the list.”

  I looked at the spreadsheet: doctors, their addresses and phone numbers, a note on their area of specialization.

  “I’ll get started.”

  “I was thinking back to the appointment with Dr. Kennety,” she said, “and it’s all just a blur. I’m kicking myself that I didn’t write things down. There are so many questions I wish I had asked but it was like this fog came over me...”

  “Yeah, I know. I was thinking about that earlier.”

  Anna sighed and I put my hand on her knee.

  “We’ll be ready for the next meeting,” I said. “With lots of questions. We’re going to fight it, okay?”

  My words felt feeble, but Anna squeezed my hand. “Yes, we will. We have to,” she said. “Lola sent me a very sweet message, by the way. She was worried she’d upset me. How was Scott? Did you tell him?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And how was he?”

  “Oh, just Scott being Scott.”

  Anna was about to say something, to probe further, but she stopped, bit her lip. “Okay,” she said, standing up. “I think I’m missing a page.”

  I looked at her, confused.

  “Of the spreadsheet.”

  As she went to the printer, I opened the laptop so I could research the doctor that Scott had mentioned. In an open browser window, there was a page of search results. Anna had been Googling “miscarriages and brain tumors in children.” In another tab, there was a story from The Huffington Post: “How My Miscarriage Caused My Child’s Cancer.”

  I didn’t read it, but just looked at the stock photo of a woman, her head bowed, clutching her stomach.

  * * *

  Anna had always done her Christmas letters, a tradition she inherited from her mother. I had teased her about them in the past. They were awful, I said, from another age. Middle-class humble-brags: “Jonathan has had another fantastic year at Oxford, but sometimes we wish he would spend as much time on his studies as he does on his rowing and fraternizing with members of the opposite sex!”

  They don’t have to be like that, Anna said. Hers weren’t like that. And besides, it was a good way of keeping in touch. So every year, despite my mocking, she carefully folded a sheet of paper into her Christmas cards.

  I had not been sure about sending the email. I was worried we would have to spend our time answering messages of support, fending off friends armed with food baskets at the door. But Anna convinced me. It was better this way, she said. Let everyone know together, and then it would be easy for us to manage. Her word bothered me a little—“manage”—as if it was one of her clients, a crisis at work where everyone had to be on-message.

  Subject: Jack

  Sent: Mon May 12, 2014 2:00 pm

  From: Anna Coates

  To: (Undisclosed Recipients)

  CC: Rob

  Dear Friends,

  We hope you are all well and apologies for the mass mailing. We wanted to let you all know that Jack has recently been diagnosed with astrocytoma, a type of brain tumor.

  He will soon have surgery to have the tumor removed and the doctors are optimistic that he will make a full recovery.

  This has obviously been a tremendous shock, but we are hopeful and positive we will get through this. We thank you all for your support.

  Best Wishes,

  Anna and Rob

  I had added the “positive we will get through this” part. It was true, I told Anna, and, besides, we didn’t want people to worry unduly, to think that Jack was going to die. I didn’t understand her at times. Her genetic impulse to look on the negative side of things. She got it from her parents, handed down like a cursed heirloom. The glass-half-empty family, she used to joke.

  The replies came quickly. People wrote to say they were sorry, shocked, saddened. They told us stories: mothers, fathers, friends of friends, who had taken on cancer and won. They told us about little children they knew who were diagnosed with the same—or something similar—and were now doing very well. They told us to stay positive because that, they said, was the most important thing. They told us they would pray, that they would carry Jack in their hearts and be thinking about him from morning until night.

  I read and reread Anna’s note. A full recovery. That was what she wrote. So why did they all act like he was dying? Did they know something we didn’t?

  9

  I sat at my desk, buzzed with caffeine, my fingers twitching as I checked my email. I preferred to work on the sofa, or in bed, anywhere I could position my laptop on my knee, but Anna made me set up the home office. We went to choose a desk and a comfy office chair and she bought some organizers and stationary. It was important, she said, for my state of mind, so I felt like I was going to work.

  I scrolled through my in-box. The tech-incubator organizers were still chasing me, now offering to pay my expenses plus a speaker’s fee. Marc wanted some input on one of the programmers. There was something from Jack’s nursery, which I couldn’t bear to open, and then, hidden between an advertisement for a garden center and a PayPal receipt, an email from Scott.

  Subject:

  Sent: Wed May 21, 2014 1:05 am

  From: Scott Wayland

  To: Rob Coates

  hello mate just wanted to say sorry about the other day in the pub. I know you’re going through so much right now and probably wasn’t as attentive as I should be.

  btw, I spoke to the doctor friend of mine, pulled a few strings and he said the best in the business is dr. kennety on harley st. he really knows his stuff apparently. lemme know if u want to go down that road and I can hook u up...

  regarding other stuff, I still desperately need to talk to you about the China thing, selling I mean. they’re pestering me and I don’t want to lose the window on it. time to chat about it? if you don’t want to come by the office we could meet at The Ship or I could pop by the house.

  in other news, Karolina broke up with me and ive taken it pretty hard, so not going through the best time myself at the moment...

  anyways, chin up mate. hope to see u soon.

  Sent from my iPhone

  Chin up, mate, as if West Ham had been crushed at home. Did he not realize how he sounded? With everything that was happening, was I really supposed to care that Scott’s latest Slavic fuck-buddy had moved on to better, richer things?

  After I had calmed down, and made more coffee, I started to do some more research. As I was searching for “PXA treatment options,” I clicked on a link that led me to a forum called Hope’s Place. On the front page there were yellow-winged butterflies dancing across a baby-blue-and-pink sky. In one corner, underneath a giant rainbow, was a picture of Hope: a seven-year-old girl in a Glee T-shirt.

  I clicked on Hope’s picture and it led to a discussion forum for parents of children with brain tumors. I dug deeper and found a thread for Jack’s tumor type, PXA.

  I read quickly, scrolling through the posts. From what I could tell, removal by surgery was the preferred treatment option, but some of the children were given radiation therapy, and I didn’t know why. Was that for children with
more serious tumors? An option we should consider for Jack?

  Can anyone help us?

  by Rob» Wed May 21, 2014 8:45 am

  Hello, everyone, I’m new to Hope’s Place. We have recently received the news that our 5-year-old son Jack has been diagnosed with pleomorphic xanthoastrocytoma.

  In a few weeks’ time, Jack will have an operation to remove the tumor and then we will know more.

  Apart from this, Jack is in very good health. He has some balance issues, which prompted us getting him checked out, but you wouldn’t know he was ill at all. He is still very active and sharp.

  The doctor was very hopeful that Jack could be cured, but we realize there is still a risk that he may not. They have recommended just surgery, but I see some children have also had radiation as well. What would be normal in our son’s case?

  Also, I have been reading on this board about Gamma Knife and Proton therapy. Would these be things we should be looking into?

  Any information would be very much appreciated.

  Best Wishes,

  Rob

  I heard Anna come home, the door gently close, the rattle of her keys on the hall table, but I couldn’t hear Jack, his usual greeting of “Hello, everyone!” I rushed to the door and found Anna standing in the hall, with Jack slumped over her shoulder.

  “He fell asleep in the car,” she said, removing her second shoe. He seemed to sleep a lot now, nodding off when he was watching cartoons or even the shortest car journey.

  I took him in my arms and carried him up to bed. The midafternoon sun was strong, so I closed his curtains and laid him down on his bed. He stirred, turned to his side and pulled his knees up to his chest.

  When I got downstairs, Anna was staring into space, a glass of wine in front of her on the coffee table.

  “You okay?” I said.

  “No, I’m not actually,” she said. The skin on her neck and chest was red, a rash that appeared when she got angry or nervous.

  “What happened?”

  “God, I’m fuming right now. Stupid fu—” She stopped herself. For as long as we had been together, I had never once heard Anna swear. “Stupid, stupid people everywhere.”

  She took a large sip of wine and put the glass back on the coffee table. “I was in Costa, the one at the bottom of the hill, and it was quiet and Jack was in the play corner drawing. And it was nice, because we haven’t had time alone for a while, and he had a chocolate milk shake and he was an absolute delight. Then I saw this woman, Joanna. Do you remember her? From Jack’s Little Gym thing.”

  “Joanna, yeah, it rings a bell. Oh, the woman who was always going on about her divorce?”

  “Yes, that’s the one. Well, she sort of sidled up to me, in this really creepy way, and said hello and I knew she knew because she had this weird nervous grin. Then she said, ‘I’m so very sorry’ and she looked over at Jack and said, ‘poor little thing,’ and he was right there, right there next to her. And then she said, ‘I suppose you’re making memories now.’ Making memories. She actually said that. And I just didn’t know what to say, so I said, ‘well, Jack is going to make a full recovery,’ as if I had to justify myself. To her. As if it was any of her damn business. And then you know what happened?”

  “What?”

  “She hugged me. She hugged me right in the middle of Costa Coffee.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “Quite. Well, you know how freakish I am about such things, even with you. It was awful. I didn’t think she’d ever let go.”

  I started to giggle, the thought of Anna in Costa Coffee, stiff-bodied, not hugging back.

  “It was one of those situations where afterward I was kicking myself, because I really wished I had told her just how rude, how insensitive she was being, but I couldn’t because Jack was there, and anyway, what would have been the point?”

  “That’s awful,” I said. “Some people are just assholes.”

  I went to the kitchen and poured myself a glass of wine and joined Anna on the sofa. “It’s silly to get so pissed off at this stuff,” I said, “especially with everything that’s happening, but I got so angry the other day over this fucking Facebook post.”

  “Who was it?”

  “Just this girl from school. It was this long, long post about how she had had some growth on her neck, and she was worried that it was cancer, and she thought she was going to die. So they cut it off, and of course it turned out not to be cancer. Then she went on and on about this doctor who looked her in the eyes and said, ‘Now you should stop worrying and go and live the rest of your life.’ And then all these hashtags. Hashtag positive. Hashtag cancer. Hashtag fuck off.”

  Anna laughed, and I couldn’t remember the last time I had seen her smile. This was what we used to do. Our wine-fueled rants about friends and colleagues. Happy conspirators, sitting up late into the night.

  “I’m going to talk to my boss tomorrow,” Anna said, “about taking a leave of absence around the time of the operation.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “I just think I should be with Jack when he’s recovering.”

  “Do you think they’ll go for it?”

  “I don’t know. They do offer compassionate leave in some situations, but that’s for, well, you know... I know some people have taken unpaid sabbaticals, so I was thinking I might be able to do something like that.”

  “Right, that could work, I suppose.”

  Anna narrowed her eyes. “So you don’t agree?”

  “No, I do, yes... I haven’t really thought about it to be honest. But are you sure it’s necessary? I’m going to be here every day, when he’s off school after the operation. And there’s the money, as well. Would we manage without it?”

  Anna looked at me sharply, her cheeks flushed with the wine. “I don’t know, Rob. I hope so. And if you’re so worried about the money, maybe you should speak to Scott. Because if he sells, that’s half our income gone.”

  I didn’t say anything, choosing my words carefully. I knew what she thought. That I was being lazy and irresponsible, that I wasn’t doing enough to convince Scott not to sell the company to the Chinese. She had always worried about money, even with us both earning. London was expensive, she said, and we were living beyond our means. We weren’t saving, and now Jack’s school fees were mounting up.

  “So have you spoken to him about it?” she asked.

  “Yes, of course I have, but I’m not sure there’s much I can do. I don’t have the energy to argue with him anymore.”

  “Great,” Anna said, looking away. “You don’t have the energy.” She shook her head. “You’re amazing sometimes, Rob. You don’t work and I do, and all I want to do is to take some time off so I can spend more time with Jack, and then you make me feel guilty about it.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “I really didn’t mean it like that.”

  Anna stood up and took a pair of Jack’s trousers off the radiator. “Anyway, maybe you’re right, maybe we can’t afford it.”

  “I’m not giving up on Scott yet, though,” I said.

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, it’s not the best time to talk to him about it, but I’ve made a real breakthrough on the drones thing. In fact, I think that this Chinese company might be able to help.”

  Anna sighed and picked up the pile of clothes.

  “What?”

  She rubbed her forehead as if she had a migraine coming on. “Please don’t start on about the drones thing again. You know I support you, but it’s been more than five years now, and you still don’t have anything to show for all the work you’ve put in.”

  “I get that,” I said, her words stinging a little. She was like this about the maps, overly cautious, convinced it was a fool’s errand. “These things take time. And do you remember how it was with the maps? Nothing for ages, and then suddenly
I got money. So I’m not going to throw in the towel with the drones yet.”

  Anna shook her head and sat down next to me on the sofa. “You always think that everything’s going to be okay,” she said, half smiling, shuffling closer to me.

  “Sure,” I said. “What’s the alternative? Thinking that everything is going to be shit?”

  “True,” she said, putting her feet up on the sofa and then resting her head in my lap.

  She slept like that once, our backs against the promenade on Brighton beach. A dirty weekend in a guesthouse near the sea. Still so new to each other, we spent most of our time in bed that weekend. It had started to get dark when we dragged ourselves out to eat fish ’n’ chips and cotton candy on Palace Pier. Afterward, we went clubbing, some cheesy indie night where we danced to The La’s and the Happy Mondays.

  That night, we were fearless on the dance floor, without shame, our hands everywhere, and it was as if we were back in the guesthouse, tingling with lust, our bodies damp with each other. We walked out at 4:00 a.m., the air chilling the sweat on our backs, laughing and stumbling, drawn back to the sea.

  Anna wanted to watch the sunrise, so we went and sat on the beach and talked for a while, about London, where we might live. We joked—the way new couples do—about the kids we would have one day.

  Just as the sun was coming up, Anna began to fall asleep and rested her head in my lap. Some things you never forget. The waves gently shuffling the pebbles; the birds awakened by the red dawn; the warm, salty wind. Anna was happily oblivious to it all. I watched her sleeping, locked into our bliss, our endless summer, her chest rising and falling in perfect time with the sea.

  * * *

  That evening, I logged back in to Hope’s Place. There were already fifteen responses to my post.

  Re: Can anyone help us?

  by dxd576» Wed May 21, 2014 10:34 am

  I cant help you with your particular condition or recommend any surgical stuff or anything but we are now eighteen months out from our daughter’s diagnosis. We have been juicing and our little one (and all the family) have moved to an all vegan all raw diet. While we can’t say what is round the corner our little Jade is doing well and we know that is to do with the changes to our diet and less with the drugs that the doctors have been giving her.