by Eva Woods
“It’s okay. I’m sure he won’t catch anything.”
“Polly. How did you even get him in?”
“I smuggled him in my bag.” She was defensive now. “I thought he might cheer people up. It’s so depressing in here.”
“Yes, it is depressing on the neurology ward, but honestly. Look at him.”
Buster, wide-eyed and wriggling, was now doing a small wee. Polly held him away from her as it puddled on the floor of the corridor, which funnily enough was the color of urine to start with. “Oops.”
“I’m getting Dr. Max,” said Annie.
* * *
She found him on his knees in front of the vending machine, his arm inside it and an expression of ferocious concentration on his face. “Are you okay?”
“Shh! This is a very delicate maneuver...aha!” A KitKat Chunky finally fell down and he pulled his hand out, victorious, clutching it. “Surgical hands one, bastard thieving machine zero.” He saw Annie’s look. “I paid for it! It just didn’t come out. And I haven’t had any lunch.”
“I’m not judging. I just need your help with something.”
“What?” he said, spraying chocolate.
Annie told him.
His face darkened. “Right. I’m not having this. Take me to her.”
Ten minutes later, Dr. Max had dispatched a sulky Polly to her MRI with a lecture about all the types of infection you could pick up from a puppy, and was now on his hands and knees mopping up the wee with a roll of blue hospital paper. Buster was cowering near the wall.
“Can I...?” Annie offered timidly.
“No. It’s done now. Bloody irresponsible puppy farmers. Turning dogs into breeding machines. Poor wee mite isn’t ready to be away from his mum—look how scared he is.”
“Why did she—”
“Disinhibition.” He sat back on his heels, sighing. “It’s a bad sign, Annie. It means the tumor’s eating away at her. The bits of her brain that control impulse and judgment... You know how you airbrush a picture, with the little dots? That’s what’s happening inside her brain right now.”
Annie nodded, a lump rising in her throat. “She danced in a fountain the other day.”
“See? Loss of control. It’s not good.”
“But she seems so well. Happy, most of the time.”
He tutted. “It’s not happiness, it’s euphoria. There’s also memory loss, and mood swings, what we call emotional lability.”
“But—”
“This isn’t some inspirational ‘making the most of life’ movie, Annie. This is brain damage. That’s what you’re seeing.”
“I danced in the fountain, too.”
His bushy eyebrows twitched. “I didn’t have you down for the fountain-dancing sort.”
“I’m not. I don’t really know what happened. I guess I thought I could stop her doing anything really over the top.”
He nodded. “You’re a good influence on her. Dancing aside. It seems to...distract her somehow from what’s going on. Keeps her on an even keel.”
“So it’s getting worse.”
“Aye. And it’ll get worse still. Och, Annie, are you crying?”
“It’s just...” She bit her lip as a flood of salt rushed to her eyes. “The poor puppy, away from his mum. It isn’t fair.”
He stood awkwardly, holding a wodge of wee-stained paper. “Come on, Annie. We get enough crying on this ward.”
“S-sorry. Will Buster be able to go back to his mum for a while?”
“I’ll try to bring him back tomorrow. Give that bloody breeder a piece of my mind. He can stay in my office for now. I’ll find him a wee bed.”
“Do you want me to come with you tomorrow, to the breeder?”
He looked surprised. “Are you no’ at work?”
“It’s Saturday.”
“Oh, aye, I lose track of time in here.” He smiled, his eyes softening. “Only if you do the punching. I need to save these surgical hands of mine for performing miracles. Have you a good right hook, Annie?”
“I can hold my own. I grew up on a council estate, you know.”
“Och, well, then. I’ll insist you come.”
* * *
“It was so unfair of McGrumpy to take poor Buster away,” Polly complained as they wandered to the exit of the hospital later. She kept stopping to wave at people, ask after them. “Hey, Paul, how’s that ankle? Take it easy on the court next time! Mercy! Did you get your hair done?” Cleaners, admin staff, consultants, nurses—she seemed to know everyone. “I am too capable of looking after a puppy. He’s got no right to say I’m not.”
“How do you find time to meet all these people?” Annie asked as Polly waved at another porter.
“Oh, I’ve spent half my life here in the last few months. Waiting for scans, getting blood taken, chemo... I truly make the most of the NHS.”
Annie had also spent a lot of time in the hospital, and she didn’t know anyone’s name. Before Polly she’d always kept her nose in a book, or tried to answer work emails on her phone, feeling guilty about not being in the office. Awkwardly—going for casual but missing by a mile—she said, “You know Dr. Max?”
“The man who’s had his hands inside my skull? I am familiar with his work, yes.”
“Well...what’s his deal? Is he...you know?” Annie felt herself blushing. She hated that. It was never a delicate rosy tint with her, rather an explosion of red like when you squashed a tomato. “Is he married or anything? I mean, he seems to practically live in the hospital.”
Polly started laughing. “Annie, you little minx. You’ve got a crush on Dr. McGrumpy?”
“No. No, I don’t. I was just wondering about their private lives. They work so hard.” He didn’t wear a ring, but that might be for hygiene reasons.
“Annie and Max, sitting in a tree—”
“Shh!” Annie looked around fearfully.
“I don’t know if he’s married. Married to the job, I suspect. But, Annie, we don’t have time to fall in love. We’ve got living to do! Although he wants to stop me having any fun at all.”
She thought of Dr. Max’s advice. Keep her on an even keel. “Listen, Poll, I’m sorry about the dog. But there’s other fun things we can do. What would you most like to try for the next happy thing?”
“Honestly, what I’d really love to do—please don’t hate me for this—is give you a makeover.”
Annie groaned. “Seriously? It’s such a cliché. Is it going to change something fundamental if I stick on a bit of lipstick?”
Polly tucked an arm in hers. Annie hoped it didn’t have puppy wee on it. “Look, I get what you’re saying. I get that it’s a bit patronizing to make someone over. But there are just so many different looks in the world. So many clothes, so many hair colors, so many types of makeup. And I spent most of my life up to now wearing the same things. Suits, shift dresses. Jeans, jeans and more jeans. Yoga pants. The same Barry M eyeliner. That’s why I’m now trying to wear every random thing in my wardrobe, you see. You always wear black?”
Annie looked down at her outfit, trousers and a gray shirt she’d worn to work. “It’s just easier. Saves time in the morning.” Even as she said it she knew it was an excuse. And she’d once liked clothes, hadn’t she? She’d bought so many maternity outfits when she was pregnant, loving the changing shape of herself, the promise of what was to come.
Polly wheedled, “It’d be so much fun. Why do you think I dress like this?” She plucked at the getup she was in today, a short pink frilly dress worn with orange tights. “I don’t have a lot of time, Annie. I may never get to wear culottes or cowboy boots again. I have to do it now, or never. So, join me? Remember, if plan A doesn’t work, there’s twenty-five other letters to choose from.”
“Is this where you pl
ay the cancer card?”
“I thought it was sort of implied.”
What could she say? Polly was dying—that cancer card was real. The least Annie could do was put on a stupid dress. “Fine. Why don’t you come over to mine and we can, I don’t know, do our nails or something.”
“Amazing. I’ll bring brownies.”
“We’re not nine,” Annie grumbled. “It’s not like a sleepover where... Oh.”
“Annie?” Polly turned back to where she’d stopped. “You’ve gone white. Are you okay?”
Move. Hide. Quick. Quick! But Annie’s legs weren’t moving. She was frozen, staring straight ahead, at the man sitting in the snack bar. She couldn’t see what he was drinking, but she knew what it would be. Latte, one sugar. Half if he was trying to lose weight. He wore jeans and a green polo shirt, and his arms looked tanned and strong.
His voice shouting in from the corridor. “Annie, call an ambulance!” Fumbling in the bedsheets for her phone, struggling to dial the number as panic coursed through her...
Polly waved a hand in front of her face. “Annie? Are you okay? Hey, that’s a song.” Her voice was clear and piercing. Annie came back to herself and scuttled on by, until she was past the snack bar. Polly came swaggering after, in her impractical shoes, pausing to wave at a junior doctor. “Oh, hey, Kieran, working nights today? Don’t forget to try those supplements I mentioned. Great for boosting melatonin.”
Annie sank onto a seat—green plastic, the stuffing leaking out. The noises of the hospital washed over her, squeaking wheels and beeping monitors and hurrying feet. Lives being lost. Lives just starting.
“What’s the matter?” said Polly.
“I... It was just...someone I hadn’t seen for a while.”
“Who? Your long-lost dad? Your one true love? Something’s really upset you.”
“No. No, I’m fine. I just—I didn’t have any dinner. I better go home, I think.”
She walked to the door very fast, head down, face half-covered by her scarf. Though she didn’t think he would see her even if they passed; she was pretty sure he never thought about her at all.
DAY 20
Try an adrenaline sport
“Is this the place?” said Annie nervously. They were in Dr. Max’s car, which like its owner was somewhat dented, and had mud and what Annie suspected was Toffee Crisp ground into the upholstery. They’d pulled up outside a salvage yard in Deptford, and no one was around. Piles of smashed masonry sat between burned-out cars, and from a small Portakabin a Rihanna song was leaking.
“This is where Polly said she got him.” Dr. Max made a growling sound in his throat. “Can’t believe she came down here on her own. Sometimes I think the lassie must be touched, brain tumor or no brain tumor.”
“Should I go in?” Annie had Buster at her feet, emitting small squeaks as he chewed on the car mat.
“Let’s both go. Not sure how safe it is here.” They’d joked about getting into a fistfight, but Annie felt nervous as she climbed out of the car, Buster bundled in her coat. It was so quiet, except for the radio and the creak of rusting metal in the breeze. “Hello?” she called. Nothing.
Dr. Max strode over to the cabin. The back of his shirt was flapping out of his trousers. “Hello, hello, anyone there?”
The door creaked slightly and a sinister-looking man came out, wiping his hands on a rag. He wore a very tight black vest, showing off arms roughly the width of tree trunks. “What d’you want?” His voice sheered the corners off the sentence.
“Um, hello,” Annie said nervously. “My friend bought this puppy from you yesterday but the thing is, she can’t keep him—she’s got cancer, you see.”
“S’my problem?”
“He’s far too young to be away from his mother,” stormed Dr. Max. “Where is she, anyway?”
“Sold ’er.”
“For God’s sake. Do you even have a breeding license? You should be ashamed of yourself, pal.”
The man shifted slightly on his feet, making his arms ripple. Annie began to back away, cradling Buster to herself. She could feel his heart whirring through her jumper, and her own matched it. “Dr. Max, maybe we should—”
“I’m not going to be intimidated. They’re breaking the law here.”
The man whistled, as if calling a dog, and two other men stepped silently out into the yard. Annie froze. “Er, Dr. Max...”
“A disgrace is what it is. I’ll be reporting you the RSPCA and I demand a full refund for my patient and—”
“Dr. Max!” She was already backing away to the car. “I think we should get out of here.”
But Dr. Max was squaring up to them. He was stocky, but no match for the three hulking men now closing in on him. Annie had a horrified vision of him lying on the ground, his face beaten to red pulp. And it was a nice face, too. “Please!” she shouted, addressing the lead man this time. “He’s just annoyed because my friend has cancer. He’s her doctor, you see.” Scary Man said nothing, but cocked his head at her, listening. She went on. “He’s a good doctor. Helps lots of people. Don’t hit him. He’s a surgeon—he needs to look after his hands.”
“S’doctor?”
“Yes. Honestly, he works so hard.”
“I am here, Annie, you know.”
She shot him a look. “Shh! So, why don’t we just go and take the dog, and we’ll say no more about it?”
“Sod that, I’m not running away. I—”
“Shut up, Dr. Max.”
One of the men was approaching. He was even larger, like the biggest in a series of Russian dolls. He had his hands on his metal belt buckle, and Annie didn’t know what was happening—was he going to hit Dr. Max with it?—and then he dropped his jeans. “See this? What’s tha’?”
Dr. Max blinked. He was being shown a mole on the man’s hairy bottom. “Er, it’s a mole.”
“S’bad one?”
“I can’t really tell.” Dr. Max squinted. “It looks okay to me, if it hasn’t recently changed.”
“S’old.”
“Right. Well, you’d have to get it checked out by a dermatologist, but I don’t see any obvious cause for concern, no.”
He buckled himself up again, and an eloquent look went between the three men. The lead one went into the Portakabin, then emerged with a handful of greasy cash. “S’half,” he growled. “Can’t take the dog back. Nowhere to put ’im.”
“We’ll take him,” Annie said eagerly. “He can stay with me for a while. It’s fine, honest.” Though how she’d keep a puppy in a tenth-floor flat she had no idea. All she knew was they had to get out of here or she’d be scraping Dr. Max off the yard. “Please,” she hissed to him. “Your patients need you. Polly needs you.”
“I could take these guys.”
“I know. I know you could. But should we just...leave it?”
His fists still clenched, he nodded reluctantly. “Can you really look after the pup? I would but I’m never home. It wouldn’t be fair on the wee scrap.”
“Of course I can. Please, can we just go?”
Finally, he turned, and Annie was back in the car so fast she could easily have won the hundred-meter sprint at school, rather than coming last as she always had in real life. Buster was still pressed against her, oblivious, his pink tongue hanging out. “Looks like you got yourself a dog,” said Dr. Max, starting the engine. “Come on. We better find a pet store.”
DAY 21
Have a makeover
“Are you ready for your close-up, Ms. Hebden?”
“Not even a little bit. But you better come in.” Annie had opened the door to Polly dressed like a World War II recruiting poster. Petrol-blue jumpsuit, red lipstick, headscarf. Annie herself was in pajama bottoms and a hoodie. The hoodie had a crusting of something on the sid
e—porridge, possibly. Maybe Polly was right. She did need a makeover.
“Help me with this, will you?” Polly was struggling with a huge suitcase. “Oh, look, there’s my baby!” She fell on Buster, letting him lick her face.
“Should you be doing that?”
“Oh, not you as well. I’m dying, anyway. I’d rather go having cuddled this little darling.” Little darling was stretching it, Annie felt. She and Costas had woken up ten times in the night to take Buster down in the lift to “make wee-wee,” even though Costas had to be up at five to serve coffee. Despite this there had been several suspicious pools when Annie got up and she had to leave all the windows open to get the smell out, so the flat was now freezing. Luckily, Costas had taken enthusiastically to the puppy, and was already referring to himself as “papa,” which Annie found worrying. Buster couldn’t stay.
Annie began to feel alarmed by the suitcase. “We aren’t going to just—you know, do pedicures and watch Orange Is the New Black?”
Polly laughed. “Nice try, Hebden. You know my motto. Go big or go home.”
“I am home.” But Annie knew her grumbling was pointless, and if she was totally 100 percent honest with herself, she was a little excited, seeing the fabrics Polly was pulling from her case. Faux furs. Silks. Patterns of red and green and purple.
Polly looked at her critically. “Right. Basics first. When did you last do anything with your feet?”
Ten minutes later, Annie was, with much protesting, wrapped only in a towel, her feet soaking in a bowl, an unmentionable burning cream spread over her lady bits, while Buster chewed her shoes in the corner. She’d tried to say her lack of beauty regime was a feminist statement, but Polly just raised her nonexistent eyebrows again. “Is it really? Or is it just that you haven’t let anyone near you in years?”
“Both,” Annie said sulkily. Now she watched as Polly approached, something like Sellotape in her hands. “What’s that?”
“Nothing. Omigod, what’s that over there?”
“What—aarrgh!” Polly had slapped something down on her leg and just as swiftly whipped it off again. “Mother of Christ! What was that?”