More Than Us

by Dawn Barker

  It took all my strength not to turn onto the highway that would lead me where I wanted to go. My hands were pulling the steering wheel round to the left as I approached the turn off and I desperately wanted to let them. I almost cried out with the strength it took to keep it straight and stay on the road. I should go back to the hospital, even if they won’t let me stay. I should be with Cameron. I should pick up Tilly from Ceecee. I should go home. But then, I knew that at home, the pull to open up my laptop, or reload the app on my phone to make a bet was too strong. There was only one other place that I could go.

  I knocked on his door. My stomach was churning; maybe he wouldn’t answer. I heard the scrape of his dog’s claws on a wooden floor as it ran towards the door, the thud of footsteps behind him. The door opened.

  ‘Damian, I—’

  He frowned, then opened the door wider and I stepped inside.

  ‘I’m sorry to come unannounced, I… Cameron’s in hospital.’

  ‘Shona,’ he called into the back of the house. ‘Paul’s here. We’re just going into the study.’

  Shona came towards the doorway, wiping her hands on a tea towel. ‘Hi, Paul. Good to see you. Is everything okay?’

  ‘I’m sorry to barge in like this, I just—’ I felt my eyes glisten.

  She smiled and shook her head. ‘Don’t apologise. Our door is always open.’

  Twenty-Seven

  Emily

  It had been impossible to sleep. It wasn’t just the recliner that didn’t recline any more than an economy airline seat would, or the stuffiness of the room, or the nurses coming in every hour to wake Cameron and shine a light in his eyes, or the beeps and chatter outside the room, it was the gut-felt guilt that churned inside me that kept me lying with my eyes wide open as the dawn light crept into the room.

  The door opened and Paul walked in with two takeaway coffee cups. He handed me one. ‘You back on coffee?’ I tried to joke, speaking softly so as not to wake Cameron.

  He shook his head. ‘Just a black tea. I’m allowing myself a little bit of caffeine today.’

  My eyes filled with tears at his small smile.

  ‘How is he?’ he said, turning his gaze towards Cameron.

  ‘He’s sound asleep now. They woke him every hour last night with all the observations they had to do.’

  ‘The doctors been in yet?’

  I shook my head. ‘Not even they are silly enough to be at work this early.’

  Paul was staring at Cameron, his lips pressed together.

  ‘Here,’ I patted the recliner next to me. ‘Come and sit down.’

  He shook his head then picked up the straight-backed plastic chair in the corner and moved it quietly nearer the bed.

  ‘I’m sorry, Paul,’ I said in a barely audible voice.

  He didn’t look at me, but I knew he heard as he nodded, just a little.

  ‘I thought it was the right thing to do.’

  ‘It wasn’t.’

  I stilled; it was as if he’d slapped me. What had I expected? That he’d reassure me? I let the sting of his words slowly settle and something else began buzzing though me. I gritted my teeth to stop myself from responding. I was sick of feeling this guilt. I’d spent years being questioned about my role in Cameron’s behaviour; I’d lost count of how many people had asked me if I’d had trouble bonding with him, how I’d coped with two young children when Paul was away, how I disciplined him. No one asked Paul what he did to parent Cameron, how he’d coped with sleepless nights and tantrums, and that was because he never had to. And every time they questioned me, I smiled and told them that I coped just fine, but inside I was seething at their questions, but couldn’t tell them how unhappy I was, or how I resented Paul for being able to walk out the door every day while he went out to a normal adult life, and how sometimes I wanted to throttle the kids for not giving me any time to just eat a bowl of cereal or have a shower or make a phone call without constant interruptions or go for a walk, anything but get them another glass of milk or mop up a spill or break up a fight or shout at them to get their bloody shoes on for school.

  I exhaled. Paul still hadn’t looked at me, still had no idea that every time he left it to me, I tried my absolute best and yet still, still, I was the one getting the blame.

  I look down at the smattering of freckles across Cameron’s nose, the same reddish-brown as the short curls on his head. If it wasn’t for the cannula in the back of his hand and the clear fluid dripping into his veins, the hiss and beeps of the machinery around him, I could imagine he was in his bed at home. He needed a haircut. When he was a toddler, I used to cut his hair when he was like this, asleep. I couldn’t bear the tears and the pleading and bribing that I had to do to get him to sit still with a hairdresser trying to get a Wiggles cape on him. It was much easier to use the kitchen scissors when he finally gave up and crashed into angry sleep after hours of being in and out of his room, laughing and running from me and refusing to sleep. And then he’d wake Tilly and I’d cry because it was all I could do to stop myself from walking out of that house and slamming the door behind me. Later, I’d drag myself through the house picking up detritus from every room and folding laundry and washing the dishes and by the time Paul came home, Cameron would be like he is now, looking like a sweet, innocent little boy and then I’d start to blame myself too because how could one little boy cause me to feel so unhinged?

  Cameron would be okay. I was sure he would be. The neurologist would come today, and the psychiatrist, and Paul could direct his questions at them, not me. The doctors would know what to do; they had to. Because if they didn’t, then I really didn’t know where I fit in the world any more.

  Paul used to be like that, uncertain. Even when he was at the height of his soccer career, he was never quite sure of himself. And that drew me in: only I knew the real him, his vulnerability and insecurity. Only I could help him. To everyone else he was Paul Napier, the star, someone they cheered on, bet their money on, and he never let them down. He was confident physically; he was meticulous about his training, his diet, his sleep. And I loved that about him, but I also loved that I was the only one he would ever tell when he was struggling. When the doubts crept in and I’d wake to find his side of the bed empty at 5am, when I’d tip-toe out to find him doing sit ups on the living room floor, with wild eyes and a grimace on his face, beads of sweat on his forehead, it was me whom he allowed to just sit with him, as he kept going and going until he lay back, panting. Only then did I know that he was back in control again, that he’d forced that doubt away as his blood pulsed and his muscle fibres tore. And sometimes, he’d lay his head afterwards on my chest, in the hollow beneath my shoulder and hold me while I stroked his head. And then he’d be okay again, and off to score goals.

  But as his body couldn’t keep up, that uncertainty grew, and what had been a twinge of anxiety, like his niggling knee pain, became a constant ache. But he refused to give in. He kept getting up even though I knew he wanted to crawl away. He wouldn’t listen to the doctors until he had to.

  Looking back, that was when it all went wrong. When Paul admitted to himself, and then me, that it was all over, he floundered as I tried to keep him tethered to me with a slowly fraying rope of love. But gambling with our money, our family, our future, and now Cameron’s health, meant that I was ready to pull that last thread until it snapped.

  Since coming back from Treetops, he had been surer about things than he had ever been, but he wouldn’t let me past that swagger of confidence, or admit to the doubts that he must have.

  And I have been complicit. I haven’t challenged him enough on his obsession with pulling back to the simple life, or his conspiracy theories. I went along with it. Why, when it meant that I had to lie to him all this time? He was so sure that there was no room for any uncertainty anymore; he’d shut off that part of himself, leaving all the doubts to me. And I had doubted: doubted that I would manage the kids without him, doubted that I could support us all financially on m
y own, and yes, doubted that the decisions I was making for the kids were the right ones.

  I looked down at Cameron again. My certainty that he’d be okay flickered a little, threatened to go out, but then reignited.

  I spoke clearly. ‘Paul. I’m sorry for not talking to you about this. I don’t know how many times I can say it.’

  ‘Things are going to change, Emily.’

  I stared at him. Was that a threat? ‘I know that. I’ve been saying that for a long time.’ I leaned towards him. ‘Paul, I love that you’re better. But you’re still… absent from us. I still feel like I’m doing all the parenting on my own.’

  He raised his eyebrows.

  Here we were again, hurling our words at each other.

  ‘Emily,’ he sighed. ‘This is not about me.’

  He shook his head, then took Cameron’s hand. A nurse walked in. Good timing, Paul. What a beautiful picture of father and son.

  The nurse greeted us and I moved away as she checked Cameron’s pulse and blood pressure, waking him up. She shone her torch in his eyes. ‘All fine,’ she said then wrote on his chart and walked out.

  The silence was thick around us. I smiled. ‘Hey, Cam, how are you feeling?’

  ‘I’m okay,’ he said. ‘Sore head.’

  I nodded, then glanced up at Paul who was ruffling Cam’s hair. ‘Good job you’ve got a thick noggin.’

  ‘Do you remember it, Cam? The game?’

  He shrugged. ‘Not this,’ he pointed to his head. ‘I remember running on. That’s it.’

  I glanced up at Paul, frowning. ‘That’s okay, darling. The doctors said that sometimes you can’t remember when you get a knock to the head. It won’t affect anything else.’

  ‘No rugby for a while, eh?’ Paul said. ‘When I was your age, they just sent us back on.’

  ‘And look where that got your dad.’ I smiled, not taking my eyes off Cameron.

  ‘You did alright, Dad.’

  ‘Do you need a drink, Cam? Your throat sounds dry. It’s the air conditioning in here, it’s so stuffy.’ I walked over to the table at the end of the bed and poured him some water from the plastic jug.

  ‘Is it cold water?’ he said.

  ‘It’s cold enough.’

  ‘I only like it from the fridge. That’s been sitting there for ages.’

  I closed my eyes for a moment and breathed in, then slowly out. ‘I’ll go and get you a bottle from the cafe downstairs in a minute. Anything else you want?’

  ‘Nah, don’t Emily, this water is fine, isn’t it mate?’ Paul said, reaching to take the glass from me.

  ‘He won’t drink it,’ I said, forcing myself to talk sweetly.

  ‘It’s just water…’

  ‘Paul…’

  ‘Here, Cam.’ He grabbed the glass from me and thrust it towards Cameron.

  I held my breath.

  ‘It’s not cold,’ Cam said, his voice rising and his eyes darting towards me. Take his blood pressure now, I wanted to say to the nurse. See how fast his heart rate is. This is what I’d been talking about.

  ‘Come on, Cam. Your mum doesn’t have to go downstairs and buy a plastic bottle of water when you’ve got some here…’

  ‘Mum…’ his eyes were wide.

  ‘I’m going, Cam, I’m going. I’ll be back in a minute.’ I stood up, grabbed my bag and left Paul to calm him down.

  * * *

  When I got back to the room, there were two doctors there – one had a stethoscope draped around her neck like a scarf, her long light brown hair tucked under the rubber tubing, and the other, a male, hovered behind her carrying a manila file. My heart sped up.

  ‘Hi,’ I said quickly, putting the bottle of water down on the table over Cameron’s bed. ‘I was just getting some water.’ I forced myself to smile at Paul. ‘Have I missed anything?’

  ‘These are the neurology doctors,’ Paul said, then smiled a boyish grin at them. I glared at him. ‘They just got here.’

  ‘Yes. Good.’ I glanced at Cameron; he was staring at the television with the little speaker lying beside him on the pillow. ‘Should we…?’ I cocked my head towards Cameron then looked at the door.

  ‘If you want to. Though this won’t take long,’ the more senior looking doctor said, although she can’t have been older than forty.

  I nodded.

  ‘Cameron,’ Paul said. ‘Can you turn that down, mate? The doctors are here to talk to you.’

  His eyes flickered towards us, but he didn’t move.

  ‘Doesn’t matter, Paul,’ I said, then looked to the doctor. ‘Is the EEG today?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes, just to be sure we’re not missing anything. As you know, the CT was all clear. No bleeds, no fractures. And his obs have been fine, with no more seizures so I’m hopeful it’s just a concussion.’

  I let out a big breath. ‘Great. Great.’

  ‘Great news,’ Paul said, and I saw him blink hard. I hadn’t realised he’d been close to tears. I reached out and touched his shoulder, then dropped my arm back by my side.

  ‘He took a big knock to the head though. I want to keep him in today, for the EEG, and for the psychiatrist to review his medications, and then you can take him home tomorrow morning as long as you’re comfortable keeping an eye on him, monitoring him for any bad headaches, vomiting, confusion.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said, at the same time as Paul said ‘Yes’. We looked at each other and smiled.

  ‘He’ll be so much happier at home.’ I nodded.

  The doctor handed me a leaflet about concussion and told us what to look out for.

  ‘And when can he play again?’ Paul said. I opened my mouth, but he beat me to it. ‘Not that I want him to rush back into it, I just want to know what he can and can’t do.’

  ‘Nothing for a week, at least. Then, if he’s up to it, he can do some non-contact stuff with the team. You know, running, sprints. But no contact until you’re sure he’s doing okay with that. Talk to his coach too. Don’t rush into it. He’s been knocked out, he’s only young.’

  ‘So, with concussion – is there likely to be any long-term damage?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, there shouldn’t be. Just make sure you look out for him over the next couple of days, and he’ll be fine.’ She turned to Cameron. ‘Just try to keep that head of yours out of tackles, okay?’

  He looked up, smiled, and looked just like his father. ‘Okay.’

  I forced myself to laugh to make up for Cameron’s lack of reaction. ‘Alright, that sounds like a plan. So, if all goes well, home tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll get the nurses to reduce the frequency of his neuro obs so you can get a bit more sleep tonight.’ She smiled, nodding at my coffee. ‘We can meet briefly tomorrow morning to finalise everything and then he can go home.’

  ‘Thank you, Doctor.’ Paul shook her hand.

  After they left the room, I sat on the end of the bed and put my hand over Cameron’s foot under the blankets. ‘Great news, yeah? Did you understand what she was saying?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, not looking at me. He sniffed, blinked hard then rolled onto his side.

  * * *

  I stared at the tiny television mounted from the ceiling above Cameron’s bed. He’d been for his EEG, eaten a little watery soup for lunch with white bread and butter. Some daytime show was on, with breaks for news and infomercials for strange fitness equipment and blenders. My back ached from leaning towards Cameron’s pillow to hear the sound. Paul was making a point of not looking at it, although at least he wasn’t making a fuss about Cameron watching it. Paul tapped on his phone every so often, his jaw set. He looked tired. The fluorescent light made us all look sallow. It was too warm; there were no windows to open. I felt my eyelids grow heavy and I didn’t realise that I had dozed off until I heard a knock on the door. My eyes snapped open and I blinked hard, trying to orientate myself. I smoothed down my hair and licked at my dry lips. Paul stood up; Cameron wriggled up on the bed.

  ‘Goo
d afternoon,’ a woman said. She was brightly dressed in a royal blue pleated chiffon skirt and kitten heels, a white blouse and blonde hair loose around her shoulders. ‘I’m Dr Karina, from the psychiatry team. Your doctors have asked me to come and have a chat to you. Is that okay?’

  I nodded. ‘Yes, yes, of course.’

  Paul hesitated. She smiled at him, and he seemed to take a long time to answer. ‘I’m Cameron’s father, Paul,’ he said.

  ‘Good to meet you, Paul, and…’ she looked at me.

  ‘Emily,’ I said quickly. ‘Cameron’s mum.’

  ‘Dr Karina,’ Paul said. ‘Before you start, I just want to let you know that I have decided that he will not be going on any more medication. We will be managing this ourselves.’

  She closed the door behind her and pulled up a chair from the back corner of the room. She sat, her knees turned to the side so as not to hit the bed. ‘That’s fine. At this point I’ve just been asked by your team to come and see if I can offer any help. I understand that Cameron has been seeing a private psychiatrist, Dr Davidson, and was on medication…’ she looked at her file. ‘Dexamphetamine and fluoxetine?’

  Paul remained standing. I could see his chest expanding and contracting more quickly.

  ‘Yes, that’s right, dexamphetamine, for ADHD, and the fluoxetine, for anxiety and depression. That’s right, isn’t it, Cameron?’