Sleight of Hand (14 page)

Sometimes I felt like I was avoiding implicating him for both of those reasons at the same time even though that didn't seem to make much sense.

But when push came to shove, I had no choice. If Mum had still been alive, then she would have been there for me. If Dad, or Freddy had lived longer, or if my relationships with Giles or Ricardo or Nick had worked out, or if Tom had been the kind of person who didn't have a full time job, or even the kind of person who could put his friends
before
his job – if any of those things had been different, then I would have had other options. But they weren't, and I didn't.

I knew from my first meeting with Batt that I couldn't do this on my own. I had learnt nothing from that first meeting and I spent the entire taxi journey home trying to work out what questions I should have asked. And crying.

Because the only two questions occupying my mind were, was I going to die from this and if so when? And what would happen to Sarah if I did? That's three questions, I suppose: if, when, what? And apparently my three questions were the three
no one could answer, and so they churned and churned in my compromised brain to the exclusion of all else.

So I let Mark in because I had to. And I justified this – because I didn't have the energy to feel guilty on top of everything else – using the exact same reasons that had made me reticent to get him involved in the first place: that it was unfair to dump all this on him, but that he had betrayed me: so he owed me.

That will sound mean I expect, but I
felt
mean. I felt mean and crazy and desperate and all out of options. All I could do was try to find a way through the next day and try to find a way not to add guilt about dumping on Mark to the rest of my worries. But he owed me. And as Sarah's godfather, he owed her too.

Sarah astounds me with her adaptability. I pick her up from Susan's just after six and announce that Mummy is staying at the hotel again. Sarah's only questions are whether it's the hotel with the magic fridge, or the hotel with the tube-man, followed closely by, can we have alphabet spaghetti again. Even the information that her mum is in a third, different hotel that's too far to be visited provokes little apparent concern.

As I make her tea, I think about this, for clearly, somewhere within lurks a life lesson, and I come to the conclusion that it's this: until you start deciding how things
should
be, until you start having expectations of what
will
happen next, everything and anything is fine.

Which of course means that if you can be childlike and take each day as it comes, or at least engineer your expectations to include the random changes that life constantly throws at us, whatever happens can at least be considered
usual
, if not necessarily desirable. Which, I suppose is what the Buddhists mean when they go on about the origin of all suffering being our desire for permanence.
Because
we expect everything to carry on as today, we suffer every time it doesn't. And we all know that it
doesn't
.

At four and a half, Sarah hasn't yet developed any expectation of permanence, and it seems that it's probably just as well.

On Wednesday I talk to Ricardo for nearly two hours. I tell him everything I know about Jenny's
diagnosis and he tells me that he'll look it up on the internet.

“But I think it's pretty bad Chupy,” he says. “As far as I can remember it's one of the worst places to have a tumour.”

“Yes,” I say. “I'm getting that too.”

“Who else is around? To look after her, I mean.”

“Other than me? And Tom maybe … no one really.”

“Family?”

“Her mum was the last to go, I think.”

“And no boyfriend?”

“No. There was some guy - Rodney or something, about a year ago. But she hasn't mentioned him and I haven't asked.”

“And Tom. Is he around much?”

“He works all week, so …”

“Right.”

“We haven't talked about that Ricardo. I think we need to talk about it.”

“What?”

“Tom.”

“What about Tom?”

“Well, why did you ask me if I was going to sleep with him?”

“It was just a question. Are you angry by my question?”

“Well not really. But you should
know
the answer. I'm not going to sleep with anyone. Ever. No one except you.”

“OK.”

“Because I love you.”

“Me too.”

“Well good.”

“You know, I bet you won't be able to go to Nice next week,” he says.

“I know. I was thinking that. Does it matter? Does it matter if I don't visit your flat?”

“No. Not at all. And I bet that you won't be able to fly back on the twenty-seventh neither.”

“Either.”

“OK,
either
. Either, neither … it's never the good one.”

“No. I've been thinking that too. It depends what they say on Friday I suppose. If it's malignant and they have to start treating her …”

“Did they say what treatment?”

“No.”

“Either will make her sick. Radiotherapy or Chemo.”

“Yeah. Still, they might still say it's benign. There might not be any treatment.”

“They might.”

“Would you mind? If I couldn't come back so soon?”

“Of course not Chupy. If you need to stay longer, you must.”

At that moment, I realise that one of the things I love about Ricardo is precisely his own childlike acceptance of change. He doesn't seem to have any expectation either, so nothing phases him. It's so relaxing after the drama of some of my past relationships. “You're sweet,” I say.

“You're
more
sweet. Maybe you should look at how much for changing the flight though.”

“It's unchangeable, remember.”

“Oh, yeah. You could still call them. Maybe under special circumstance.”

“Sure. But I don't know enough yet. We can think about it at the weekend.”

“My back hurts from sitting here. I think the thing I hate the most about you being away is having to sit at this computer all the time to talk.”

“I'm sorry babe. Shall I call you on the landline?”

“No. It's fine. But if I got an iPhone, could we both Skype on it? Then I can make breakfast and talk at the same time.”

“But you hate them. All style and no substance. You said they're for fashion victims.”

“I know Chups. But if we could
Skype
. Especially if you have to stay longer.”

“Well yeah … maybe look into it. I think the deals are quite expensive in Colombia though.”

“I'd have to change my number I guess. I'd have to go to Movistar. I don't think Comcell do them.”

“No. I don't think so either. But you can take your number with you these days. At least, you can in Europe.”

“I'm not sure babe. I'll find out. But I don't care if I have to change numbers anyway. The only person who call me is you and work.”

“And make sure you can pick up out there. There's no point if there's no coverage.”

“I'll look into it Chupa Chups. OK, I have to go. It's time for work and I didn't even eat breakfast.”

“And here it's just about time for lunch.”

“Happy eating babe.”

“Happy healing the sick.”

On Friday, after dropping Sarah at nursery, I return to London to meet Jenny. When I check the ward, someone else is already occupying her bed, and I am directed to the waiting room. “You're up already,” I say, when I see her look up at me.

“Bed shortage,” she says, squinting at me as if the room is somehow too bright. “Hat?”

I pull a red beret from my coat pocket. “I hope it's OK,” I say. “Apparently they're
in
right now.”

“As long as it looks better than this,” she says, lowering her head so that I can see the strip they have shaved.

“Ouch,” I say. “Jesus, does that hurt?”

“They cut a slit in my head and drilled a hole in my skull …”

“Enough!” I say.

“Well what do
you
think?
Does it hurt?”

“I didn't realise brain tumours made people so mean,” I say.

“Sorry. Headache,” she says. “Though that doesn't really cover this. I have some top notch painkillers though.” She stands and takes my arm. “I'll let you have one if you're good. Now can we go?”

“Sure,”

“And I just want a taxi again.”

“All the way?”

“I can't cope with anything else.”

“Sure.”

Once we find a taxi willing to take us to Camberley (and amazingly, considering the cost, this takes three attempts) Jenny fidgets until she finds a position leaning against me that doesn't press on her wound.

“Is that really sore?” I ask.

“The cut? Not really. It's inside. Like a migraine. Only worse.”

“I have pretty bad migraines,” I say.

“Me too. This is much, much worse.”

“You poor thing. Did they say anything?”

“Sorry, but can you talk quietly?”

“Sure, sorry.”

“And no. On Tuesday. Apparently.”

“God. You have to come back
again?”

“I know. I
am
sorry.”

“What for?”

“All the to-ing and fro-ing. And being a grumpy bitch.”

“It's fine. You have a hole in your head. You're allowed.”

“Right …”

Within a minute her head starts to loll, and by the time we have left Lambeth Jenny is sawing logs.

Despite the pins and needles in my arm, I don't move for the entire hour-long journey. I know from my own occasional migraines at least a little about head pain, and I figure that my discomfort is nothing if it provides her with a little respite through sleep.

I watch London going past the windows, and think how crazy it is that I should find myself here, today, in a London cab with an ex girlfriend from
way
back, and Ricardo's ex-girlfriend from not so long ago – sleeping in my arms.

And I try not to wonder, where the fuck any of us can go from here.

Jenny wakes up as if by magic, the moment we enter the close.

She squints at me, visibly peering through pain.

“Bad huh?” I say.

“God, yeah. I need more Zamadol, like
now,”
she says.

“Go sort it, I'll get this.”

By the time I have paid the taxi and picked Sarah up from Susan's house, Jenny has already retreated behind the closed door of her bedroom. Her failure, after four days away, to even say hello to her daughter I take as proof – if any were needed – of just how bad a post craniotomy headache might feel.

At eight-fifty on Saturday morning, in an attempt at letting Jenny sleep in, I answer the landline on its first ring.

“Jenny?”

“No, it's Mark. Is that Tom?”

“Yeah. Sorry, can you put Jenny on?”

“She's still in bed I'm afraid.”

“I tried her mobile, but it's off.”

“Yes, she's still in bed.”

“Right. She's usually up by now. That's why I called early. To catch her before she goes back to bed.”

“I hear you Tom, but she's
still asleep.”

“OK. Um. Never mind. Can you just tell her I'll be up your way about twelve?”

“Well I
could
, only I'm not sure it's such a good idea to be honest.”

“I'm sorry?”

“She's really poorly Tom.”

After a two-breath pause, Tom says, “And when she's poorly, she only wants to see you, right?”

I laugh. “Not at all. She doesn't want to see
anyone
.
I
haven't seen her since six yesterday evening. Nor has Sarah.”

“Is she
OK?”

“Well no. She isn't. That's why I'm letting her sleep.”

“So I can't visit her. You don't want me to come up?”

“Tom, really! Get a grip. This is nothing to do with what I want. She got back from the hospital
yesterday. They drilled a hole in her skull. She has the worst headache she has ever had, and she's sleeping. If you come up you'll just end up having to sit and chat to me, and I don't think that's what you want. Is it?”

“Well, no. Clearly not.”

“So … When she gets up, I'll get her to call you, and you and she can decide what's best. OK?”

“I suppose.”

“Right.”

“You promise?”

“What?”

“Promise you'll tell her I called?”

“Whatever, Tom. I promise.”

I click the end-call button and grimace at the handset.

“Is Tom coming?” Sarah asks, looking up from a bowl of cereal at me.

“Maybe,” I say. “We'll see when Mummy gets up.”

“He
isn't,”
Jenny says from behind us.

Both Sarah and I turn to see her standing in the doorway of the kitchen.

“This is a no-visits day,” Jenny says.

Sarah drops her spoon and runs across to hug her mother's legs. Jenny reaches down and ruffles her hair. “Hello sweetheart,” she says.

“You're up,” I say, stating the obvious.

“I'm not stopping. I just need some water to take this,” she says, showing me a pill.

“How are you feeling?”

“Shocking.”

“Some breakfast maybe?”

Jenny shakes her head, prises Sarah off and crosses to the kitchen sink.

Sarah stands a little forlorn in the middle of the kitchen and watches her mother.

“It might do you good to eat something,” I say.

Jenny fills a glass from the tap, takes her pill and replaces the tumbler on the counter. “It wouldn't,” she says.