Authors: Allie Little
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
Gemma lies motionless with her iPad balanced on her chest, the morning sunlight streaking across her blanketed bed. She’s sleeping peacefully, as if the weight of the world isn’t pressing upon her fragile bones. An untouched breakfast rests undisturbed beside her. I move quietly to the tubular metal bed which is unexpectedly cold alongside my skin. Unsure whether to wake her, I reach gently for her hand as her eyelids flutter open and slowly focus. She removes the iPad, settling it snugly against her leg.
“Hey,” she says quietly smiling, the misery visibly infusing her pale skin. She looks at me somewhat forlornly.
“Hey Gem,” I say, placing a pile of Madisons on her bedside. “I brought you these. Thought they might be a distraction.”
“Thanks,” she answers, readjusting the cannula on the back of her hand. It’s obviously bothering her, taped down flat against her skin. “This is sore,” she mutters. “Although compared to everything else I guess it’s nothing.”
“So how are you?”
“I’ve got news,” she says, lifting herself higher up the bed and attempting to rearrange the pillow. I fluff it and position it behind her.
“Good news?” I ask, hoping I won’t choke on my words should it be otherwise.
She shrugs a shoulder, almost in defeat. “Neutral to negative. Statistically my chances aren’t great. But with these new treatments tailored specifically for me, I’m told I might have a chance.”
“I’m sure you have a good chance. Young, healthy, that’s got to play a part, right?”
She raises a brow. “Previously healthy, Sam. Remember? Right now for my age, I have a 63 percent chance of beating this. Which doesn’t sound too bad I suppose, six out of ten. But it doesn’t sound too good, either. I’ve googled it incessantly, scaring myself to hell and back. But there’re those four, right? The four out of every ten who don’t make it. I’m shit scared that’s going to be me.”
I blink, shocked at how blunt she is. The tears begin to pool in her eyes, but somehow she halts them. “Have the doctors said anything else?” I ask hesitantly, because god, there must be
something
to cling to
.
“Yeah, there’s more,” she answers hastily, as if wanting to get the news over with.
“Good, or bad?”
“Bad,” she answers, deadpan.
“So, come on. Out with it. We can deal with it, whatever it is.” My false bravado is staggering.
She exhales, long and slow. “Raised white blood cells. My count is above fifty thousand, which is not a good sign.”
The numbers mean nothing to me but to her, they’re severing a lifeline. “So, what does that mean, exactly?” I ask, wondering how she’s dealing with this. Her resilience is astounding, even if she can’t see it in herself.
“My marrow isn’t producing enough red blood cells. So worst case scenario, I may need a bone marrow transplant.”
Her words glide over me. I want to grab her and tell her she’ll be fine. That this abyss won’t swallow her whole. Because right now, she’s drowning in fear and white blood cells. I bite my lower lip nervously, wondering how to respond. Gemma relays this information as if talking about the weather. Emotionless. And today she’s different. Harder, like the old Gem. The one who flirts with boys and dances under the dark cover of trees, awash with the tide.
“Hey, girls!” Emily springs into the room holding an enormous bunch of pink lilies and waving chocolates under Gemma’s nose. “How are you, lovely friend?”
Gemma smiles from beneath the flowers drenched in scented petals. “Hanging in there.”
“Of course you are. You’ll be out of here before you know it.” Emily gives her a knowing wink, at which Gemma lightly smirks.
“How’s your Dad, Sam?” asks Emily, pulling me into a hug.
“Ah, not doing so well. It’s not looking that good at all, actually,” I say as she releases me. When I verbalise the words I feel my heart lurch and the tears begin to spring, but I will myself to be strong. “He’s on a ventilator now and his heart rate’s dropped. He’s heavily sedated, kind of like a coma I guess. It’s shit, basically.”
Emotion in the room spirals into a nosedive. Gemma doesn’t know where to look and Emily’s face fills with genuine pity and concern.
“Are you okay, hon? I mean, if you need anything, please just ask.”
“I’ll be fine,” I lie, feeling anything but. “You need to look after Gem.”
Gemma smiles weakly and Emily nods. “Already under control.”
“That’s not good, Sam. You need to be with your Dad, not here with me,” Gemma adds.
I shrug my shoulders, keen to change the subject. “So tell me, Gem. When you get out of here, what’s the first thing you want to do?” I ask, hoping to lighten the tone.
“You mean when I’m well?” she queries.
“Yeah. If you could do anything.”
She thinks, pausing to consider her options. “This is going to sound utterly pathetic, but all I
really
want is to feel the sun on my skin. As simple as that. Because at the moment I feel like a daylight-deprived vampire, minus the pretty glittering diamond-skin. In here it’s all about
blood
this, and
blood
that.
Marrow
this,
and white cell count
that. I just want to be a normal girl, lazing in a hot summer sun, soaking it through my bones. This place is so starchy.”
I know exactly what she means. Suddenly I have a thought. “But you know what, Gem? We can easily grant
that
wish. Right now.”
I grab the wheelchair sitting under a window shattering light across the linoleum floor. When I push it close to the bed Gemma’s eyes fill with both possibility and fear.
“It’s okay, Gem. If you’re up for it, we’re going outside.”
A gentle smile curls the corners of her mouth. “I’m definitely up for it,” she says, pushing herself more upright.
Emily grins, helping Gemma transfer from the bed to the wheelchair, arranging her IV tubes and the hospital gown, and pulling the IV pole close so it doesn’t drag behind.
“You push, I’ll tow the IV pole,” I say to Em.
Gemma’s face is one of frail mischief. “Hell, yeah. Let’s go find some sun.”
***
After thirty minutes I excuse myself from the sunshine party. Gemma’s smiling like I haven’t seen in a while, and Em’s trying to be extra diligent in keeping her spirits buoyed.
“You guys going to be okay getting back to the ward?” I check, not wanting to leave them stranded.
“Totally fine,” Em answers. “Go see your Dad. Hope he’s doing a bit better.”
“Same,” says Gem. “Thanks for the rays.”
I laugh and kiss her warm cheek. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Em gives me a wave as I leave.
***
The ICU waiting room is busy. It’s Monday morning and the place is full. I’ve hardly had a moment to think about Jack. Being here with Dad and Gem seems to consume my every thought. Illness, treatments, end of life plans. Heart attacks, leukaemia, ventilators and bone marrow transplants. In less than forty-eight hours my life has taken a turn. Nothing seems certain or predictable anymore. And everything seems disconnected … from me. It’s impossible to comprehend how I arrived here. Only a few days ago Jack and I were delighting in life on the river. I was swimming at Jack’s private aquamarine beach, baking in the sun and musing about life. Jack was fishing and laughing, telling stupid jokes he’d picked up on the ferry. Where has that carefree girl gone? She certainly doesn’t exist anymore.
If I was honest with myself, I’d let Jack be here beside me. Beautiful, sweet Jack.
My
Jack. But I’m jumbled in my head and tangled in my heart. I know I love him, but it’s
because
I love this boy that I can’t allow him to comfort me or be here with me. Without him I’m adrift, floating in a sea of confusing emotion. Now when I’m with him I see every emotion play out on his beautiful face. The boy who lost his brother. The one who blames himself for his loss. When he forgets to hide it, the ache in his eyes is haunting. I think about the way he wrapped his arms around me that first night in his room on the river. The photo of Charlie on the wall. Sunny, smiling Charlie. And happy-go-lucky Jack. But that was
before
. Before Charlie died in the sea. And Jack’s pain is real. Tangible. Like you could grab it and bottle it. Because Jack won’t swim. And he certainly won’t surf. The ocean took his brother’s life and he’s just not ready to forgive it. Or so he says.
I’ve realised something about Jack.
My
Jack is not just afraid of the sea. He’s afraid to betray his brother. And afraid to let go of buried pain. Because if he did, that just might mean he’d finally,
once-and-for-all
finally, forgiven himself. And he just can’t do it. Not yet, anyhow.
I sigh, pulling out my phone from the handbag still slung over my shoulder. I call Dad’s room, speaking with the nurse to find out if it’s okay to visit. Yesterday, when his condition deteriorated, the staff asked we do that to make sure it’s a convenient time for visitors.
Dad’s nurse answers brusquely and asks me to wait. The doctors are busy with Dad, with a complication, and when they’re done they’ll find me in the waiting room. I end the call, staring at the carpeted floor.
A complication?
Strange. Something seems off. Not right at all.
So
not right that I begin to worry, with fear building heartbeats like drums through my chest.
The phone buzzes in my lap. I answer to Dr Floriet’s voice, distant and emotionally remote. I listen with ears that aren’t mine. Dad has gone into cardiac arrest, and right now, as I hold the phone to my ear, the doctors are performing CPR to try to bring him back.
Bring him back? So he’s already gone? No. That
cannot
be right. Please, let that not be right.
I want to shake the words from my ears. Tear my ears from my head.
I move like an automaton from the waiting room into an empty corridor, glancing nervously in the direction of his room. And the first thought that hits me like an air-raid through my fear-ridden heart is that Dad is down there, right now, being worked on. I imagine them clustered around his bed, pumping his chest. But I know. In my heart
I know
. He won’t be coming back. And my second thought is that Dad’s gone, he’s
actually
gone. This very second, beyond the glossy floors and dimmed lights, my father is dead. And in my blurry, fuzzy, bleary head I know it. They are
not
going to bring him back. And as more and more seconds tick by, I feel it in my airless soul. Dad’s gone. Forever. And as my legs begin to crumple, my third thought is that Ben and Mum don’t know. They are blissfully unaware, in this agonising moment, that Dad has gone.
The air is sucked viciously from my lungs. I desperately need to relieve my legs of the immobilising shake coursing through them, but returning to the waiting room where empathetic eyes will be glued steadfastly upon me fills me with a deep-seated dread. Tears roll over my face in burning rivers. I glance around, searching for a chair. Disorientated and alone. A young, very blonde woman makes her way sombrely down the corridor, her shoes clacking in decibels over the floor.
She smiles appropriately. “Are you Samantha?”
I nod.
“Come this way.” She takes me by the arm and guides me to a private room complete with fresh flowers and comfortable lounges. Boxes of tissues are dotted around the warm space. “Dr Floriet will be here momentarily.” She hands me one of the boxes of tissues and I take a couple before dropping into one of the lounge chairs. She places her hand kindly on my arm. “My name’s Holly. I’m the intensive care social worker. Dr Floriet won’t be long. Can I get you some water?”
I shake my head. “No, thanks.” Actually I’d quite like to leave, but I’m trapped like a prisoner between these walls. There are only four of them, but they’re squashing me oppressively between them. Crushing me. Entombing me. There is no escape. There will never be an escape.
“I’ll be back soon.” Holly smiles, tipping her head ever so slightly, and quietly leaving the room.
I’m not quite sure how I’m supposed to feel in this moment. Should I feel more? Less? Is this pervasive guilt I feel for not knowing
how
to feel? I mean, I knew this, right? Knew this was coming? Five minutes ago I had a father. And now he’s coasting the skies with the feathered angels, invisible in an atmosphere of heavenly blue. Free. Set free in the sky. And although I don’t know
how
to feel, I can feel
him
. Omnipresent. Everywhere. And the sensation calms me like a parent to a child. And for one brief moment I think I’ll be okay. But be still my flowing tears. There aren’t enough tissues here to ever blot them dry.
Dr Floriet opens the door and walks in seriously. Very seriously. Holly stands beside him, dressed in a cream silk shirt tucked into high-waisted black dress pants. And she wears a ruby-red flower brooch pinned below her collarbone. For some reason I’m fixated on the red sparkling brooch and wonder why at a time like this my brain would focus entirely on this triviality. There are five delicate points to it, like a gently curved starfish, and it glimmers red in the low light of this dimly lit room, where nothing else seems to hold light at all.
Dr Floriet clears his throat. “Samantha, I am very sorry to have to tell you that your father passed away at 10.45 this morning. I am extremely sorry for your loss.”
The words roll over me like a thick fog. “Thank you,” I choke out, not recognising my own husky voice.
“We tried very hard to revive him. You should know that we fought hard to bring him back, but in the end, it just wasn’t possible.”
I blink away the tears. “I understand. I want to thank you for everything you did. And everything you tried to do.”
He nods sympathetically. “We performed CPR for nearly ten minutes. Considering his age we wanted to give him every chance. Forty-eight is very young, Samantha. Your father had an undiagnosed heart condition of which he was unaware. He’d been in heart failure for some time. We were hoping for a good result, keeping his blood pressure up artificially, but unfortunately your father’s heart was just too weak.”