The Night the Angels Came (14 page)

W
ith Paula strapped in her seat in the rear of the car listening to nursery rhymes, I drove to Michael’s school for the 3.00 p.m. finish. As we waited in the playground with the other mothers and carers for the bell to ring and the children to come out, I considered what I should say to Michael about his father’s condition. He was a sensible, honest boy who was very mature for his age, so he deserved an honest but age-appropriate response. Putting aside Nora’s feeling that Patrick’s illness had progressed further than he’d let on, which was simply her (and Jack’s) view, I was left with the fact that Patrick’s condition was unchanged from yesterday and he was still asleep, which is what I decided to tell Michael when he came out.

The bell sounded from inside the building and the main doors opened and were then hooked back by the school receptionist-cum-secretary. A couple of minutes later the children began streaming out, going to their parents and carers waiting in the playground. When Michael appeared the priest whom I’d met when I’d first collected Michael from school was with him. The priest had his hand lightly resting on Michael’s shoulder and I saw a few of those waiting glance over and track Michael and the priest’s path to us.

Paula gave my hand a little squeeze. ‘I don’t like that man,’ she whispered. ‘He’s scary.’

‘Sshh,’ I said.

‘Mrs Glass,’ the priest said as he drew near. ‘Hello, Father. Is everything all right?’ I smiled at Michael, who wasn’t looking sad, more embarrassed, which I guessed was as a result of the priest escorting him to me.

‘Michael tells me his father is in hospital again and he’s staying with you?’ the priest said.

‘Yes. Unfortunately Patrick collapsed yesterday and was taken to hospital.’

‘And how is he today?’ the priest asked. Michael looked at me.

I spoke to them both as I answered. ‘Patrick’s still asleep,’ I said. ‘They’re doing some tests and also giving him a blood transfusion, which will help.’

The priest frowned, concerned, while Michael’s face brightened.

‘Dad had a transfusion last time,’ Michael said. ‘And he was well again after.’

‘Let’s hope it works this time, then,’ the priest said cautiously.

‘It will, Father,’ Michael said. ‘I’ll ask for it in my prayers.’

The priest smiled and ruffled Michael’s hair affectionately. ‘You’re a good lad, Michael. I’m sure God will hear your prayers.’ Turning, he headed off across the playground to talk to another parent, the hem of his cassock kicking up as he went.

‘I wish he wouldn’t do that,’ Michael said, flattening his hair, so that I thought he was referring to the priest ruffling his hair, which many adults do to children. But Michael added, ‘First he calls my name out in assembly and tells me to wait behind so he can ask me how Dad is. Everyone stared. Then he comes out here with me. Come on, Cathy, let’s go.’ Picking up Paula’s free hand, Michael began across the playground and towards the exit. I appreciated how Michael felt. Children hate being singled out, even if it is with good intentions as with the priest, who simply wanted to know how Patrick was. But at school Michael wanted to blend in with the other children and try to leave his worries behind, not be the boy with the sick father.

Once we were in the car I explained to Michael that his father was still asleep, and Colleen and Nora were visiting this evening, but I thought we should wait until his dad was awake before we went. Although this was my plan, if Michael had really wanted to visit his father that evening I would have taken him. With his level of maturity and close bond with his father I thought Michael could make this decision, but he accepted what I said easily.

‘Yes. It’s better if we wait until Dad is awake in a few days,’ he said as though this would definitely happen. I had purposely been vague about the time-scale, for clearly we didn’t know when Patrick would regain consciousness.

Michael and Paula came with me into the playground to collect Adrian from school and we then went straight home. Although the weather that morning had been clear, it was now showering, so the children amused themselves indoors while I made dinner. Despite the shadow of Patrick’s illness hanging over us they played happily, focusing on the present and their play, as only young children can. Over dinner Adrian and Michael even managed a few ‘knock-knock’ jokes, some of which were almost funny:
Knock knock. Who’s there? Ben. Ben who? Been knocking so long I’ve forgotten
. Then:
Knock knock. Who’s there? Isabel. Isabel who? Isabel working? I had to knock
. And:
Knock knock. Who’s there? Justin. Justin who. Justin time for dinner
. Then Adrian added with a crafty smile at Michael, ‘Or Just in right.’ The boys exploded into laughter.

‘That’s enough, thank you,’ I said over their laughing, aware we were now heading for the more smutty knock-knock jokes.

‘What does he mean?’ Paula asked innocently, aware she was missing out on something but not knowing what.

‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘Adrian’s just being silly. Finish your dinner, good girl.’

At seven o’clock I began the bath and bedtime routine, knowing that Nora and Colleen would now be at the hospital with Patrick. I thought that if Patrick was still unconscious then they might not stay the whole two hours, which meant that Nora would probably phone me earlier. So that as the evening wore on and there was no phone call from Nora I interpreted her silence as good news – that Patrick was awake and Colleen and Nora had stayed to the end of visiting at 8.00 p.m., although I didn’t voice these thoughts to Michael.

I parted Michael’s bedroom curtains as he liked them so that he could see the night sky, and before he climbed into bed he knelt to say his prayers. He’d been in good spirits all evening and his prayer was light and chatty: ‘Dear God, as you know my dad’s in hospital. I know he needs to sleep to get better but could you wake him up in a few days, please? Wednesday or Thursday would be good, if that’s all right with you? God bless Mummy, Daddy, Nora, Jack, Colleen, Eamon, Cathy, Adrian and Paula. Amen.’

‘Good boy,’ I said, holding back the duvet so that Michael could climb into bed. I wondered if I should explain to Michael the difference between being ‘asleep’ and ‘unconscious’, which had become confused, but decided against it. There’d be time later if necessary to explain, for now Michael had put his faith in his God and it was helping him through this difficult time. We said goodnight and I came out; then I went into Adrian’s room and said goodnight to him before checking on Paula, who was fast asleep.

It was nearly nine o’clock when I went downstairs and, believing that ‘no news was good news’ and that Nora would phone shortly to tell me Patrick was awake and recovering, I settled down in front of the television. When the phone rang ten minutes later it was Nora, but she didn’t have the good news I’d been anticipating.

‘No change, I’m afraid,’ she said, her voice subdued. ‘And they’ve finished giving him the blood plasma.’

‘So why’s he still unconscious?’ I asked. ‘Did they say?’

‘The nurse tried to explain that when the body is under trauma sometimes the mind shuts down to protect itself. Jack wondered if Pat had hit his head when he’d collapsed on Sunday but when I asked the nurse she said there was no sign of a head injury.’

‘So what is the trauma, then?’

‘His illness, I suppose.’

‘I see,’ I said slowly, not really understanding, but aware Nora didn’t know any more.

‘How’s Michael?’ Nora asked.

‘He’s all right. He firmly believes his dad will be awake in a couple of days. I hope he’s right.’

‘So do I,’ Nora said. ‘Or we’ll all have some adjusting to do, very quickly.’ I understood what she meant, for I was no better prepared to accept that Patrick might not regain consciousness than presumably she, Jack, Eamon and Colleen were, and certainly not Michael.

Nora promised she’d phone again as soon as she heard anything and, if not before, then the following evening after she and Colleen had been to the hospital. We said goodbye and I went upstairs to check on the children, wondering if they’d been woken by the ringing of the phone. Adrian and Paula were asleep but as I crept into Michael’s room I saw his eyes were open; he was lying on his back and gazing towards the window at the darkening sky.

‘Are you all right, love?’ I asked gently, moving closer to his bed. He gave a small nod. ‘That was Nora on the phone. She and Colleen have just returned from the hospital. Your dad is still asleep.’

Michael gave another small nod. ‘He’ll wake up on Wednesday or Thursday,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘That’s what I asked for in my prayers.’ And while I was impressed by Michael’s faith in the power of prayer I was concerned that if Patrick didn’t regain consciousness Michael was going to find it even more difficult to cope. But for the same reasons I hadn’t explained the difference between being asleep and unconscious I decided not to shake his conviction now by suggesting the alternative.

‘I’m praying he’ll be awake soon too,’ I said, and left it at that.

But when Tuesday and Wednesday came and went with no change in Patrick’s condition I began to start thinking the unthinkable: that I would have to prepare Michael (and Adrian, Paula and myself) for the possibility that Patrick might never regain consciousness. My eyes filled at the very thought. Nora phoned on Wednesday evening and couldn’t hide her sorrow and sounded very depressed. She said that officially, according to the doctor, there was no change in Patrick’s condition but she personally thought his colour looked even worse despite the blood transfusion. She said that if there was still no improvement in Pat’s condition by Friday or if his condition worsened then she thought I should take Michael to see his father at the weekend to say goodbye. Her voice broke, and she added that Jack and Eamon would be going with her and Colleen to the hospital the following evening,Thursday.

On Thursday morning when I woke Adrian and Paula they asked me how Patrick was, as they had done every morning that week, and I again said there was no change and he was still unconscious. After Nora’s phone call I’d decided I’d better start using the word unconscious to make the distinction between Patrick’s condition and natural sleep. Adrian and Paula looked sad but didn’t say anything. When I woke Michael and told him he said forcefully, ‘Dad would never leave me without saying goodbye.’ I wasn’t sure if it was a statement, a sign of his faith, or a desperate plea.

‘No,’ I said quietly.

Jill phoned on Thursday morning just after I’d arrived home from taking the children to school. She said she’d spoken to Stella, who had spoken to the doctor the day before, but Jill didn’t really tell me any more than I already knew: that Patrick was comfortable but wasn’t improving. Jill said the hospital would phone Stella if there was any change. Stella had scheduled a meeting with the doctor to review Patrick’s case for the following week, when they would consider the options of moving Patrick to a nursing home or hospice. I put the phone down and cried openly. All week I’d been strong for Michael, hoping that his prayers would be answered and Patrick would regain consciousness, leave hospital and continue life where he’d left off. Now I was starting to think that the best I could hope for was that Michael and his father would get the chance to say goodbye to each other, although with Patrick still unconscious even that seemed unlikely.

On Thursday afternoon I was in the garden bringing in the washing from the line while Paula played in the sandpit when the phone began ringing from indoors. Leaving Paula playing, I dropped the towel I’d just unpegged into the washing basket and went in through the French windows, dreading answering the phone for fear of the news it could bring.

‘Hello?’ I asked tentatively, picking up the receiver in the sitting room. There was no reply, just an odd rustling sound. ‘Hello?’ I said again. ‘Who’s there?’

There was another small silence followed by a rustle before a croaky voice said, ‘Hello, Cathy.’

I couldn’t believe my ears. ‘Patrick?’ I gasped. ‘Is that you?’

‘Yes. Sorry, I dropped the phone on the bed. Look, I can’t talk much: my throat is very sore. Will you bring Michael to the hospital this evening to see me?’

‘Yes, of course. How are you? Oh, I’m so pleased to hear you.’

‘I’m doing all right, thank you.’ I heard his breath catch before he said, ‘See you both tonight, then. Goodbye, love.’

I
returned the receiver to its cradle, overwhelmed and hardly daring to believe. Patrick, who a few minutes ago I thought might never regain consciousness, was now awake and well enough to phone me. With my heart pounding and choking back emotion I immediately picked up the receiver again and dialled Nora’s number. It was engaged. I pressed 5 for ringback so that as soon as she’d finished on the phone it would reconnect to me. Perching on the sofa, I kept an eye on Paula in the garden while I waited for the phone to ring. Patrick was awake: I could scarcely believe it. I couldn’t wait to tell Michael! The first thing Michael always asked when I collected him from school was: ‘How’s Dad?’ And now I could say, ‘He phoned, and you are going to see him tonight.’ I could picture his little face, so happy and relieved.

I jumped as the phone gave two rings, signalling ringback, and picked it up.

‘Nora, it’s Cathy.’

‘Oh, Cathy, Pat’s just phoned me. He said he’d spoken to you. Isn’t it wonderful? I was so surprised. Wait until I tell Jack.’

‘Yes, it’s incredible,’ I said. Pat’s asked me to take Michael to the hospital this evening.’

‘I know: he said. So I think Jack and I, and Colleen and Eamon, will wait until seven to visit. It will give Michael a chance to spend time with his dad. Did Pat say anything else to you?’

‘No, only to bring Michael. He sounded quite weak.’

‘Yes. I think he just wanted to let us to know that he was awake and recovering. He asked me to phone Colleen and tell her.’

I smiled. ‘I can’t wait to tell Michael.’

‘No. Bless him. See you later, then. I’m off to find Jack. He’s pottering in the garden and didn’t hear the phone ring.’

We said goodbye and I hung up.

For the same reason that Nora had decided that she, Jack, Eamon and Colleen would delay visiting Pat until 7.00 p.m. – so Michael could spend time with his father – I decided not to take Adrian and Paula to the hospital that evening. Also, I wanted to make sure Patrick felt well enough to have lots of visitors; children can be very tiring for an adult who’s not feeling well. If Pat felt well enough I could take Adrian and Paula with me when I took Michael at the weekend. I assumed that as Pat had made the decision for Michael to see him in hospital, he would want me to take Michael every day.

Aware it was short notice and that I was asking a big favour, I picked up the phone again and dialled Jenny’s number. She had children of her own, so whether or not she could babysit for me that evening would depend on Ben, her husband, being home to look after their boys. Jenny didn’t know Pat was in hospital again and when I briefly explained what had happened, she was more than happy to sit for me and said she’d phone Ben to make sure he was home from the office by 5.30. I thanked her very much. As a single parent and foster carer, I’d be at a complete loss without friends like Jenny to help me out at short notice.

I went into the garden and told Paula that Patrick was awake and had just phoned me from hospital. ‘That’s good,’ she smiled happily. ‘I like Patrick. Michael will be pleased.’

We arrived at Michael’s school ten minutes before coming-out time and waited in the playground for the bell to go. As soon as Michael arrived at my side I said: ‘Good news! Your dad is awake. He phoned me this afternoon and I’m taking you to see him tonight.’

‘Yippee!’ he said, giving Paula and then me a big hug. ‘I knew he would. I just knew it. My dad’s awake!’

Michael held Paula’s hand as we began towards the car and I explained to Michael what had happened: that the phone had rung an hour before and when I’d answered I’d been so surprised to hear his dad. I continued with the warning that he’d sounded very weak and we might not stay the whole two hours if he was tired and needed to sleep, which Michael understood.

‘When can I see Patrick in hospital?’ Paula asked, once we were in the car.

‘Maybe at the weekend,’ I said. ‘If Patrick feels up to it.’

‘When’s the weekend?’ Paula asked. ‘The day after tomorrow,’ Michael explained as he fastened first Paula’s seat belt and then his own in the rear. ‘I’ll teach you the days of the week if you like.’

‘Yes please,’ she said, resting her head on his shoulder. So the journey to Adrian’s school was to the sound of Michael chanting the days of the week and Paula making a good attempt to repeat them in the correct order.

The three of us then waited in the playground to meet Adrian, and as soon as he came out Michael told him the good news. ‘Dad’s awake and I’m going to see him tonight!’

‘Cool,’ Adrian said, which was his latest expression.

‘And we’re going at the weekend,’ Paula added.

‘If Patrick feels well enough,’ I qualified.

Once we were home the time vanished. I made an early dinner and Jill phoned while we were eating to tell me what I already knew: that Patrick had regained consciousness. Apparently the hospital had notified Stella, who’d phoned Jill. I updated Jill – that Patrick had phoned me and I was taking Michael to see him tonight.

‘I’ll tell Stella,’ Jill said. ‘I’ll phone you tomorrow to see how it went.’

‘Yes, fine.’

Usually information about a foster child and their family comes from the social worker or support social worker (Jill) but in this case because I was in close contact with Patrick and his friends I tended to be aware of new information or developments first and pass them on to Jill and the social services.

I finished eating, fed Toscha, gave the children pudding, and while they ate I had a quick wash, changed my clothes, and then cleared away the dinner things. Jenny arrived at 5.40. She knew where everything was and I told her to help herself to whatever she fancied in the kitchen. I’d already explained to Paula that Jenny would be putting her to bed – Adrian would stay up later – so, giving Paula and Adrian a kiss and a hug, I thanked Jenny, and left with Michael. Michael was looking very smart in weekend casual clothes – navy trousers and matching sweatshirt. In the car he could barely contain his excitement: bobbing up and down in his seat, avidly watching the journey progress through the windows, and chatting away excitedly. ‘It’s been ages since I’ve seen Dad,’ he said more than once. ‘Sunday was such a long time ago. I knew he’d wake up. I knew it. My prayers were answered, weren’t they, Cathy?’

‘Yes, love, they certainly were.’

I parked in the hospital car park, fed one-pound coins into the ticket machine and then placed the ticket on the dashboard. As Michael and I crossed the car park to the main entrance I reminded him that his father might be very tired and may not be able to talk much. But nothing could dampen Michael’s enthusiasm. ‘No worries, I’ll talk to him,’ he said, beaming.

It was only when we entered the hospital and I saw the ward names displayed on the board with arrows pointing in different directions that I realized I didn’t know which ward Patrick was on. When I’d collected Michael on Sunday Pat had just been admitted and was in casualty, but now he would be on a ward. I wondered if Nora had thought to ask Pat which ward he was on; probably not, or she would have told me.

‘I’ll just find out where your dad is,’ I said to Michael, leading the way to the reception desk.

I gave Patrick’s full name to the receptionist. She asked for the date Patrick was admitted and was then able to find him on the computer. ‘Constable Ward,’ she said. ‘Go down the main corridor, up the flight of stairs on your right, and the ward is second on the left.’

I thanked her and, with Michael by my side, we went down the corridor and up the flight of steps, which opened on to a landing. ‘All the wards up here are named after famous painters,’ I said to Michael, pointing to the board showing the firstfloor ward names.

We approached the second set of swing doors, over which was a large plaque showing Constable Ward, and going in we found ourselves standing at the end of a long ward with a row of beds on either side. It was an all-male ward and all the beds were taken. Each bed was separated from the next by a bedside cabinet and curtains in the traditional hospital layout; some of the curtains were open and others were partially drawn. Michael and I began down the centre aisle, scanning the beds and the faces of the patients nestled on their pillows.

‘There’s Dad!’ Michael cried, spotting his father halfway down the ward on the right. He rushed over and I followed. By the time I arrived at the bed Michael was already lying on the bed, hugging and kissing his father.

I stood to one side, waiting for my turn to say hello. Patrick had his arms around his son and his head buried in Michael’s shoulder. A drip ran from Patrick’s left arm and I was concerned Michael might accidentally catch it; I moved it slightly so that it was out of the way. For a few moments father and son didn’t speak; they just held each other tightly as though they would never let go. I couldn’t see their faces, as they were buried in each other’s shoulders, but I could guess the emotion they showed.

Slowly Pat relaxed his arms from around Michael and, raising his head, looked and smiled at me. ‘Hello, Cathy,’ he said quietly. ‘Good to see you again.’

‘Good to see you too,’ I said. Leaning forward, over Michael, I kissed Patrick’s cheek.

Michael was still half-lying on the bed, hugging his dad for all he was worth. I pulled up the chair from beside the cabinet and sat as close as I could to the bed. Pat’s free hand opened and sought mine.

‘How are you?’ I asked, taking his hand.

‘Not bad. All the better for seeing Michael and you.’ He smiled again and then paused to catch his breath. ‘I can remember leaving church on Sunday and then nothing. The nurses tell me it’s Thursday today.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Doesn’t time fly!’ he joked, the old Patrick shining through.

I could see he’d lost weight in the four days he’d been unconscious. And while his skin wasn’t as pale as it had been the last time I’d seen him on Sunday, when it had been almost grey, his breathing was laboured and talking clearly took a lot of effort; although that he was awake and talking at all was a minor miracle, I thought.

‘We’ve all been so worried about you,’ I said, stroking his hand. ‘Adrian and Paula send their love.’

‘Who’s looking after them?’ he asked, ever thoughtful of others.

‘Jenny.’

He nodded. ‘I understand Nora and Jack are coming later with Eamon and Colleen?’

‘Yes. They’ve been so good to me.’

We continued talking, mainly about what Michael had been doing since Sunday. Pat had to pause between sentences to take deep breaths; Michael lay on the bed beside him, snuggled into his side. Every so often Michael lightly touched his father’s face with his fingertips, as if checking he was still there and real. Presently Pat needed to change position to be comfortable and Michael climbed off the bed. Together we helped his father to sit more upright and I plumped the pillows behind him; then the two of us carefully eased him back on to the pillows.

‘Ah, that’s better,’ Pat sighed. Then to me: ‘You should have been a nurse.’

I laughed. ‘I did think about it when I left school.’

‘You’d have been good at it,’ Pat said, smiling.

Michael now sat on the bed close to his father and told him more about his week at school, and then answered his dad’s questions about whether he was doing his school work and able to concentrate with him being in hospital. Michael said he was and Pat praised him. Then Michael told his dad the Scalextric was at my house and I asked if that was all right.

‘Of course,’ Patrick said. ‘Take whatever you need from the house to make him comfortable. Has he got enough clothes with him? I might be in here for a while.’

I saw Michael’s face cloud at the mention of his dad staying in hospital; I suppose he thought that now his father was awake he would be able to go home very quickly, but I knew from seeing Patrick just how frail he was and that he wouldn’t be discharged for a while.

‘I might collect some more of his clothes over the weekend,’ I said to Pat. ‘When Nora arrives, I’ll ask her when it will be convenient.’

Pat nodded. ‘And remind me to ask her to check my fridge. Stuff will be going off by now.’

‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘A few bad eggs won’t hurt. Just concentrate on getting better.’

‘As long as you’re not a bad egg,’ Pat joked with Michael, ruffling his son’s hair.

The three of us continued chatting generally – about the weather, the news on television, the games Michael had played with Adrian and then the homework Michael was supposed to be doing that evening.

‘I’ll explain to the school you saw your father this evening and you’ll do your homework at the weekend,’ I said to Michael. I knew there wouldn’t be time when we arrived home to do it.

At exactly seven o’clock I saw Patrick’s gaze shift to over my shoulder. ‘They’re here,’ he said.

I turned to see Nora, Jack, Colleen and Eamon coming towards us. Chatting excitedly and carrying gifts of sweets, fruit and flowers, they were like a group of guests arriving at a house party. Other patients and their visitors turned to look at them as they surrounded the bed with ‘Hi’s and ‘Hello’s, and took turns to hug and kiss Pat. Pat smiled and thanked them as they laid the flowers, sweets and grapes on the bed beside him, and I saw his eyes mist.

Standing, I insisted Nora sit in my chair while Eamon said he’d find one for Colleen. He glanced around and then turned to a young man in his late teens in the next bed who didn’t have a visitor. ‘Could I borrow your chair if it’s not being used?’ Eamon asked him.

‘Sure, mate,’ the young man said. ‘My girl can’t get in today because of our kid.’

‘Thanks,’ Eamon said, sliding the chair over. ‘Tell us to shut up if we’re making too much noise.’

‘You’re all right, mate,’ the young man said. ‘This place could do with livening up. It’s like a morgue.’

As we’d come into the ward I’d seen a printed sign on the door stating that only two visitors were allowed at a patient’s bed at any time, but the nurses seemed to overlook the fact that there were now six of us around Pat’s bed, and not being particularly quiet either. Michael sat on the bed beside his father, enjoying the attention he was now receiving, while Nora and Colleen sat on the chairs on one side of the bed and I stood between Jack and Eamon on the other side. There was a party atmosphere, with lots of joking and quick-witted repartee between Jack and Eamon, which set us all laughing. We ate some of the grapes and sweets and Pat’s friends asked Michael about school and if he was behaving himself; then Nora retrieved a large bag which she’d tucked beside her feet. ‘I thought Michael might need some more clothes,’ she said, passing the bag to me.