by Carrie Elks
“You can come and sit with him.” The nurse stands back, offering me her seat. “He'll be reassured to hear your voice. He's doing so well, fighting so hard.”
The doctor follows me to Max's cot, pointing out each tube and explaining what they do. He talks of oxygen percentages and prognoses, telling me we can expect Max to get worse before he starts to recover. A dip is normal, expected. They're ready for it.
“Can I touch him?” My face is wet with tears. Max’s hand is curled up on his chest. Above it, on his wrist, is a tiny band with his name on, as if he's going to a festival.
“Of course, but try not to touch the tubes. When he needs a nappy change we'll show you how to do it without pulling them out.” Her voice is reassuring.
Reaching out, I run the pad of my finger down the back of Max's hand. His skin feels warm but not hot. The indentation from my finger lingers long after I've touched him.
“That's the dehydration,” the nurse explains. “His skin will plump up soon.”
Eventually the two of them leave, showing me the call button before closing the door softly behind them. Sitting down, I keep my hand on Max's, watching as he finally sleeps. The room is silent except for the sound of his breathing, and I notice how the hospital has a timbre of its own. Hollow and damp, punctuated by the occasional cry from the ward, or a muted conversation between the nurses outside.
Though I can't think of anything to say, I sing softly to Max, a song that once meant something to Alex and me. It was on the stereo the first night we made love. The first dance at our wedding. And though I don't remember all the words, I know enough to remember how much Alex and I used to love The Temper Trap. He used to mouth the lyrics to me, promising he wouldn’t stop until it was over. I can almost see him doing it now.
That images is all it takes to break the dam. I sob the words silently as tears roll down my face, and I’m praying that Alex has picked up the message.
I don't care about that picture. I don't care about the band. All I want is for Max to get better and for Alex to come home.
We both need him.
19
The children’s ward comes to life a little before seven in the morning. The night-time hush gives way to the bustle of morning rounds, as nurses come in and out of the room, reading Max's monitors and writing on his chart. The squeaky wheels of a loaded trolley heralds the arrival of breakfast, and a hum of chatter and cries fill the rooms around us.
Stretching, I try to relieve the knots in my neck that have formed from an uncomfortable night sitting on a wooden chair. Max is still quiet, his eyes closed, his dry lips parted. His nose looks sore where the tubes go in.
“His temperature has stabilized,” the nurse tells me as she removes the ear thermometer. She's in her early thirties with a fiery mane of hair. Her name is Claire or Clara, I can't remember which; I was too busy staring at Max to listen.
“Is that a good sign?” I have to know.
She flashes me a quick smile. “It means he'll be more comfortable.”
“What time does the doctor make his rounds?” Though my knowledge of the inner workings of hospitals mostly comes from movies, I know for sure that rounds happen daily. And that's when I'm likely to find out the most information.
“In about half an hour. Maybe you'd like to pop into the waiting room in the meantime, I think your family would like to see you.”
Walking into the sterile-smelling room, I notice the crowd has multiplied. As well as Tina, Amy, and David, Andrea arrived sometime in the night, and Beth has made it, too. It feels as though there's only one person missing.
That, and a corner of my heart.
“Has Alex called?” I immediately home in on Tina. A moment later she's hugging me, asking me about Max, her eyes streaming with tears.
“How is he? Did he sleep? I tried calling Alex twice, but there was no answer. I left a message, though.”
It feels as if there's a lead weight at the base of my stomach. Pulling at the lining, and tearing it through. “Maybe they're on the road again,” I croak.
“They finished a gig in Toronto last night,” Amy points out. “They updated their Facebook page. I’ll send them a message, see if they pick it up.”
She doesn't offer to show me and I don't ask to look. There's too much going on. Jealousy isn't something I have room for at the moment, fear has put everything else on mute.
“I'll try him again.” It's around 3:00 a.m. in Toronto, but that doesn't mean anything, post-gig celebrations can stretch out until morning for the band. Without a baby or a steady job to worry about, sleeping it off isn't a problem.
Predictably, the call rings straight through to voicemail again. This time I'm not so laid back about it. Frustrated, I leave a terse message, telling him to call me back right away, suggesting he grow up a bit, reminding Alex that the world doesn't revolve around him. When I hang up, the waiting room is silent. Tina is staring at me with wide eyes, Amy is smirking, and Beth looks sympathetic. David walks over and gives me a big hug.
“He'll call back,” he mutters into my hair. “Max is his kid, of course he'll call back.”
“You're judging him by your standards,” I point out, keeping my voice low. The last thing I need is a row with Tina. “Just because you'd move mountains to be with your kid, doesn't mean that Alex will.”
“He loves you, he loves Max. He'll call you back.”
I don't know why David sounds so much more certain than I feel. Maybe he has some kind of guy-empathy I'm not feeling. The fact we've been calling Alex for five hours with no response doesn't give me much confidence at all.
Do we really mean so little to him?
The door opens and we all look over to see who it is. When I see a man wearing a suit, my heart clenches, thinking it's a doctor—one with bad news. But then I look up and see white-grey hair and a sun-beaten face, and my dad shuffles in uncertainly, as if he's not sure he should be here.
Since my mum died, he's only been to London once. Dad finds it hard to cope with the noise and the bustle, and too overwhelming to sit on a tube train for long. Yet he's here, walking up to me, his lined eyes kind and concerned, and I'm so shocked I don't know what to say.
He clears his throat. “I got your message. How's the baby?” The next moment he's pulling me into his arms, and I'm eight again, crying about an injustice at school, a broken friendship or a skinned knee. While I sob into his suited shoulder, he pats my back, his words soft and quiet as if he's reassuring a child.
“The doctor’s with him now,” I mutter into his jacket. “He's got a virus in his chest.” Finally, I look up at him. Gently, he brushes away the hair that's sticking to my wet cheeks.
“Can they treat it?”
“Not the virus.” I shake my head. “Antibiotics won't work. But he's on a drip with fluids and oxygen and they reckon that should help. The next two days are the most important.”
“Have you seen him?”
“I spent the night with him. They're going to let us back in once the rounds are over.” I give him a watery smile. “He'll be happy to see his granddad.”
Dad's voice is uncharacteristically gruff. “I'll be happy to see him, too.”
Another thing about my father: he's a stoic. Though he cried when my mum died, I don't think he has done since. But either I'm seeing things or there's a tear rolling down his cheek, and that both frightens me and comforts me.
“Is Alex on his way?” Dad asks. Silence greets his question. From the corner of my eye I notice Tina shifting uncomfortably.
“We can't get hold of him,” I admit. Dad's brow furrows as he takes in my words.
“It's the middle of the night over there, he's probably fast asleep,” Tina says. “He'll get the message as soon as he gets up, I bet. Be here by tomorrow morning.”
“I'm sure he will,” Dad replies. I'm not sure who he is trying to convince. Maybe all of us. For a moment I close my eyes, picturing Alex's face, relaxed in sleep, and I pray that dad is ri
ght.
Please, God, let him pick up that message.
* * *
I spend the rest of the morning by Max's side. Though he's still listless, and his breathing remains ragged, the doctor tells me he is stabilising, and that we should see some small improvement by tomorrow. His oxygen levels are up to 90%, but he isn't well enough for the tube to come out.
Visitors trail in and out. Tina comes first, her face crumpling when she sees Max, and her concern touches me. She whispers softly to him, telling him he's loved, that he needs to fight. That his daddy will see him soon.
My father's visit is less emotional. Any feelings he showed earlier have been firmly locked away. He stands over the cot, his hands hanging loosely by his side, and I can tell he doesn't know what on earth to do with himself.
When Amy and Andrea come in around twelve, I walk with Beth to the café, leaving Dad and Tina in the waiting room. David has gone home to do some work.
“I'm going to try Alex again.” I wave my phone at Beth. My battery has almost gone, and I realize it's not going to last through the voicemail message. I jot Stuart's number down on a scrap of paper I find in the bottom of my handbag, and borrow Beth's phone.
She brushes off my suggestions that I'll pay her back. “Don't be silly, it's only money. You can keep the phone until we get your charger.” Another reason David's gone back. I've given him a list of things I need along with my set of keys. He's promised to be at the hospital by tea time.
I step through the automatic glass doors, into the outside air. After the artificial lighting of the hospital, the sunlight makes me blink rapidly.
The entrance is surrounded by anxious smokers, so I step to the side, past the ambulance bay, finding an empty corner where I can hear myself think. With the scrap of paper in one hand, I hastily press the numbers into Beth's phone. Lifting it to my ear, I wait for the now-familiar sound of Stuart's voicemail message.
Instead, I'm rewarded with a ringtone. The long beeps remind me they're in another country, a stark contrast to the jaunty ringtones in the UK. After three repeats I hear Stuart's voice, but not a recorded version.
This one is live.
“Hello?”
“Stuart? It's Lara.” I'm so shocked to hear his voice, I don't know what to say. I'm momentarily dumb.
“Lara? Whose phone are you using?” Is that suspicion in his voice? I shake it off, remembering why I'm calling.
“Is Alex there? I need to talk to him.”
“Nah, I'm afraid not. He's stepped out for a bit.”
“Did he get my messages?” I ask. “Does he know Max is sick?”
Stuart clears his throat. “Oh yeah, how is the little guy?” He makes it sound as if Max has a small cold. Not that his life is in danger.
“He's in hospital,” I explain quickly, feeling frustrated. “I need to talk to Alex. Does he know about Max?”
“Of course,” Stuart sounds affronted. “He's worried sick. Make sure you keep us updated with how he's doing.”
Keep us updated?
“What do you mean?” My stomach lurches. I wasn't prepared for this. “He's coming home, isn't he?”
A pause follows. I hear Stuart's breaths, the beating of my heart, and the sound of a car horn from streets away.
“He wants to, Lara, but we're on tour. He can't simply abandon his commitments.” For the first time, he sounds uncertain. “I mean, it's not like it's life or death, is it?” Stuart gives a little chuckle, and I want to strangle him.
“Max stopped breathing.” I manage to get it out, anger laced through my voice. “His oxygen levels were dangerously low and he was severely dehydrated. He could have died.” I breathe loudly through my nose. “And he’s still very sickly. I want to talk to Alex.”
“I'm sorry, Lara, but he doesn't want to talk to you. We've got another show tonight and you know how he gets.”
“He doesn't want to talk to me?”
“He'll be home in a couple of weeks. He'll see Max then. Remember what we talked about? You don't want to upset him, do you?”
“Let me speak to my husband, Stuart.” I feel like throwing the phone on the floor.
“Alex!” Stuart's shout reverberates down the phone. “It's Lara.” There's a muffled conversation I can't hear. I stand there, outside the hospital where our son is being treated, waiting to hear my husband’s voice.
Except I don't. Instead, Stuart speaks again, sounding slightly bored with the whole thing. “Sorry, Lara, he's tied up at the moment. I'll get him to call you later.”
Tied up?
Call me later?
I can't answer for a moment. I try to swallow down the bile that's collected in my throat. I think about all those arguments, about the drugs, the band, the fact I wanted Max more than he did. He's making his feelings painfully obvious, choosing his music over his wife and son. Choking up, I realise I'm all alone in this now. The man I thought I could rely on turns out to be no man at all.
I finally reply, my voice thick. “Don't bother. I don't want to talk to him.”
* * *
When I walk back inside I can’t bring myself to look at Tina. Can't tell her that her son is refusing to come home. Instead I stick to Max like glue, avoiding her suggestions I try calling Alex again. Something stops me from telling her the truth. A misplaced sense of loyalty, perhaps, or the knowledge she's finding it hard to cope. Either way, I keep my fury to myself.
My father leaves at five o'clock, hugging me tight before he goes. He isn't used to spending a night away from home, and though he offers to stay, I gently refuse. As the night creeps in, one by one they take their leave. Amy goes first, muttering something about meeting Luke, while Andrea needs to go home and feed her cat.
Tina stays a little longer, coming in to squeeze Max's hand a final time.
“Alex will be here tomorrow.” She sounds so sure, I don't have the energy to steal any hope from her. It's a rare commodity around here.
“I hope so.” It isn't a lie. He needs to be close enough for me to kick his butt.
She hugs me close, still smelling of flowery perfume. I pat her back in the same way my dad did to me earlier.
Finally, only Beth and I are left. She sits on the chair while I help the nurse clean Max up. For the first time, his eyes focus enough to catch mine.
“Hello, baby,” I whisper. “How are you doing?”
He stares silently.
“We miss you. Everybody wants you to get better.” I pat his red skin with the cool flannel. He blinks twice, still looking up. When I brush his hand he tries to grab my finger.
“Feisty little thing, isn't he?” The night shift nurse finishes fastening his nappy. “The doctor's pleased with his progress.”
It's like being told your child is a genius. That he's won a Nobel Prize. When he curls his fingers around mine a little smile pulls at my lips; I can tell he knows I'm here.
Later still, Beth and I talk quietly, while Max sleeps. There’s a glow from my phone as it charges, and I've changed into the fresh clothes that David brought.
“He didn't mean it.” She sounds so sure. “I bet he doesn't realise how poorly Max has been.”
I sip from the plastic cup of water the nurse brought for me. “I didn't leave him in any doubt. In my messages, my conversation with Stuart, I made certain he knew.” Max coughs and we all hold our breath. Then he calms and I feel my heart slow. “Not to mention the hysterical voicemails his mum left. He knows exactly what the situation is, he doesn't want to come back.”
She slips her hand inside mine. “Don't make any rash assumptions. You need to talk this through with him.”
When did Beth become the wise one? Out of the two of us, I've always been the stronger. The one to lean on, the counsellor. Yet I cling to her words, wishing they were true.
“Max is in hospital, fighting for his life. He can't possibly have an excuse. What reason can there be?” I ask these questions, as I’m lost for the answers. “What possible thing can ke
ep a man from his sick child?”
“All I'm saying is wait and see. I've learned that making assumptions only leads to heartache.” Beth knows what she's talking about. After a whirlwind romance, it took her nine years to get together with Niall. I know she regrets the time they lost. “Promise me you'll hear him out.”
I lean back heavily on my chair. It's an impossible promise to make. Not only because I'm not sure I can ever forgive him for not being here when I begged him to, but also because he was too much of a coward, hiding behind his band mate like a frightened child.
I don't believe there's any way to forgive him for what happened. For putting the band before his son's health. And though Max is beautifully unaware right now, one day he's going to know.
A missed school play, a broken promise, a million tiny heart aches. They line the road in front of us, all the ways my son's life can be broken.
Like a lioness, I swear I'm going to protect him. No matter the cost.
20
Three days later, Max has not only stabilised, but his condition has improved enough for his tubes to be removed. He's started feeding from a bottle, finding enough strength to suck from a teat, his cheeks hollowing out as he tries to take in more milk.
When the doctor makes the rounds that morning, he offers me a smile, listening to Max's chest before pulling the stethoscope away from his ears.
“There's still some congestion but it's much clearer. He's making an amazing recovery.”
I'm surprised at how invested all the staff have become in Max's health. It's a wonderful thing to see. Their dedication to his well-being is something I don't think I'll ever forget, and I'm more than thankful.
“He actually cried last night,” I tell him. “I think it's the first time I've been happy to be woken up by his sobs.”
The doctor grins at my enthusiasm. “He should be ready for discharge tomorrow. I expect you'll be glad to get him back home.”
If I'm truly honest, I'm not sure I will. Memories of that night when Max struggled for breath assault me. My inability to help, the panic. The all-consuming fear.