I went to check on Jack. I could see the light of his flashlight through the half-open door. He liked to sleep with his flashlight so he could find his way to the bathroom. Every night, he said, it was like having an adventure.
I watched him through the door. He was lying on his side, looking at his Pokémon trading cards. They were spread out, organized in rows and columns as if he was playing solitaire. He got it from Anna. The classification. The need to order things. Her color-coded Tupperware. Her spreadsheets and lists.
He inspected each card with his flashlight, turning it to see every detail, before placing it down on the bed. I could hear him whispering to the cards—“you go there...there you are...you sit down there with him...” He liked to organize them into teams, dividing them by color, by type, by whether they lived on the land or in the sea.
“Hello, beautiful,” I said, as I walked into his room.
“Hello, Daddy.” He pointed to his Pokémon cards. “I’m putting them in teams.”
“That’s cool,” I said, sitting down on the bed.
“This is the naughty team,” Jack said, pointing to one pile of cards. “And these are the good ones. And tomorrow, in the morning, they’re going to have a big fight.”
“Wow,” I said, “and who’s going to win?”
Jack considered the question. “The naughty ones,” he said, and then laughed loudly.
“C’mon, you should sleep now.”
“Okay,” he said, picking up the cards and putting them on his bedside table.
He settled back on his pillows, and I tucked him in again. “How do you feel, Jack? You don’t feel dizzy or anything?” I looked at the left side of his head. The temporal lobe.
“No, Daddy,” he said, his eyes beginning to close, and then quickly he was asleep. I watched him as his breathing began to deepen, little question marks of hair wrapping around his ears, the light brown moles on his nape. A little me, Anna always said. A little me.
I kissed his forehead and sat for a while on his sofa with the sprinkles of stars and dancing comets. I stilled myself, trying to slow down my breathing, so I could listen to him. But it was not enough: I could still hear my breathing, my heartbeat. So I held my breath for as long as possible—ten, twenty, thirty seconds—and then finally, all I could hear was Jack, the sound of him breathing, the occasional snuffle and murmur, the only sound in the world I wanted to hear.
the gherkin
we raced up in the elevator, as fast as a space rocket, and then the doors opened up into a huge glass room and you said it was like stepping out into the sky. and it was jack, it really was, because we could see right across london, as far as the south downs, nearly as far as the sea. we walked around, looking up and down, left and right, like timothy pope with his telescope and i will never forget that day jack for as long as i live. your laugh like chocolate as you danced with the shadows, the tinkle of rain on the glass.
8
I woke early, before sunrise. Anna was turned away from me, her legs tucked up to her chest just like Jack, the cover pulled around her neck. I looked for Jack, but he was not there. He was an early riser and would often creep into our bedroom before we woke, sitting on the floor at the foot of our bed, whispering to himself, ordering and reordering his Pokémon cards.
I went downstairs and sat at the kitchen table with my laptop and started Googling “pleomorphic xanthoastrocytoma.”
“Treatments for childhood brain tumors.”
“Child brain tumor prognosis.” I read National Health Service fact sheets, Wikipedia pages, a long interview with a doctor from the American Brain Tumor Association.
I varied my searches, digging into the third, fourth, fifth pages of results. Everything I found confirmed what Dr. Kennety had said. They were grade 2 tumors, rare, especially in children. And as the doctor had said, the overall survival rate was high, as much as 90 percent.
I heard the sound of little feet and saw Jack standing at the bottom of the stairs. He looked so young, so lithe in his Spider-Man pajamas. Still sleepy, he climbed into my lap and wrapped his arms and legs around me. I could feel his breath on my neck.
“Daddy, can I have cheese toast?”
“Of course you can.”
“Special cheese toast.”
“Special cheese toast?” I said with mock outrage. “Really? In the morning? Well, I don’t know about that. What will you give me in return?”
Jack thought about a possible bargain. “I’ll give you a kiss,” he said, smiling.
“Only a kiss. Hmm, anything else?”
Jack looked around him and then ran over to a wicker box of toys. He rummaged around inside and came back with something clenched tightly in his little fist.
“I’ll give you a present too.” He opened his hand and it was the broken arm of a Transformer.
“Bumble Bee’s arm?”
“Yes.” Jack nodded, and then started laughing.
“It’s a deal. Can I have my kiss now?”
Jack nodded, and as he planted a neat kiss on my face, I heard a small sob, a sharp intake of breath, and saw Anna standing at the bottom of the stairs, her hair still wet from the shower. She quickly turned and went back up the stairs.
“Where’s Mommy gone?”
“To the bathroom.”
“Why?”
“To do a wee-wee probably. Shall we make the special cheese on toast then? But first, I’m just going to check that Mommy is okay.”
“Can I watch the iPad?”
“Sure, you can.” Jack smiled, took the iPad off the shelf and sat down cross-legged on the sofa.
“But don’t watch those stupid toy videos, okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, Mr. Piggy.”
“Jack. I mean it.”
Upstairs, Anna was in the en suite bathroom, and I could hear the sound of running water.
“Anna?” I said gently through the door.
“Yes,” she said, her voice hoarse, distant. “I’ll be out in
