‘What does that mean?’ Griff watched the repeated movement of Susan’s hand.
‘The old boy’s shutting down. He’s in a coma and I don’t believe he’s going to wake.’
‘A coma?’ That was new, a shock, a challenge, but not insurmountable. ‘So, he could wake?’ Griff cast his eyes over Ozzy. He looked so peaceful. So calm. He was sleeping, that was all. Taking the time he needed to recover.
From his peripheral vision, Griff saw Susan clasp her hands together and raise them to her mouth.
‘No. It’s not just that,’ she said. ‘His organs are failing.’
There was no significance in that. Logan had heart failure. He’d had it for years. It hadn’t brought about his immediate death. He took pills.
Laughter and muffled voices from people leaving the waiting area joined Griff’s internal conversation, upsetting his train of thought. ‘What about medication? Surgery?’ he said, trying to steal order from the chaos.
Susan shook her head as she swung her hands down to rest in front of her thighs. ‘Surgery’s not an option, Griff. We need to be realistic. The prognosis isn’t good. It’s not … hopeful.’
‘Unbelievable.’ She was just like everyone else. Just like his father. No one stood up for the weak. No one took responsibility. No one was prepared to fight. Leaning his elbows on his side of the table, Griff rested his chin on his fists. ‘You’re saying do nothing.’
‘I’m saying there’s nothing further I can do that would alter the expected outcome.’
‘Expected outcome?’ Upright and alert, Griff glanced from Ozzy to Susan. ‘Not guaranteed.’
‘There is no magic bullet. At most, Ozzy has days, at worst—’
‘No.’ Griff rose from the chair, walked around the table and crouched in front of Ozzy’s nose. ‘You say days like it’s a sentence. It’s not. It’s a chance to find other methods, other meds. Things can change in days.’
A small, featherweight hand was laid on his shoulder.
‘Days in his condition is a sentence. He can’t fight back. His body can’t take any more intrusions and it’s not fair to leave him in this state of limbo.’ Susan’s tone was kind but firm. ‘He’s lost bowel control now, as well as his bladder, and he’s only going to get worse. This isn’t living, Griff. I know it’s hard. It’s heartbreaking, but you need to think about what’s best for Ozzy.’ She squeezed the top of Griff’s arm. ‘He’s had a long and happy life. He’s been well-loved and looked after, but now he needs you to let him go.’ She paused, removed her hand and stepped away. ‘I’ll leave you for a while. Call if you need me.’
As soon as she had gone, Griff rubbed his eyes, sniffed, and cuffed his nose. He ran a finger under Ozzy’s soft, warm ear. ‘She won’t listen to me, boy. She thinks you’re a lost cause. Show her you’re not. Come on. Wake up, wag that beautiful tail we refused to have docked. Come on, Ozzy. I need you. We need you. You have to come through this.’
The silence and stillness of the room magnified the total lack of response, and Griff’s chest ached. Collecting his chair, he sat at the end of the table and put his head next to Ozzy’s. ‘This is my fault. You’re here because of me.’ He wrapped his arms around the dog’s neck, pulled himself in tighter, and prayed for a miracle.
His heart contracted at the sound of his mobile. Evie’s ringtone reverberated around the room. Hearing her concerned voice carried the risk of breaking Griff, but he had to answer; had to clear up any misunderstandings about the day before; had to tell her about Ozzy.
With a heavy reluctance, he withdrew from his hug, fished the phone out of his pocket and touched the answer icon. ‘Hi.’ His voice was dry and rasping. He cleared his throat, stood, and looked down on his old pal. ‘I’m at the vet’s.’
‘I thought you must be. Tell me about Ozzy. How is he?’ There was an uncertainty and a quiver to Evie’s voice which was enough to push Griff over the emotional cliff.
‘It’s my fault he’s here,’ he blurted out. ‘My fault he’s lying on this table, with tubes sticking in him, his leg in plaster, his life in the balance.’ A sharp intake of breath accompanied each phrase. ‘I threw the biscuits. I wasn’t thinking. I threw them and they landed in the road. Evie, it was terrible. Honey – she was okay, but Ozzy …’ He pressed the phone to his ear until the pain became intolerable. ‘I had both the dogs with me. I should have been concentrating on them, not on what my dad had said.’
‘I don’t know who Honey is,’ Evie said. ‘Tell me about Ozzy.’
Griff heard her, but he couldn’t disengage from the scene of the accident. ‘He went under a van. Bang! It was so fast, so loud. A woman ran across the road and took hold of Honey and the van driver helped me get Ozzy onto the pavement. He wasn’t moving, but he was breathing. I asked the van driver if he had a blanket or a towel we could lift Ozzy onto. He had a couple of dust sheets in the back of his van so we used them. I tore off scraps to bind the wounds. Ozzy was bleeding. And his leg was twisted and mangled. I wrapped him up. He had to be kept warm, you know? Secure. I was worried shock was going to set in, and that could have killed him. We put him and Honey in the van and brought them here.’
‘I meant tell me about Ozzy, now,’ Evie said, gently. ‘How is he?’
‘Now?’ Griff’s sight returned to the operating table, the jolt of which took his legs from under him, and he collapsed into the chair. ‘They think we should let him go.’
‘Let him go?’ Evie’s quiver had developed into a full-blown quake. ‘He’s not coming home?’
Clutching his head, Griff clenched his jaws together and scrunched his eyes shut.
Death was a bastard. It had taken too many loved ones from him already, and once again it was waving its scythe, taunting him and whispering wicked words of victory in his ear. ‘I hate death,’ Griff said, restoring his vision. ‘I don’t care what my father said. I’ll fight it all the way.’
‘You’re not making any sense, Griff. You keep talking about your dad.’
‘Yes, because he thinks I’m on some sort of crusade to save lives so I can find peace, but I’m not.’
‘Griff—’
‘He said it’s something I have to deal with, that there are worse things in life than death. Like what? What can possibly be worse than death?’ Griff was up again, and marching back and forth, stopping and staring at anatomical posters on the end walls at every turn.
‘Griff?’ Evie demanded his attention. ‘Tell me about Ozzy.’ She paused, her sniffs and snuffles distorting down the line. ‘Is there really no hope?’
No hope. Two tiny, succinct and powerful words.
Griff quietened down. His moment’s respite brought him out of his head and back into the world; the world where it was apparent Evie was crying. ‘I’m sorry,’ Griff said. ‘You love him, too. I shouldn’t have laid all that stuff on you.’ This wasn’t just about Griff; Ozzy was his dog, but for the last three years, he’d been part of the Hendry and MacDonald family. Evie still asked after him, Dylan squealed with delight at seeing him, and Tess’s willingness to visit Griff’s flat to take Ozzy for a walk showed how much she missed having him around. How could Griff tell the children there was no hope?
‘He’s in a coma,’ he said, choosing words that would lay a path for Evie to follow. ‘The vet says he has days at most. She says it’s unfair to leave him in limbo; that it isn’t living.’ He halted as a shiver snaked its way from his skull, down his spine and into his core. He let his arms drop to his side. ‘A half-life is worse than death,’ he said. ‘A life without pleasure or freedom, or a life unable to be lived is worse than death.’
He stared at his dog; his friend; his trusty companion, who could never again romp across the pebbles of Chesil, who’d never bark or yap and snap at the wild spray of the sea at the Bill, get under Griff’s feet, lick his face or sit with him in the peaceful evening hours, play chase with the children.
All the things that made Ozzy’s life joyous and worth living had been ripped away,
and that wasn’t going to change. Not in days.
Griff raised the phone to his ear. ‘Evie. I understand now. I have to let him go.’
Chapter Twenty-Six
Evie
Evie swished her hand through the warm water in the kitchen sink. Washing the dishes was a mundane job and one that required little attention. It suited her. It was a welcome and normal occupation after yesterday’s abnormal and stressful day. Having fed Dylan, and with Tess back home from Logan’s and in her bedroom, it gave Evie a chance to settle.
Since lunchtime, she’d dealt with a fractious two-year-old, broken the news about Ozzy to Tess, and then consoled the shocked and silent teen, all the time supressing her own acute sadness. She was good at that. Putting others first was what she did. She’d made it her role in life. When her family needed her, she was there.
Stepping up was easy; natural. It was the backing off she wrestled with.
She wanted to be with Griff last night; be there for him and Ozzy. Say their goodbyes together. Cry together.
‘Tess is with your dad,’ she’d said. ‘And I’ve not put Dylan to bed yet. We could be with you in twenty minutes.’
‘It’s no place for Dylan,’ Griff said. ‘Just hug him a little tighter tonight, will you? And Tess. Make sure they’re all right.’
This was a life-changing moment for Griff, and one Evie didn’t underestimate – all the more reason for her to be with him, either in person or on the phone. She offered support and kind words, reassurance that he was doing the right thing and reiterated that he didn’t have to face the awful moment alone.
‘I know,’ he said, ‘but I don’t want you to remember Ozzy the way he is now. Keep the good memories alive. For all of us. And be with the children. They need you more.’
Evie picked up a dirty mug from the side, plunged it into the water and scrubbed at its inside.
To not be needed hurt. To not be needed by Griff, when he’d come to her, upset, seeking comfort and seeking love, was devastating.
As feelings she’d long since drowned bubbled to the surface, she continued cleaning the mug, each rub more vigorous than the last.
She had to have the confidence that Griff hadn’t used her; that she wasn’t just a convenient object, a handy receptacle for his frustrations; that two nights ago, they’d made love together, not that he’d had sex with her. She had to believe his grief and his distress over Ozzy proved how caring he was; that it wasn’t that he didn’t need her at all, he just didn’t need her at that moment. She had to keep the faith she’d invested in him, and not confuse or merge him with memories of Neil. They were two very different men.
With the last item washed, Evie shook the drips from her hands and crossed the kitchen to Ozzy’s corner. His bed hadn’t been there for weeks, but it was still his space.
‘It’s sad.’
Evie looked up to see Tess, with Dylan mounted on her hip, standing in the doorway. ‘It is.’
‘I keep thinking about Griff and wondering how he is.’ Tess stepped into the room and joined Evie in the corner. ‘He’s lost his best mate. They’ve been together forever.’
Tess was right. Griff and Ozzy were an item long before the MacDonalds came along.
Evie pulled her children in for a hug. ‘Did you know Ozzy’s full name is Osrid? It’s Welsh,’ she said. ‘Griff told me on our first date. It means divine counsellor.’ The recollection made her smile. ‘He said Ozzy was as good as his name. A great listener.’
‘Poor Ozzy.’ Tess sighed, kissed Dylan on his nose, and brought his head into her neck. ‘And your poor dad having to deal with it all,’ she said to him. ‘What a horrible final memory. Life can be so brutal.’
‘It can.’ Evie squeezed her daughter and planted a kiss on her cheek. It was a bit of a stretch. ‘When did you get taller than me?’
Tess moved away and dispensed her ‘Really, Mum?’ look. ‘Do you remember not being able to reach the icing sugar for Dylan’s birthday cake? His first birthday cake? Yes? Well. Since then.’
Where had that time gone? ‘I’ve missed so much, Tess. Even when I’m here, my head’s at Logan’s, or I’m thinking about Griff. When you were born, I promised to always make you my number one priority.’
‘Priorities change. It’s all right. Logan and Dylan need you more right now.’
‘But it’s not all right.’ Evie brought her arms close to her body, holding them across her chest. ‘Just because you don’t make a fuss shouldn’t mean you get overlooked.’
Tess hoisted Dylan onto her other hip. ‘Despite what you think, you’re not Superwoman. When Dylan was born, I knew he’d need your attention. And I understand why Logan’s so dependent on you. That’s not to say I’d turn down spending time with you.’ She smiled. ‘I’m saying I get it.’ As she spoke, Dylan began to wriggle and show his dissatisfaction at being lodged on the wrong hip. ‘He’s never liked being held this side. You’re a strange boy,’ she said, handing him to Evie.
‘Let’s do something now,’ Evie said, a sudden change in speed carrying her through to the hall. ‘I’ll sort Dylan, you get your coat on and we’ll go out.’
The ensuing silence and lack of activity on Tess’s part stopped Evie in her tracks. She glanced back at her daughter. ‘Not now?’
‘I’m heading out. That’s what I came down to tell you.’ Tess checked the clock above the door and stirred into action. ‘And I’m running late. Got to go. Sorry.’ On her way out, she grabbed her hat, fluffed Dylan’s hair, and kissed Evie. ‘I’ll be back to help with tea.’
Recovering from the teenage whirlwind, Evie took Dylan into the living room, picked up a Noddy book and settled on the sofa. ‘It’s you, me and Big Ears, then.’
Her attempt to enter her daughter’s life had been put on hold. It wasn’t a snub, although Evie could understand that – she’d cancelled her plans with Tess left, right and centre in the past to deal with Logan or see to Dylan – it was that Tess’s trip out was a far more attractive proposition than spending an afternoon with Evie.
The question was, who was that more attractive proposition?
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Tess
I feel bad at ditching Mum. It’s been a tough morning, all things considered. Every time I think of Ozzy, I have to steel myself, and seeing the pain in Mum’s eyes stirs up my insides.
It’s not only the tears I’m fighting.
When Imogen contacted me asking for us to meet on the seafront, I didn’t think twice. It was the distraction I needed, and away from my room, away from the temptation to lift up the floorboard, means I’ve managed to remain clean.
I’ve Imogen to thank for that, although I’m not enjoying the breeze blowing in from the Channel. The contrary spring weather’s tricked me again. I wish I’d brought my coat.
I use my hand as a peak, shielding my eyes from the glare, and scan Weymouth beach. It’s mostly young couples with pushchairs, or the elderly bent over their walking aids. Easter attracts the newly-weds and nearly-deads.
I shouldn’t say that. It’s disrespectful. Besides, I can see an old man paddling in the sea and another offering his woman an ice cream. They’re enjoying themselves, no matter their age or the chilly breeze.
I wonder if Logan would feel differently about life if he got to live a little.
The old bugger refuses to use a wheelchair, and a walk along the Esplanade’s a non-starter, but we could take him out for a drive, stop for fish and chips, or tea and Dorset apple cake. There’s a lovely café and gardens in Upwey. They have a wishing well. I threw a pound coin in last summer. I thought about all the things I could wish for, like being free of my father, understanding who I am, to stop cutting, but I decided to wish Mum and Dylan long, happy and healthy lives. I should probably go back and top up my pound.
I budge up on the wooden bench, as a woman eating chips sits beside me. They smell good. It doesn’t matter I had lunch a short while ago, my stomach still rumbles. She offers me one, but I smile
and politely decline. I’m hoping when Imogen gets here we can head for a cosy coffee shop where I can buy a hot chocolate and a pecan and maple twist.
That’s something I’d like to do with Logan, but I have no way of transporting him. We could go with Mum, but he complains about getting into her Mini. It’s too low and there’s not enough room for him. He needs to stretch out to stop his joints from seizing up. We need a bigger car, like Griff’s, but I doubt Logan would go out in that. He’d need a leg-up for a start, and extra padding on the seat. The Land Rover’s a bit rustic. As Griff says, it’s built for practicality, not comfort.
Logan’s built for comfort these days.
Still no sign of Imogen. I was surprised to receive a text from her. She got my number from Logan. Says she’d like to get to know me better, especially since we’d be seeing more of each other. She feels we have a connection, and she’d like to explore it further. Explore was her word, not mine. I’ve not had a chance to tell Mum about her yet, what with Ozzy and then rushing out after lunch. I’ll let her know before she goes round tonight.
Imogen suggested meeting by the Clock Tower. It’s an easy landmark and it’s clear along the pavement at the moment. The Easter fair will be set up at the weekend. It’ll be heaving then. I never go. I hate all the sidling past people that goes on, all the up-close-and-personal stuff. Totally outside my comfort zone. Makes me sick with nerves.
I’m nervous now, and pleased I didn’t accept the chip from my bench neighbour, as I can feel my lunch working its way back up my food pipe. My mouth’s dry, too, but that could be the wind blowing away the moisture.
A dog’s appeared and it’s sniffing my boots. It’s a Labrador.
‘Tess. Hi. Sorry I’m late.’
I divert my eyes from the dog and see Imogen in a lurid pink mac, which is open and flapping like a crazy flamingo. She’s standing next to the Clock Tower. Her hair’s blowing around her face, and she pulls a strand from her mouth. She’s hanging onto the dog.
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