After the End(20)

“My son’s in hospital.”

“Still?” Like it was news. “I’m sorry.” Like he wasn’t. “Will he be in for much longer?” Like he cared.

I was about to say We don’t know, yes, possibly, it’s going to be a long road, but I took in Chester’s pen, tapping against his desk, and the concerned smile that only reached as far as his top lip.

“No, he’ll be home soon, and everything will be back to normal.” A lie, whichever way you look at it.

Mom comes downstairs. “How do I look?” She gives a twirl. She’s changed into a green dress with a wide belt the same color as her shoes.

“Beautiful, Mom.” I smile.

We eat at the Rookery, on West Chicago, where I have poutine and Mom chooses shrimp salad with a mixed-greens side.

“So,” she says, her eyes serious. “How’s our little boy?”

I take a sip of water before I answer. “He’s good. He had a scan today. Pip said it went well.” She sent me a photo afterward, of her face pressed against Dylan’s. Both facing the camera, both unsmiling, both beautiful. I show Mom the photo. “We’ll know more tomorrow.”

“I miss the pictures Pip used to share.”

“I know. It’s hard. She finds it hard.”

“How is she?” She doesn’t wait for my answer. “Stupid question. But you’re looking after her, right?”

“Of course I’m looking after her.” I feel a pang of guilt that I’m not with her right now, that she’s at home, or at the hospital, worrying about the scan, knowing that Dr. Khalili will have already seen the results, already be thinking about the next steps . . .

“I’d like to come over. I haven’t seen Dylan since his last birthday.” Before he got sick, I think. Back when everything was still OK.

“I could give Pip some support, look after the house, give her a break from being at the hospital all day—”

I cut in. “Come when Dylan’s home, Mom. It won’t be much longer, and you’ll be able to spend some quality time with him then.” I don’t tell her that I’m worried the intense atmosphere in PICU will be too much for her; that the buzzers and bells and alarms will stress her out. I don’t tell her that—however much she tries to help—her presence will be another thing for us—for Pip—to think about; that we don’t have space right now to think about anyone but Dylan.

She nods, and says Whatever you think’s best, and I think about the summer, and meeting Mom at the airport with Dylan by my side. I think about the pair of them lying on a blanket on the grass with a tray of strawberries.

“And how’s my boy doing?” she asks, holding my gaze like she can see right through me.

“Me?” I smile. “I’m good.” Another lie, whichever way you look at it.





eight





Leila


Leila looks out of the window. “What if there’s something I’m missing?”

“There isn’t.” Nick is firm.

They sit in silence. Outside, a tiny robin flits to the windowsill, then flies away.

“Are they expecting it?”

“They asked us to be straight with them right from the start. I’ve never thrown any punches.” Leila looks for the bird, but the sky is empty.

“Pulled.”

Leila looks at Nick, confused.

“You haven’t pulled any punches. Pull, not throw.”

“Oh. Thank you.” The correction is unsettling. Leila’s English is fluent. She thinks in English, she even dreams in English, has done for years. But sometimes the subtleties of the language escape her, and she worries she will cause offense, or that something she says will be misunderstood.

When she walks back to the ward her head is full to bursting. She is thinking about the patients in her care; about her clinical responsibilities. She thinks about the report she is expected to submit to the Child Death Review board, and the minutes from the last governance meeting still unopened in her inbox. She thinks about the request from the clinical lead, that she become involved in the teaching program, and wonders where she might find the extra hours that will enable her to do that. She thinks about her bed, and how long it’s been since she was in it. She thinks about her mother, and how she can persuade her out of the house.

Habibeh was waiting in the kitchen when Leila got home last night. A shiny SodaStream machine sat on the counter next to the microwave.

“When did you get that?”

“It arrived today.” Habibeh recited the marketing blurb. “‘Delicious carbonated drinks at the touch of a button!’” She filled a bowl with ash reshteh from the pot that never leaves the hob, flat noodles slithering from ladle to bowl. “Bokhor, azizam.” Eat.

Leila’s stomach rumbles now at the thought of food. In her locker, another of Habibeh’s packed lunches waits for a window when Leila might have time to take a mouthful, still chewing as she returns to the ward. Her mother was wearing her house clothes again last night, shrugging when Leila asked her if she’d been outside.

“I’ve been busy. Say hello to the bottom of your ironing basket—you can’t have seen it for some time.”

“You don’t have to do my ironing.”