After the End(19)

I was self-conscious at first, holding conversations when there were always staff in earshot. I’d whisper to Max, like we were the only ones in a silent restaurant, even though everything I said was mundane. But what was I going to do—keep quiet for six months? And so Aaron, and Yin, and Cheryl, and all the other nurses have listened to Max’s strife with clients and with Chester; to my rants about badger culling, and my guilt trips over Mum and Dad. They’ve been privy to arguments induced by stress and tiredness, and to make-up kisses when it’s all blown over.

“You tune out,” Cheryl said, when I asked her about it. “You might think I’m listening, but the reality is I’m probably wondering where my relief’s got to, or I’m hanging meds or adjusting drip rates, or prepping a feed, or turning a patient . . .”

“Are you worried about the scan?” Nikki says now.

“Aren’t we mums always worried?” I smile. “But everything looks positive. He’s off the ventilator, breathing well, his temperature’s down . . . Fingers crossed,” I add, and wonder if there is anywhere else in the world where that phrase is used as often, where it means so much. “Then we meet with Dr. Khalili on Wednesday to talk about getting him home.”

“Wow.” The envy on Nikki’s face is clear, and I immediately feel bad. The Slaters are right at the start of their PICU journey, just as we’re coming to an end. I temper my statement. “That won’t be for a while, though. You’re stuck with us for a bit longer.”

I remember the bitter jealousy that seized me in the early days, whenever a child left PICU for the standard wards. Why them and not us? When would it be our turn?

Now, I think, looking at Dylan. It’s our turn now.





seven





Max


It’s strange, returning to a house you grew up in. The street is the same, but different; the trees taller, the cars newer. Dozens of lots have been cleared, and new developments approved. When my parents bought 912 North Wolcott Avenue in the midseventies, it was one of a whole line of houses built the same way. Gable-fronted, with steps up to the porch and a neat square of grass out front. Narrow but long, with rooms one behind the other leading out to the backyard. By the time I was old enough to ride my bike up and down the street, these family homes were already being knocked down to make room for hulking brick blocks of condos. Now my mom’s house is dwarfed by its neighbors, one of only three like it left on the block.

I lock my rental and stand looking at the house. The brickwork needs painting—the rich red is peeling, and the siding has yellowed—and sagging drapes hang at the windows of the basement where my friends and I would pretend to be spies.

I knock on the door and hear Mom shout “Coming!” like whoever it is might not want to wait even a second, and I lean against the porch and grin to myself. Three, two, one . . .

“Oh!” Astonishment turns to delight, and she holds out her arms. She’s in slacks and a patterned blouse, her dark hair in a ponytail. “You didn’t tell me you were in town!”

“I didn’t know if I’d have time to stop by.” I bend down to kiss her, struck as always by how much smaller she seems. When I was in college I told myself it was because I was getting taller, but I sure as hell haven’t grown that much in the last twenty years. Dad died two years after Pip and I got married, and Mom shrunk an inch overnight. I worried about her—tried to get her to come live with us—but she had her friends here, had a life here.

“Are you staying the night?”

“I’ve got a ten o’clock flight.” I see Mom’s face fall, and feel bad it’s been so long since I last saw her. When I moved to the UK I’d always tack a day on to my Chicago trips, or meet Mom downtown for lunch between meetings. When Dylan was born, it got a little trickier. I guess when you become a parent yourself you have to work harder at being a child to your own parents. “I thought I could take you out for an early dinner?”

“It’s a date. Give me ten minutes to put my face on.”

I check my cell while I wait. Really looking forward to working with you, reads the follow-up email from today’s prospect, and it isn’t till I feel the relief in my stomach that I realize how apprehensive I was.

“I feel like your head’s not been in the game,” Chester said yesterday.

I spoke evenly, not wanting to sound like I was rattled. “I’m getting results.”

He waved a hand in the air as though that were an irrelevance, even though Kucher Consulting is all about the results. Even though Chester is all about the results.

“They missed you at the golf day. Bob asked after you.”

Bob Matthews. Head honcho at Send It Packing, a London courier start-up expanding faster than it can handle. They brought us in to improve the efficiency of their internal processes, to free up their middle managers to focus on the new markets.

“I had family commitments.”

Bob Matthews has kids too, although you’d never know it. Like Chester, he likes doing business over dinner, or on the golf course. Like Chester, he measures commitment by the time his team puts in after hours.

Chester leaned back in his chair, pressing his fingers together. “When you moved to the UK the deal was that you’d handle the UK clients. Be ‘me,’ only with a ‘British’ spin.” He puts air quotes around each word. “Entertain with that charming wife of yours.” I balled my fingers into fists.