After the End(14)

Max nods. “He is.” And Dylan moves his head and looks at his dad as if to say Of course I am—did you ever doubt it?

“How’s he doing?” Nikki and Connor come back from the canteen. Liam’s on BiPAP, too, but the nurses have said nothing that suggests they’re trying to wean him, and I wonder if it’s hard for them to see Dylan off oxygen completely now.

“OK, I think.” I make my voice sound neutral, just in case.

“Fingers crossed,” Nikki says. They sit next to Liam’s bed, and Connor says something in a low voice I can’t hear. I was nervous, when he came back to PICU the day after his outburst, but he’s hardly said a word ever since. I’d like to think he’s embarrassed, but you wouldn’t say so from his face, which is permanently screwed up in silent fury. Liam has school-age siblings, and the Slaters only have one car, so by two thirty each afternoon they pack up and go home. The routine means they miss Tom and Alistair, who arrive at seven in the morning to give Darcy breakfast, then return after work to spend all evening with her. Like daycare, Tom said once, although we all know it isn’t. I’m relieved the Slaters’ weekday routines mean they won’t be in PICU at the same time as Tom and Alistair, but I’m nervous for the weekend, when they might be.

When the Bradfords do arrive, Alistair does a double take on seeing Dylan. “Way to go, little man!”

“Ninety-four percent,” Max says proudly.

Alistair shakes Max’s hand and Tom gives me a hug, like it was us who put breath in Dylan’s body, although it’s all down to him—my little fighter.

“You’ll be beating us home, at this rate,” Tom says, even though Darcy is sitting up in her cot and babbling, and it’s clear that despite the IV line drip-feeding her antibiotics, she is almost ready to be back where she belongs.

“Still a way to go, I think,” I say, but dates flip in my head like the calendar on Max’s desk, and I wonder if Dylan will be home this month, next month, by Mothering Sunday. I won’t want a lie-in this year. I won’t ever want another lie-in. I think of all the times I complained about being too tired, about never getting to go to the loo by myself, or drink a cup of tea while it was hot. I think of all the times I moaned that I just want five minutes to myself is that too much to ask? Bile rises in my throat. Why couldn’t I see what I had? How lucky I was? When Dylan comes home I will sleep when he sleeps and get up when he wakes, and I won’t miss another second of our time together.

“Let’s go out for dinner,” Max says later, when Dylan is sleeping again. He looks at his watch. “If we leave now we can be at Bistro Pierre by eight thirty.”

“We haven’t been there for ages. Not since before.” I hesitate. Dylan’s eyelashes rest on his cheeks; a tiny flutter of movement beneath his eyelids. “I don’t know.”

Max takes my hand. “He’ll be fine.” He raises his voice, turning to where Cheryl and a nurse I don’t know are checking meds. “He’ll be fine, won’t he?”

“Course he will. Go and have dinner. Ring if you want to see how things are, but if anything changes, I’ll call you.”

“It doesn’t feel right—going out for dinner when Dylan’s stuck here.”

“Put your own oxygen mask on before helping others,” Cheryl says. She smiles and raises an eyebrow. “Isn’t that what you lot always say?”



* * *





Bistro Pierre is where we got engaged, in this dimly lit restaurant only two tables wide, with a labyrinth of narrow corridors and tiny rooms that make it feel like you’re the only ones there. Pierre himself is actually Larry—Birmingham born and bred, but with a flair for French cooking you’d never guess from his accent.

“All right, strangers!”

“Hey, Larry, how’s it going?”

He shows us to our favourite table—in a room of its own, off the landing at the top of a flight of stairs—and gives us the menu, a single printed A4 sheet, run off that morning. There are no specials, no vast array of dishes, just three options for each course, based on whatever Larry buys fresh from the market each morning.

“So, what time does the babysitter clock off tonight?”

We came here the first time we left Dylan with a babysitter, and I spent the whole evening checking my phone and wondering if I should call home. We bolted our mains and skipped dessert to be back by ten, only to find the babysitter happily watching TV—Dylan fast asleep in his cot.

“Back already?” she said. “I thought you’d be hours.”

“No babysitter,” I tell Larry now. I hesitate. “Actually, Dylan’s been in hospital for a while.” I feel Max tense. “He has cancer.” Max wouldn’t have told him. Max doesn’t tell anyone.

“Shit . . .” Larry’s floundering. He doesn’t know what to do, what to say. No one does. I rush to reassure him.

“It’s OK, though, we’re through the worst. Dylan’s had six lots of chemo and they’ve managed to remove most of the tumour, so it’s all looking good. In fact, we’re here to celebrate him coming off oxygen!” I feel Max’s eyes on me. I’m talking too fast, telling Larry things he doesn’t need to know. But Larry’s eyes light up.