We Own the Sky

by Luke Allnutt

  “Thank you,” we both said, but her words sounded empty, as if they were merely an afterthought.

  “Good. So I will see you on Tuesday for the operation. You need to sign some forms regarding Jack’s hospital stay, but Suzie will take you through it on reception.”

  We shook hands with the doctor and went back to the reception. Jack was in the kids’ corner playing Super Mario Cart. He was leaning into each corner, nearly falling off the beanbag.

  “You okay, matey?” I said, when he had finished his game.

  “Yeah, the driving’s really good.”

  “It looks cool,” I said. I couldn’t stop thinking about what Dr. Flanagan had said, her concerns about the shadows on the scan.

  Jack looked up from the beanbag. “Daddy, why do you look so sad?”

  I smiled and reflexively wiped my eyes. “I’m not sad, I’m very happy.”

  Jack looked skeptical and then handed me the controller. “Do you want to play the driving game? Maybe it will cheer you up.”

  “Okay,” I said, sitting down on the beanbag next to him. “They have two-player mode so we can race if you want.”

  “Cool,” Jack said.

  We played a few games, and I forgot for a moment that we were in the doctor’s waiting room. I turned around, looking for Anna, and she was sitting on a chair, watching and smiling at us both, patiently waiting for us to finish our game.

  epsom downs

  do you remember that day, jack? mummy was at work and we braved the traffic to go to epsom downs and you took your pictures, practicing zooming in and out, and then we ate our packed lunches in the car, looking out over the city. you’ve probably forgotten what happened on the way home, but you needed to pee and wouldn’t do it by the side of the road because you said you’d get in trouble with the man and go to prison, so you just held it in, all the way home. you were so funny, jack, grimacing a little, your legs crossed, complaining every time i went over a bump.

  11

  We had gone out to get some supplies: Jack’s favorite cartons of orange juice, Jaffa Cakes, his superhero magazines. We had left him with Anna’s mother and when we came back, she was sitting on his hospital bed, leaning back on the pillows, with Jack cuddled up next to her.

  “Can we do the whale again?” Jack asked.

  “You like that one, don’t you?”

  Jack nodded, and Anna’s mother began the story again, how Jonah had angered God and brought on the storm before the sailors threw him into the sea. And then it was God, in all his righteous mercy, who sent the whale to save him.

  Since we had got to the hospital, there had been a constant stream of visitors to Jack’s bed: surgeons, junior residents, various nurses. Jack was examined and reexamined and prodded and poked. They took his blood, swabbed under his tongue, hooked him up to an ECG. This morning, they took him for an MRI to map his brain and he emerged, his head shaved, with little doughnut-shaped stickers attached to his scalp to guide the surgeons.

  “That was very nice of God after Jonah was naughty,” Jack said.

  “Well, that’s what God is like,” Janet said, with an eye in my direction. “He will always help you. He helps everyone. And that’s what He does in heaven.”

  I looked at Anna with incredulity, expecting her to say something, to tell her mother to stop, but she was silent, thinking about something else.

  “Janet,” I said quietly, as the nurse was busy with Jack. “Please don’t talk to him about these things. These Bible stories about death and heaven.”

  “Why on earth not?” she said. “He loves the stories.”

  “He might do,” I said, lowering my voice, “it’s just that we don’t want to talk to him about heaven or anything like that...”

  “Well, Anna never said anything,” she said, avoiding my gaze. I looked at Anna, but she was tidying Jack’s bedside table, mopping up some spilled drops from the water jug.

  In the last few weeks, Janet had been making noises about Jack getting baptized. Now was the time, she said, cautiously at first, feeling her way, but then, as she saw Anna wavering, her lobbying became more intense. I thought Anna would eventually falter, the daughter of missionaries, all those years spent at Bible class and Sunday school, but she didn’t. Absolutely not, I had said, expecting an argument, but to my surprise, even though I knew it still gnawed at her, Anna acquiesced.

  As I was thinking how to respond to Janet, Lola walked in with India and a huge bunch of balloons. Jack’s face lit up, because they weren’t just any balloons, but plump and swelling as if they were about to burst, in a rainbow of carefully assorted colors, with bespoke, plaited wool strings. Emblazoned on the side of each one was #JackStrong.

  “Hello, darlings,” she said, kissing Anna on both cheeks. “And hello, lovely,” she said, kissing Jack on the head.

  “Hello, Auntie Lola.”

  Anna smiled. She always seemed to relax when Lola was around.

  “Now, they’re all for you, Jack, but would you like to choose one to hold?”

  Jack’s face flushed with joy. He had always loved balloons. He sought them out on the street, the ones given out for free by phone companies and campaigning politicians. At children’s parties, he would ask if he was allowed to take an extra one home.

  “So here’s the thing,” Lola said, after Jack had chosen a red one. “I’ve done the balloons with the hashtag, #JackStrong, and I’ve started a little campaign on Twitter, just for well-wishers really, and we already have some retweets, someone from that Essex program and that nice Scarlett girl from Gogglebox.”

  “What’s Gogglebox?” Anna said.

  “Oh, you have to see it. Terribly funny. Anyway, I thought it would be good to raise awareness about Jack’s illness, but sometimes getting these celebrities involved on Twitter can be a real game changer. Trips to Disneyland, balloon rides et cetera, et cetera.”

  She was speaking about him as if he was dying. Everyone was speaking about him as if he was dying.

  “India,” Lola said, placing all the wool strings into her daughter’s little clenched fist, “do you want to give Jack the rest of the balloons?”

  India hesitated. For a moment she was uncharacteristically shy, but Lola nudged her forward, and she stood next to Jack’s bed, in her little pink dress and woven headscarf. She presented the balloons one at a time, Jack making sure they were securely in his hand.

  As we were watching Jack and India, there was a knock at the door. A nurse walked in and handed Jack a parcel.

  “Is it for me?” Jack said.

  “Is your name Jack Coates?”

  Jack nodded excitedly and stared at the box, feeling it, gently shaking it, the way he would do with the Christmas presents under the tree.

  With Anna’s help, he opened the package, neatly tearing off the paper, then folding it and putting it on the bed. Inside was a scrapbook and on the cover it said “Dear Jack, From All Your Friends In 1A.”

  Jack opened the scrapbook as if each page were made of the most precious, delicate petals. On the first page, the words were written in an assortment of big and small letters, drawn by the hands of different children:

  Jack, we know how much you like tall buildings. So we wanted to do something special for you... We hope you get well soon and can’t wait to see you again!

  Slowly he began to turn the pages. Pasted onto the rainbow-colored paper were pictures of his classmates on top of tall buildings, up on cliffs, looking out to sea. The Telecom Tower, Canary Wharf, the lighthouse at Beachy Head. The children were all holding signs saying “Get Well Soon, Jack.”

  “You’re The Best, Jack.”

  “We Love You, Jack!”

  I had never seen him look like that before. It was as if he had unwrapped the world. He savored each and every picture, every single message on every single page. Then he paused for a
moment, lingering on one photo. It was his best friends at school, Martin, Tony and Emil on the top floor of a skyscraper somewhere in London. They were grinning and holding a sign that said: “Jack Coates: Pokémon Collector and Superstar.” Jack’s bottom lip started to quiver and then, for the first time since all of this began, he started to cry.

  * * *

  On the day of the operation, Jack cheerfully sat upright on the gurney, his surgical gown making him look like a little elf. As we descended into the bowels of the hospital, the bright yellows and reds of the children’s ward turned to sullen greens and browns as we entered the complex of vestibules and waiting rooms where we would eventually leave Jack.

  We kissed him and told him we’d see him in a bit, not wanting him to think he was going anywhere for long.

  “Bye-bye,” he said, unphased. “Kiss Little Teddy,” he added, holding up his bear, whose arm had been bandaged by a nurse.

  * * *

  We sat on a bench in a park for hours that day, waiting for Dr. Flanagan’s assistant to call. To think that once, we were so worried about a rogue mole, a tiny lump that appeared on the side of Jack’s neck. To think that once we used to agonize about his milestones, wondering why he hadn’t yet started to walk, why he had no interest in stacking more than three blocks at a time. To think that we were worried about all that, when Dr. Flanagan was now cutting into Jack’s skull with a circular saw. A neat cut, like a cartoon ice hole. Another human being’s hands inside my child’s brain.

  That afternoon, we sat in the park and tried to ignore the trudge of time. When you lived in peace, when your concerns were minor and mundane, time was invisible: it flowed, ebbed, like an app quietly running in the background. But now time was impossible to ignore: it was menacing, counting down, the second hand on a giant Orwellian clock.

  I didn’t know what to do, so out of habit I opened Hope’s Place on my phone and saw that I had a number of private messages.

  Subject: Best Wishes

  Sent: Mon Jul 7, 2014 1:58 pm

  From: Camilla

  Recipient: Rob

  Hi Rob, I see from your posting last week that today is Jack’s operation. I just wanted to wish you well and let you know that I’m thinking of you all. I’m a long-time veteran of Hope’s Place. My daughter was diagnosed with PXA in 2009. She has been healthy and happy ever since and lives a normal life. I know it might be hard to hear now, but you have so much to be hopeful for. Take care.

  “Look,” I said, handing Anna my phone. “From someone on Hope’s Place.” Without her glasses, Anna squinted as she read. “How lovely,” she said. “Do you know that person?”

  “No, not at all. I asked something on the forum this week about recovery time, and I said Jack’s operation was this week. There’s more, look.” I opened another one.

  Subject: Good luck!!

  Sent: Mon Jul 7, 2014 5:16 pm

  From: TeamAwesome

  Recipient: Rob

  I have to be quick because I am just off out the door but wanted to wish you the best of luck for today. We have a little tradition around here on Hope’s Place of sending good wishes on op day...so just to say that I’m thinking and praying for you all. I know just what a lonely, heartbreaking, nerve-racking time this is. My son was diagnosed eight years ago and is now a happy healthy teen, who manages to find a million ways to drive me mad! I am telling you this as I remember just how much I needed to hear stories of hope, not from doctors but from real people, people who had gone through the same. So that’s my story of hope. Do post to let us know how it went (if you feel like it). All your friends on Hope’s Place are cheering you on.

  “Goodness, people are so kind,” Anna said, scrolling through the message again.

  “Are you okay?” I said, squeezing her shoulder, pulling her closer to me on the bench.

  “No, not really. I’m just so, so...” Her words trailed off, and her eyes followed an old couple strolling with a bag of bread crumbs for the birds.

  “Me too,” I said, and took a deep breath, letting some air into my lungs. I went back to my phone and started to read the rest of the messages, stories of hope from strangers on the internet.

  * * *

  Jack had woken up, and we went to see him in intensive care. One half of his head was covered with a dressing and net. Occasionally his eyes would flicker open but then quickly shut again, and we sat on either side of him, each holding a hand.

  “I’m sorry,” a nurse said, when we asked her if the operation had gone well. “I can’t tell you that, but the doctor will let you know more. She’s in the waiting room, the one at the end.”

  I knew something was wrong as soon as I walked into the room. Dr. Flanagan was sitting down, still wearing her green scrubs, frantically checking something on her phone. It made sense now: how the nurse averted her eyes, a more secluded meeting room at the end of the corridor.

  “So,” Dr. Flanagan said, putting down her phone. “It’s good news.” I waited, too scared to breathe. “The operation went very well. Everything is out. No complications. And Jack did brilliantly.”

  “You managed to get all of the tumor?” I said, feeling the pump of my heart, the quickening of my breath.

  “Yes, we got all of it,” the doctor said, taking her surgeon’s hat off. “It was simpler than we anticipated. Some tumors are complicated, tangled up with blood vessels, but that wasn’t the case here. We’ll have to do a scan to confirm this, but I’m confident that we’re looking at a gross total resection.”

  Gross total resection. We knew those words. We had read them on Hope’s Place, in the medical literature. It was the gold standard for children who were cured. All visible signs of cancer removed.

  “So this...this,” Anna stammered, almost gasping for breath. “This might mean he’s cured?”

  “Yes, it might,” Dr. Flanagan said quickly. “Officially I’m not allowed to say that. We doctors are very nervous talking about cures but, in Jack’s case, the surgery did go incredibly well, and I really expect him to make a full recovery. However, to be fully straight with you, there is always a risk that it will come back. In Jack’s case, that would be a very small risk, but a risk nonetheless.”

  A risk, a very small risk. But there were always risks, crossing the road, playing rugby at school.

  “And will he need any more treatment?” I asked.

  “So,” the doctor said, looking at her watch, “in the coming days we’ll do another scan to make sure that the resection was total, that there are no signs of cancer. And if that scan confirms what we think, no, Jack won’t need any more treatment.”

  “Thank you,” I said, “thank you so much.”

  “Well, it’s nice to be the bearer of good news,” the doctor said, standing up and walking toward the door. “But if you’ll excuse me, I need to prepare for another operation.”

  Suddenly, Anna stood up and flung her arms around the doctor. Their embrace was awkward, two people who didn’t know how tight to squeeze or how long to hold on. But Anna wouldn’t let go, her arms tightly wrapped around the doctor’s body, as if she was clinging to her own child. They stood, gently swaying next to a fire extinguisher, as Anna whispered “thank you, thank you” into Dr. Flanagan’s neck.

  12

  I listened to the waves lapping against the shore, with the occasional crash, the wake from a distant boat. Anna was reclined on the chaise lounge, reading her book. Jack sat on his beach mat, flicking through his Pokémon cards. His hair was beginning to thicken with salt and sand, his nape tinted blond with the sun.

  We loved watching his hair grow after the operation, back to how it was when he was young, when the barbershop was an ordeal. Anna wanted him to grow it long, to let it curl and flop into his eyes. She didn’t want him to ever cut it again.

  Dr. Flanagan had been right. The MRI showed that she got it all. Jack s
oon regained his strength. He started school again. He went up the London Eye with his class. He even started football training with Hampstead Colts. Did we dream it all? Look at him, look at him, I thought as I watched him play football or jump into the swimming pool. Does that look like a boy who had a brain tumor?

  It had been Anna’s idea to come to Crete, an apartment her colleague had recommended. It was a penthouse suite, a terrace with an unbroken view of the sea. The apartments were at the quieter end of the beach, away from the boat trips and Jet Skis, the hawkers selling dresses and coral necklaces and salted corn on the cob.

  Suddenly, Jack shrieked, jumped off his beach mat and ran to the water’s edge, dodging and weaving, leaving wet footprints in the sand. We jumped up, thinking something was wrong, and then we saw the butterfly dancing around his head.

  “It’s chasing me, it’s a wasp,” Jack said, waving his arms around, his little feet jumping in the sand.

  “It’s a butterfly, Jack. It’s not going to hurt you,” I said.

  “How do you know?” he said. “Butterflies can eat people sometimes.” He walked toward me, holding out his hands like a dinosaur. “Really, Daddy. How do you know?”

  “Because I’m very clever.”

  “Ha,” he said, twisting my toe, “you’re not as clever as Philip Cleaver.”

  “Is he clever then?”

  “He can read and write and do all the sums, since he was a baby.”

  “Wow, do they call him Clever Cleaver?”

  “What?” Jack said, his hands bolshily on his hips. “His name isn’t Clever, it’s Philip.”

  Anna laughed. “It’s okay, Jack,” she said. “No one gets Daddy’s jokes. By the way, is it too early for a beer?”

  “It’s 11:05,” I said, looking at my watch.

  “That’s acceptable on holiday, right?”

  “I thought we had decided 10:30 was the acceptable cutoff.”

  “Ah, then one beer, please, and some of those little chocolate pretzel things.” Anna stretched out on the chaise longue, her legs turning a light shade of brown.