I looked at him, sitting in the chair. The whites of his eyes were no longer white. His skin had become pallid, like the skin of an old man. His hair was lank and limp. The chemotherapy was eating away at him, hollowing him out, like a body scoured with bleach. As he shivered, his little broken body convulsed, spewing out every ounce of himself, every last drop of moisture.
I lifted him out of the chair, put him back under the fresh sheets, and he quickly fell asleep. I remembered a holiday to Cornwall, in a trailer with my parents. I was fourteen, and one night I went out with some local kids and came home drunk. I vomited in the bathroom and all over the kitchen floor. My mother was angry, gave me a whack, said this wasn’t what she came on holiday for.
In the morning, shamefaced, Mom gave me another dressing-down. “You should thank your dad,” she said, angrily doing the dishes, “he stayed up with you all night to make sure you were okay. He set his alarm to go off every fifteen minutes, so he didn’t fall asleep.”
After Anna came in to relieve me, I lay awake until my alarm went off in three hours’ time. Jack was sleeping soundly and I watched him—happy that he had found some temporary relief.
His peace didn’t last long. I could hear his stomach gurgle, and then the sound of him beginning to retch. I shook him awake, getting the bucket in place, and he vomited again and again, his body so weak and broken now, his stomach distended, his legs and hips so lean.
He was shaking now, his lips chapped and peeling, his eyes sunken into dark sockets, and he was still retching, but nothing would come out, just bile and foamy spit, and I held him in my arms, my beautiful, beautiful boy, and I could do nothing except empty bucket after bucket of sick.
As I was helping him lie down again, Jack leaned close to me, and I could smell the vomit on his breath. He looked me in the eye and said his words with such clarity that I knew that I would have to honor them.
“Dad, please, Dad. I don’t want to be ill anymore.”
* * *
It was the landline that broke the silence, a rare occurrence these days, and we listened as the ring echoed around the house.
Anna wiped her eyes and walked over to the hall table. “Hampstead 270-6296.”
“Yes, that’s me, yes, Anna Coates...”
I watched Anna listening, her face turning pale, ever so slightly moving her lips.
“Oh, God... Is she...”
Her face was now a ghostly white, and she put her hand on the sideboard to steady herself.
“Yes, of course...thanks for letting me know.”
Anna put down the receiver, her face white and drawn. “It’s my mother,” she said without looking at me, staring out of the window. “She’s had a heart attack.”
“God, is she...”
“Yes, she’s alive,” Anna said quickly, her voice starting to quaver. “But it’s touch and go, apparently, and it doesn’t look good. The hospital thought it was best if I came.”
“Which hospital is she in? I can drive you.”
“She’s up in Norwich.”
“Norwich?”
“Yes, that was her friend Cynthia. She was visiting her and collapsed at the train station.” Anna swayed a little on her feet and quickly sat down.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes, sorry. I just feel a little faint.”
I went to the kitchen and brought her a glass of water. A little bit of color had come back to her face.
“You should go,” I said.
She looked up at me, her brow heavy, tears in her eyes. “How can I go now?” she said.
“It will just be a day or two,” I said. “I know it’s the worst time, but you won’t forgive yourself if you don’t say...well, you know...”
“Say goodbye,” Anna whispered, and I went over and took her in my arms. I could feel her heart beating on my chest. I knew she had to go now, otherwise it would be too late. But that wasn’t what I was thinking about as I stroked her hair. I was thinking about Jack.
the seven sisters
sitting in that café at the top of the seventh hill and you had got yourself cold because the weather had turned and mommy was getting worried, so we went inside, out of the wind and the rain, the spray from the gnarly sea, and we played rock-paper-scissors to warm up. you introduced dynamite, which beat everything, you said, and you just kept winning and winning and laughing so hard, your cheeks glowing red like the embers in the fire. we stayed there for a while that afternoon, happy in the cozy warm, drinking our hot chocolates with marshmallows on the side.
17
“Where are we going, Daddy?”
“We’re going on holiday, beautiful.”
“Is Mommy coming?”
“No, she can’t.”
“Why?”
“Because she’s with Granny.”
Jack was sitting in the entrance hall in his parka and hat, his Finding Nemo backpack looped over both shoulders. He was a little better now that his last weekly round of chemotherapy had left his system, and I had given him some strong painkillers. But he was still pale, his body emaciated and weak. He walked slowly and gripped tightly on to my hand, visible lumps of accumulated fluid now growing on the back of his head.
“We’re not going to Granny’s?”
“No, not now. Granny’s not feeling very well.”
Jack was quiet, thought about what I had said. “Are we going in the car?”
“Well, we’re taking a taxi to the airport and then we’re getting a plane.”
“Really? Can we take photos from the window?”
“Of course we can.”
“Cool,” he said, beaming. “Where are we going?”
“We’re going to Prague.”
“Is Prague the beach?”
“No, it’s a city, like London.” The taxi beeped again outside, and I
