Simon's Choice

by Charlotte Castle

  “Incredibly. Strangely. It’s unreal. She doesn’t seem worried at all, she’s so matter of fact.” Melissa glanced at Simon again.

  “She did cry initially. But I gave her something to help her sleep and by the next morning she was just carrying on as usual. The only difference is that she’s keyed into the fact that it doesn’t matter if her teeth rot. Surely that’s not healthy?”

  Rhonda laughed. “I think Sarah is a character. You can tell her she should brush her teeth because she doesn’t want to be smelly. But yes and no, to answer your question. Children have amazing self-preserving methods at their subconscious disposal. Little minds have an amazing power to shield themselves from situations that could cause them emotional damage. They can file away fear quite efficiently. Like a little filing cabinet in the back of the head. In children who have been abused for instance, they are quite capable of losing short-term memory and forgetting altogether. It allows them to carry on, to grow up. Problems arise when they get older and their filing cabinet is full – the drawers don’t shut properly and the pain from the past catches up with them. With Sarah, of course, there will be no growing up.” Rhonda looked up at the parents, her face kind but authorative. “I will apologize only once for my black and white way of dealing with this. I’m afraid we are here because Sarah is going to die. I appreciate that at this moment you are struggling terribly with this concept, but mincing our words and using fancy language to get around the truth will not help you in the end. We have an excellent counseling support system here for parents, but we will talk about that later.” She tapped the pencil on the edge of the clipboard. “Sarah is not going to grow up. If she is burying any fear then we will watch her very carefully to ensure that that is not doing her any emotional damage but, quite simply, it may be best for her. She probably doesn’t completely understand the concept of death. Children are usually told that they are going to heaven. As the day-to-day illness gets worse, most days are consumed with controlling pain and other symptoms. As you have seen, we spend all the rest of the time keeping the children happy and occupied. Some never mention that they are going to die. Others, like Sarah, are quite blasé.”

  “Sarah thinks that she …” Melissa trailed off. “Sarah didn’t talk to me. She had the conversation with her father. I don’t think she quite understands that she won’t be seeing him again.” Melissa held Simon’s gaze, her cheek twitching involuntarily.

  “Our psychologist will work closely with Sarah and ensure that any understanding she has is healthy for her and is what makes her happy. Frankly, we don’t mind white lies here at Madron. The most important thing is that the child has the easiest, happiest time from the time they come here, to when they die.”

  Melissa cleared her throat, awkwardly. “I don’t think you quite understand. My husband,” she said, managing to make the word drip with disgust, “has told my daughter that he will be going with her.”

  Rhonda shrugged. “If she thinks that her parents can somehow stay with her, it might be a good thing. You can talk to her psychologist, but it sounds like Sarah is in a pretty healthy place with this.”

  Simon stared steadily at the floor, feeling, rather than seeing Melissa’s eyes on him. An enormous weight lifted from his shoulders at Rhonda's words. Maybe they could work this out.

  Rhonda’s tone brightened as she continued. “I should imagine that Sarah has moved onto ice cream by now. If you would like me to show you round the rest of The Mad House, we can talk more about the day to day running of the place and I’ll answer any questions you have. Ready?”

  Simon’s shoulders visibly dropped. Melissa was going to let it go. Maybe.

  Chapter 16

  Simon’s senior partner, Howard, rose as Simon entered his office.

  “Simon! How are you? Come in. Come in. Terrible time for you. Terrible. Did Wendy get you a cup of tea? No? Sit down. Do.”

  Howard gestured towards the small chair by the side of his desk, normally taken by patients, and seated himself in his enormous leather wing chair. Simon sat on a molded plastic chair by the antique walnut desk. It was uncomfortable and low, and left Simon feeling a little like a child who was about to be disciplined.

  “Let me just start by telling you how sorry we all are. If there….”

  Here we go, thought Simon. The anything-we-can-do spiel.

  “If there is anything we can do, you know where we are.”

  I wonder what would actually happen if I called in all these favors, Simon pondered. If I rang Howard tomorrow morning and said, could you just wash the car because I’ve been up all night holding a bowl for Sarah to vomit into and frankly I’m too shattered to do it myself.

  “I can’t imagine what you’re currently going through and I know I speak for all the staff …”

  Or I could ring him up and say yes, actually, I would like your wife, whom I’ve only met twice, to come round and clean the bathroom. That would be enormously helpful.

  “Simon. Simon?”

  Oh shit. “Sorry, Howard. Bit stressed. You know. Concentration not my strong point at the moment.”

  Howard cleared his throat. “Aha. Well. As I said, if there is anything we can do. So, you’re thinking of coming back, I hear. Is that wise? Given your self confessed level of concentration? Not that I want to dissuade you, you understand …”

  “No, no. Of course not. I think work-wise I’m fine, Howard. I’d like to get back at it. I feel bad about being absent from the surgery for so long. No, really, I do. I understand the difficulty with budgets and locums, and I think it would be good for me to deal with patients again and keep busy. After all, I’m going to have to carry on after … ah, after, you know.”

  “Yes, yes. Of course.” Howard looked flustered, Simon noticed.

  Perversely, Simon was beginning to enjoy this. It was not often one had the upper hand with Howard. “I thought perhaps I might be able to work slightly shorter hours. Well, half my hours, actually. I need to go and be with Sarah a lot and then I have to be careful of stress. I wouldn’t want to be breaking down at work. Patients don’t need a GP in tears, do they?” Simon treated Howard to a winning smile. He knew full well the idea of a GP in tears would send Howard, the old fashioned, stiff upper lipped bastion of the establishment into paroxysms of terror.

  “No, Christ, no. Er, whatever you feel is best for you, Simon. As I said, anything we can do to help. When were you thinking of coming back?”

  “Sarah is starting at the hospice during the daytime. They can entertain her, keep her mind busy and at the same time provide the palliative care she needs better than we can. In the evenings she can come home and the Community Nurses come round to administer morphine through her canula. Stupid, huh? I’m a doctor and I’m not allowed to do it myself.” Simon sighed. His irritation at being forced to have nurses come to his house to administer drugs that he could prescribe but they could not, was immense. “Dependent on how quickly she starts to decline, she may go in full-time by the end of April, in two weeks or so, in fact. If I could maybe do morning surgery a couple of days a week for the next two weeks, then do mornings five days a week once Sarah is at The Mad House full-time ….”

  “I’m sorry, the what?”

  “Madron House. Madron. Sorry.”

  “Right. Yes, of course. Bryony from Human Resources will work it all out. I’ll have her call you with the details. Glad to see that you're holding up, Simon. Good man. Good man.” Howard stood and opened his door, a clear indication that it was time for Simon to leave. “And Simon. If there is anything we …”

  “ … can do. Yup. Thanks. I’ll let you know.”

  * * *

  The town was grid-locked as Simon tried to make his way back from the surgery in the early afternoon traffic. Joining what he knew was at least a three mile tailback, he turned up the radio, resigned to a long wait.

  “On which U2 album is the first song a live version of ‘Helter Skelter’?” Ken Bruce’s melodious voice filled the car.

>   “'Rattle and Hum'.” Simon waved a young woman driving a juggernaut of a car through. One tiny child in the back, he noted.

  “'Rattle and Hum', Ken.”

  “Correct! In which year did Alice Cooper have a number one hit with ‘Schools Out’?”

  The jaguar crawled forward a few feet, the lights ahead turning red after only seconds on green. “Come on. You could have gone then. 1973.”

  “That was 1972.”

  “Close.” Simon craned his neck, trying to see the cause of some commotion ahead. His attention was diverted from the music quiz by a crowd on the pavement and a vivid flash of red gave him a sudden wave of déjà vu, though the bright color was incongruous against the grey, soot-stained buildings of Brighouse. The lights changed again and Simon inched forward.

  The gathering, he could see now, was for some kind of large Asian wedding. Hindu, he realized, as he took in the smiling bride. She wore a deep red sari, and he could see the complicated henna patterns decorating her hands and arms. Her groom stood tall by her side, radiating pride and happiness. A number of cars honked their horns as they went past.

  A red sari, Simon ruminated.

  The bride laughed and her gaze briefly caught Simon’s. A jolt passed through him as he looked into her brown eyes, and memories of a recent dream stirred in his mind. He looked away quickly, feeling somehow voyeuristic.

  Sati. The ancient practice of self-immolation. That was the dream. That night, the night they had been told about Sarah. It came back to him in snippets. A red sari. A funeral pyre. A woman – no, Melissa speaking to him. He looked back at the wedding party, who were beginning to disperse, the bride and groom being directed to a waiting car. The beginning of their lives together, Simon thought. Where would that life take them? Perhaps they would grow old together, dying peacefully in their sleep after a long and simple life. Perhaps great happiness would befall them. Or perhaps great sadness. They looked so healthy, so happy. It seemed impossible to think tragedy could ever tarnish their gilded existence.

  A honk from behind Simon interrupted his thoughts and he pushed forward in the queue, narrowly missing the lights. A group of pedestrians, using the temporary lights as a natural crossing point, began to move across the road. A well-dressed woman, pushing a pram, passed in front of his car and Simon recognized her as someone he and Melissa knew well. He waved in greeting and catching her eye gave her a quick smile. She looked at him and he saw her eyes widen with a flicker of shock as she recognized him. Or was it alarm? She looked away and he pipped his horn, but she turned slightly away, put her head down and pushed on, seemingly oblivious to Simon’s tooted greeting. Simon watched her scurry up the street, her previous pace now quickened.

  Simon turned up the radio in an attempt to quell his irritation.

  “In the 2001 film, 'Donnie Darko', which song featured on the sound track, originally by Tears for Fears and covered by Gary Jules?”

  “'Mad World',” said Simon, quietly.

  Chapter 17

  “I saw Gina Thomas today.” Simon perched on the edge of the sofa in the conservatory, idly flicking through television programs.

  “Oh yes?” Melissa added a mound of chopped carrots to a pot on the stove.

  “You haven’t had any kind of row with her, have you?”

  “No, haven’t spoken to her for a while. I rang her a few weeks ago, after the … after we heard. Not heard anything since.”

  “She blanked me.”

  Melissa wiped her hands on a tea towel and ran the chopping board under the tap. “She what?”

  “She blanked me. I was on Commercial Street, sitting behind those bloody traffic lights and I saw her pushing Grace in a pushchair. I know she saw me – we made eye contact. But she just hurried off. She blanked me.” Simon switched the television off with an accompanying tut. “Forty eight channels and not a single thing to watch.”

  “People are embarrassed, Simon. They don’t know what to say.”

  “People? We’ve known Gina for over ten years. She’s one of our best friends, for God’s sake. Which reminds me – where are Tom and Louisa? I note Friday night suppers seem to be off.”

  “They didn’t want to disturb us. They presumed we would be busy with Sarah, which we are.” Melissa heaved a full bag of rubbish from out of the bin. “Could you help?”

  Simon joined her at the counter, then took over and tied the bag. “Louisa used to come round for coffee with you all the time. Tom hasn’t pestered me about playing golf once. And what happened to Dave? Presumably he’s still single and bored. A few months ago he was never off our doorstep. It’s like all our friends have fallen off the edge of the earth.” Simon picked up the bin bag, carrying it towards the back door. “It’s like we’ve got the plague.”

  “We make people feel uncomfortable, Simon.” Melissa shrugged.

  “Don’t you care? Don’t you miss our friends? Aren’t you …”? Simon paused, “ ... aren’t you lonely?”

  “No.”

  Simon unlatched the back stable door and deposited the bin bag in the wheelie bin outside, then came back in and chose a bottle of white wine from the wine cooler in the conservatory. “Want one?”

  “'One' being the key word in that sentence, Simon.”

  “Give me a break, Melissa. We’ve been sharing a bottle of wine most nights for twelve years. Could you pass me that corkscrew, please?”

  “True. But I’m not working my way through the drinks cabinet afterwards.”

  Simon swore as he stabbed his thumb with the corkscrew, the plastic seal refusing to come off easily. “I’ve had a night cap a few times. I am drinking too much. I know that. I’m not in some form of denial and I’m fully aware that it is not good for me. However, I’m not going to accept your snide insinuations that I have some kind of a drinking problem. I’m fully aware that I’m drinking too much. Considering what I’m – sorry, what we’re - going through at the moment, I think it’s fair enough.”

  “Give it here.” Melissa deftly removed the plastic and cork and poured wine into two glasses. “I’m not arguing. I’m too tired. Look, Sarah goes in for the full weekend on Friday afternoon, yes?”

  “Yeah. I was thinking I’d spend the day with her there on Friday and then we might give her a bit of space on Saturday. What do you think?”

  “That’s what Rhonda wants us to do. Suits me. I’ve got another wedding to do on Saturday. I thought you might go up to the Golf Club, seeing as you’re so lonely.”

  Simon sighed heavily. “I have no idea how you just managed to add loneliness to my long list of shortcomings, but you did it. Well done. And yes, I think I might just do that. Right now I have a date with Sarah and Harry Potter. Come on, Porridge.” Simon topped up his wine glass, ignoring Melissa’s arched eyebrows and set off for upstairs, Porridge padding along beside him.

  * * *

  The gravel crunched expensively and reassuringly as the Jaguar rolled down the long drive to Huddersfield Golf Course. The regal stone wall of Fixby Hall, the former country seat in which the club was housed, came into view on the final bend.

  Simon nosed his car into a space between a Porsche and a Mercedes, noting with displeasure, but no surprise, the packed car park. The sun had decided to make an early appearance, chasing away the April clouds and providing a perfect golfing day. The air was bright, crisp and warm.

  He curled a lip in the direction of an ostentatious Bentley. It belonged to a local builder famed for his Spanish-style villa, built on the hills above Halifax. The monstrosity was complete with indoor swimming pool, marble fountains and gate house. How the man had obtained planning permission was a frequent cause of speculation, though the gossipers always came to the same whispered conclusion. Kevin Jagger, perma-tanned and bejeweled, fulfilled his stereotype of tasteless bullying millionaire with indecent accuracy. The normally placid Simon hated few people, perhaps none, but following an astonishing tirade at a clubhouse dinner, in which Kevin and his vacuous and overweight wife Paula
had lambasted him for his failure to provide private health insurance for Sarah, he felt a certain justice in his abhorrence.

  He waved his key fob at the Jaguar, feeling a quiet sense of satisfaction at the sound of the chirrup it made on locking. A figure standing by a recently arrived Audi waved at him and Simon squinted his eyes against the low spring sunlight, attempting to make out the silhouette.

  “Simon! Perfect timing – fancy nine holes?” A small-framed man with spectacles and a generous smile stepped towards him. “Are you meeting with anyone else?”

  Simon gave a nowadays rare but genuine grin. “Pavit! This truly is good timing. Are you here alone?” Simon thrust out his hand and greeted his friend warmly. “Shall I get my clubs out? You weren’t expecting to play with anyone else?”

  Pavit opened his boot and hauled a set of clubs out of the back. “No, I came on the off chance. Thought I’d have a beer and maybe a bite of lunch and a quick round if I got lucky. It is excellent news that I have banged into you, Simon. Are you hungry or shall we skip the lunchtime rush and take advantage of the quieter green?”

  “Pavit, you’ve seen me play. I think we’d better make use of the temporary let-up. We could have lunch after, though – my treat.”

  “This sounds like an excellent plan.”

  The two men walked companionably round the side of the house, dragging their golf club bags. The green stretched out before them, various parties heading back in for lunch. They booked an immediate tee-time, pocketed their game-cards and trundled down a gentle hill towards the tee-off.

  “Simon, I heard about your little girl. This must be a dreadfully hard time for you. I can’t imagine.”