We Own the Sky

by Luke Allnutt

  Each entry was pristine, as if Dad had drafted them first on a rough piece of paper. They were short, but he wrote beautifully.

  Jennings was stellar tonight. Paddon, on the other hand, was useless, like a trapped wasp, barely touched the ball.

  Tommy Taylor up like a salmon; down, however, like a diving bell. Absolutely brilliant, though. Even got the West Stand on their feet.

  I read on, into the late 1980s, the games I had been to with Dad. Beating Chelsea at home 5-3 after we’d been 3-2 down. Our glorious promotion in 1993. As I read on, I noticed that some of the entries had gold stars attached. Gold stars like you’d get in school. At first I thought it was the games we had won, but I knew we hadn’t beaten Villa in 1995 because I was there. And then I realized what Dad had done. He had put a gold star for every game we ever went to together.

  Was it really so much to ask for Jack to have the same? There had to be a way, there just had to be. Because if you dream it, it means it’s true, my dad always said.

  If you dream it, it means it’s true.

  * * *

  I was lying on our bed upstairs and could hear Lola, her voice warbling up the stairs. I went down to the kitchen, and she was sitting with Anna on the bar stools drinking coffee.

  “Hello, Rob,” she said, “how are you?”

  “Okay, thanks,” I said, and she gave me her look of concern. A raised eyebrow, a gentle bite of her lip, that said, I know, I know.

  “Lola is just showing me this Make-A-Wish foundation,” Anna said, pointing to some brochures open on the table. “They do surprises and trips for kids who are ill.”

  “Right,” I said, filling up the kettle. “I’ve heard of them.”

  Even though my back was turned, I knew Anna and Lola were looking at each other, gauging my mood.

  “I wrote to them,” Lola said, “and they sent me these.” She was holding out another brochure.

  “Look, there’s this one,” Lola said, flicking through the pages. “A day with Spider-Man,” she said, as if she were talking to a child. “Jack would get to wear a costume and then meet the real Spider-Man, and then they all go into some kind of special playroom and bring in all the characters, the Green Goblin, The Flash, Aquaman.”

  “Right,” I said.

  “I think Jack would like that, don’t you, Rob?” Anna said.

  “They were very nice and accepted my application right away, and we can basically choose anything we want,” Lola added. “Do you want to take a look?”

  She pushed the brochure into my hands. On the front page, there was a child wearing a fireman’s helmet. Underneath I could see that his head was bald and white, like a baby bird’s. I flicked through the brochure, waiting for the kettle to boil.

  “Look, there’s this one, as well,” Anna said, holding up another and pointing to a boy sitting in the cockpit of a plane. “He’d like this.”

  “Yes, maybe,” I said.

  Anna sighed softly and put the brochure on the countertop. “Well, there’s lots of different things here. We don’t have to decide now. Lola just thought it might be nice.”

  “I’ll take a look later,” I said, putting the brochure back on the kitchen table.

  “I was just telling Anna,” Lola said, “about a friend of John’s at work. Well, their daughter has just been diagnosed with something similar to Jack, and I thought you might want to connect with them. I remember when my mother had breast cancer and, well, you try to say the right things, to be helpful, but I don’t think you can ever really understand unless you’re going through the same thing.”

  Lola waited for me to say something or nod my assent, but I was silent.

  “It just seems to be everywhere now, doesn’t it,” she said, almost to herself, always unable to cope with silence. “I suppose that’s the curse of modern life, the price we pay.”

  The boiling kettle reached a crescendo, and I heard the click of the button. “What do you mean, the price we pay?” I asked quietly.

  “Oh, nothing, poppet, just me rambling.”

  “I just want to know what you mean,” I said, my tone quiet but firm, and Anna put her head down, letting the steam from her coffee curl over her lip. “Do you think this is our fault then?”

  “Oh, God, Rob, no, not at all. No, I didn’t mean that in the slightest. Goodness, you haven’t done anything, don’t you ever think like that. No, what I’m trying to say—and as usual being a complete ninny about it—is it’s us, our society, our modern way of life. It’s the foods, the stress, the Wi-Fi, the pace of it all. No, goodness, poppet, it’s not you, it’s us, all of us, and it all adds up. Sometimes, I just think we need to slow down, take stock...”

  I already knew everything Lola wanted to say. Because I had heard it before. It was always there, in person or in the emails they sent, like a malicious undertow at a picturesque beach. “And do you know why he got it?” they asked, their words stealthy, inadmissible.

  “It’s just one of those things,” we said, or some other platitude, and they nodded sympathetically, but you could see in their eyes what they were thinking.

  Because they knew. Oh, they knew. It was the Wi-Fi, the sugary drinks, those baby shampoos that were full of chemicals. They asked, not out of concern for Jack, but because they wanted to protect their own children. To make sure it could never happen to them. You could see them making a mental note to reduce Timothy’s iPad time and finally write that letter to the school about the healthfulness of the lunch options.

  “Fuck off, Lola,” I said, staring at her right in the eye.

  “Rob!” Anna said.

  “What, you’re just gonna let her spout all this shit, things I know for a fact you don’t agree with? Or do you think it’s our fault, as well?”

  “I don’t, Rob, of course I don’t. That’s not what Lola’s saying. And please stop shouting.”

  “Please don’t shout? I should be shouting a lot more, instead of talking about all...all this shit,” I said, pointing at the brochures.

  “Can you just stop? Can you please stop?” Anna said, raising her voice, an argument that in another time, another world, we never would have had in front of someone else.

  “Can I stop? Stop what, Anna? Stop looking for ways to get my son better while we sit around choosing fucking day trips?”

  “It’s not about that, Rob,” Anna said, starting to cry, “please don’t do this, please don’t.” Lola put her arm around her and Anna buried her face into her shoulder.

  I couldn’t listen to her anymore. We were just wasting time, time we didn’t have. I went back to my desk and wrote an email to Nev.

  Subject: Re: Jack

  Sent: Wed Dec 10, 2014 9:12 pm

  From: Rob

  To: Nev

  Dear Nev,

  Sorry to disturb you again but I wanted to ask about Dr. Sladkovsky’s clinic.

  I have already emailed them but do you know how quickly Jack could start treatment? Is there a long waiting list? I want to book flights right now and get out to Prague because we’re just wasting time here.

  I was so glad to hear that Josh’s scan went well and I loved seeing the pictures of him that you sent. Not just because I’m happy for you, but because I wish so desperately that one day that could be Jack. I wish that could be Jack four years down the road, happy, loving life.

  So please, keep sending them. More than anything right now, they give me hope.

  Take care, Nev.

  Rob

  PS Please thank Josh for the Minecraft castle. I showed it to Jack and he absolutely loved it.

  16

  “Is he still sleeping?” Anna said, as I went outside onto the patio, holding my laptop under my arm.

  “Like a baby.”

  It used to be our joke when Jack was small. How was he sleeping? Like a baby. Because he was a
baby, you see.

  Jack slept a lot, now that he was doing chemotherapy. When he was awake, he spent most of his time on the sofa, watching cartoons, surrounded by his favorite toys and books. When he slept, we watched Poirot and Homes Under the Hammer, always listening, waiting for Jack to wake.

  Anna was cleaning the patio windows from the outside. The house had been spotless since Jack was diagnosed. A cleaner came once a week, but that wasn’t enough, Anna said; she liked to do it herself. So every day, she scoured the bathroom and toilets. She cleaned under the sinks. She took on the oven, scraping off all the grime and then polishing it on the inside.

  She kept her cleaning suppliers in a cupboard in the utility room. There was a box full of sponges and squeegees and microfiber cloths. On the top shelf, there were bottles of detergent, ammonia, white vinegar, all lined up as if they were in a trophy cabinet.

  It was cold outside, even for December, and I was chilly in just a shirt. I took a deep breath and a large gulp of my coffee. “I’ve been looking into this clinic,” I said to Anna.

  I expected her to say something, to turn toward me, but she carried on rubbing the windows with a cloth.

  “It’s in the Czech Republic, run by this Dr. Sladkovsky.” A twitch in Anna’s face, a minuscule movement of her nose. I had the feeling that she was about to interrupt me, that I had to rush out my words.

  “Look, I know how you feel about all of this, but please hear me out.”

  “Hear you out?”

  “Well, yes, I know we feel differently about the treatment options.”

  Anna went back to her windows, targeting a spot close to the ground. “I’m not sure that’s how I would characterize it,” she said. “But I’m happy to listen. We make decisions together, right?”

  “Right. Okay, it’s this clinic in Prague—I printed some stuff out for you—that does this immuno-engineering treatment. I have researched it quite a bit, and it seems there is a good deal of science behind it. The thing is, so many children have got better at the clinic, even children with brain tumors. I’ve been emailing this guy Nev from the forum. His son, Josh, also had glioblastoma and was treated at Sladkovsky’s. He’s now three years in remission.”

  “Yes, Nev. I’ve seen his posts.”

  “You have?”

  “Yes, on Hope’s Place. I’ve seen his posts about Dr. Sladkovsky.”

  “Oh. I didn’t realize...”

  Anna sighed. “I read the forum, as well, you know,” she said.

  “So what do you think then?”

  “About the clinic?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t think much, really. I looked at the website a while back. I mean, it looks impressive with the testimonials and everything. But then I read some opinions on the forum about it and some piece on this Quackwatch website. It said there was very little scientific evidence to back Dr. Sladkovsky’s claims, and there was zero evidence that immuno-engineering worked.”

  I had read that long, snarky Quackwatch piece she was referring to, which rambled on about peer review and Dr. Sladkovsky’s disregard for proper scientific method. I remembered being annoyed by the smugness and pedantry of the journalist, like one of those excruciating fanboys who picked plot holes in popular movies.

  “I know, I know, I read that too. But maybe it will work. Maybe there is something in it. People—other children—do get better. I don’t think these people are lying in these testimonials.”

  Anna shrugged, and the gesture infuriated me, like a stubborn child refusing to say sorry.

  “Look, I just think it’s worth a try,” I said, my voice cracking. “What else can we do now?”

  She looked at me disapprovingly—like Jackie Onassis in her big bug-eyed glasses.

  “Do you not think that if I thought there was something in this that I would do it for Jack?”

  “I know. I’m not saying that, I’m really not saying that...”

  “And, regardless,” Anna said, “what about the money? It’s obscene to talk about such a thing, but have you seen how much the treatment costs? Even if we wanted to, how on earth would we pay for it?”

  “We’ll find it,” I said, “we’ll scrape around. There’s always money.”

  Anna sighed. “Where is this money, Rob? Where is it? I looked on the website, and the treatment can cost hundreds of thousands of pounds. I just don’t understand how you think we can pay for that. Scott is selling the company, Rob, he’s selling and I’m not working. So...so what? We won’t have any money coming in.”

  “We’ll find it. I can ask Scott for a loan.”

  “Jesus, Rob,” Anna said, snatching up her cloth and bucket. “Scott doesn’t have any money. He’s practically bankrupt.”

  She walked back inside, and I followed her into the living room. “I’m sorry, I just can’t do this,” she said, sitting down on the sofa. “It makes me feel absolutely sick, like I just want to die, talking about the money. And if I thought the treatment would work, I would sell everything, the house, the car. Everything. I would beg, borrow and steal to get the money.”

  Anna began to sob, and I put my arm around her. She felt cold, gaunt beneath her woolen sweater. “I know,” I said. “It’s horrible—just horrible—to have to discuss it. But I’m sure we could find a way, even if there’s just the tiniest chance that it would work...”

  “Will you just shut up?” Anna shouted. “Did you actually read about the treatments at the clinic in Prague?” she said through gritted teeth, trying to keep her voice down so she wouldn’t wake Jack. “Did your friend Nev tell you about that? Because you know what, Rob, I’ve actually read the whole damn forum, and I know there are plenty of parents who have gone to Sladkovsky’s clinic and had entirely different experiences. Did you read their stories, as well? You should, because then you might start seeing Nev’s claims in a different light.”

  “Nev’s claims? So you think Nev is lying about his son getting better? Look,” I said, thrusting the laptop under her nose. “This is an email from Nev. Read it. Three years in remission. Three years. Josh has just had another clean scan.”

  “Can you please stop being so aggressive?”

  I took a deep breath, tried to calm down. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to... I just want to show you how the treatment can work.”

  “We don’t know if it worked.”

  “What does that even mean? He had the same tumor as Jack—glioblastoma multiforme—and it’s gone. It’s gone, Anna.”

  “Right. But how do we know it had anything to do with the clinic?” Anna said. “The science is just not there, Rob. They don’t publish their results from their clinical trials. It’s just people’s testimonies.”

  “So you’re a scientist now, Anna? A medical expert. Doctors don’t always know everything, you know.”

  “Goodness, you’re even starting to sound like Nev. If Nev is even real...”

  “If he’s even real? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

  “I don’t know, that’s just what some people have said on Hope’s Place. That maybe he’s paid by the clinic or something to recruit patients. How can you be so sure he’s who he says he is? He’s just a username, Rob.”

  “Aha, I see. That all seems very elaborate. Quite the ruse.”

  Anna shrugged. “Stranger things have happened, I suppose. Preying on desperate parents. It makes sense to me.”

  “Look, look at this,” I said, scrolling through Nev’s emails until I found the pictures of Josh.

  “What am I even supposed to be looking at?” she said, as I thrust the laptop under her nose.

  “Nev’s son Josh.”

  “I know, Rob, you told me before. He’s always posting pictures of him on the forum.”

  I looked for a flicker of emotion in Anna’s face, but there was none. People said Anna was cold, people who didn’t
know her. I remembered her bedroom at college and how sparse it was. There were no fluffy cushions or corkboards with collages of friends at teenage parties. There was just a desk and a chair, and some thin hardback books on the shelf. Her bedspread was plain, a dull green.

  Did it all come from her father? She never talked about it, but I knew she felt abandoned. She wouldn’t discuss his abrupt departure for Africa, the grandson he had never met. That’s just what he does, she said, and left it at that.

  “Look,” I said, pulling up Nev’s last email. I clicked on the image file and it was Josh’s Minecraft creation. “It’s this Minecraft game. Josh made it for Jack.”

  Anna looked at me in disbelief. “You’re talking as if they know each other, Rob. As if they’re friends. You don’t even know this person.”

  “Just because I haven’t met him in person doesn’t mean that I don’t know him.”

  Anna shook her head.

  “I can call him now if you want,” I said, raising my voice.

  “Do whatever you like,” Anna said.

  We sat on the sofa, not touching, our bodies angled away from each other, and the house had never felt so quiet, so cold.

  “What is happening to us?” I said. “We can’t even have a normal conversation anymore.”

  “Our son’s dying, that’s what’s happening to us,” she said. Already, Anna’s lexicon was different to mine. Whereas I struggled to say the word hospice—with its soft, beguiling hiss—Anna would use words like “terminal” or “dying.”

  “Right,” I said, trying to not get angry. “I know it’s horrible—it’s the most horrible thing imaginable—but we’re on the same side in this.”

  “On the same side?” Anna said. “You’ve barely spoken a word to me in days. It’s like you can’t even look at me anymore. You’re obsessed, Rob, with this Nev guy, with this...this false hope that you’re clinging to...”

  Anna went back to cleaning the patio windows, trying to get rid of the smears. At that moment, the only thing I could think to do was to call Nev. It wasn’t just for Anna, it was also for me. Yes, he wasn’t asking for money—“only $25 to kick cancer to the curb!”—or asking me to sign up for his healing-the-holistic-way newsletter, but I still had my doubts. Little things that didn’t add up. I had once asked Nev about his wife or partner, but he didn’t answer. In another email, I asked him where he lived. Nothing.