After the End(29)

We don’t speak. I close my eyes.

The speed bumps at the entrance to the hospital wake me up. Pip looks at me.

“I don’t know how you can sleep . . .” She lets her sentence trail away as she gets out of the car.

“I’m used to it, I guess,” I say, thinking of the jet-lagged power naps I grab in taxis between airports and hotels, then I see the stiffness in her back as she walks away, and I realize what she means is How can you sleep at a time like this? How can you sleep when our son’s dying? Frustration churns inside me. It’s wrong to sleep, is it? To take a shower, to get dressed, to brush my hair? It’s wrong to function normally, because our son’s in hospital—is that it? Wrong to cope?

We walk in angry single file through parked cars toward PICU. Pip hasn’t brought a coat, and I see the white tips of her fingers as she hugs her arms around her. As we draw near to PICU I see a couple I recognize. Between them is a child—a teenager. The mum catches my eye and lifts an arm in greeting. The teenager was in PICU when Dylan was admitted. A car accident, I think. He was transferred onto the general wards just after Christmas. Dad’s carrying a bag; there’s a pillow stuffed under his arm. I guess they’re going home. Unjust, uncontrollable jealousy floods my heart. I look straight ahead and pretend I haven’t recognized them.

Pip’s seen them, too. She turns her head in the opposite direction, and I see the tightness around her jaw that means she’s trying not to cry. She stops and lets me catch up with her.

“I’m sorry.”

“I am, too.” I take her hand and squeeze it.

“I keep reading about couples who split up.” She turns to face me. “Interviews with people whose children had accidents, or got cancer, or died, and they always say the same thing. They always say how it took its toll on our marriage, or how our relationship wasn’t strong enough to withstand—”

“That isn’t us.” I make her look at me. “We’re the strongest couple I know. Whatever happens, we will get through this.”

Her voice is a whisper. “I’m so scared of losing him, Max.”

I wrap my arms round her and we stand that way for a while, until Pip’s breathing slows and she pulls away. She’s exhausted. She’s spent every day at the hospital since Dylan was admitted. No wonder she’s breaking.

I hold Pip’s hand for the rest of the way to PICU, only dropping it to press the doorbell. One of the nurses leans over the desk to look up the hallway. I smile through the glass door and she buzzes us in. Silently, we stand side by side at the narrow, troughlike sink in the corridor outside of Room 1, and roll up our sleeves. We scrub up like doctors, rubbing foaming soap across our hands and into the creases of our fingers; digging the tips of our fingers into the palm of the opposite hand. Rinse. Dry. Sanitize.

“Ready?”

Pip nods. She doesn’t look ready.

“He’s our son,” I whisper. “They can’t do anything we don’t want them to do.”

She nods again, but there’s uncertainty in her eyes and I know she’s scared. We’re all brought up to believe doctors know best, and every appointment, every diagnosis, every spell in hospital disempowers us still further.

You know your son, the GP said.

We know Dylan. We know what’s best for him.

“Oh!” As we walk into Room 1, Pip stops short. The crib next to Dylan’s is empty.

“Darcy’s fine,” Cheryl says quickly. “She’s graduated. They moved her to High Dependency last night.”

“Oh, thank God. I couldn’t bear it if . . .” Pip doesn’t finish her sentence, but she doesn’t need to. I don’t say anything. Darcy has her own parents to worry about her. Liam has his. There’s only one child in the room I’m interested in, and it’s the beautiful boy asleep in the middle crib.

“How’s he doing?”

“He’s comfortable. Sats stable, fluids fine, and no temp.”

“That’s great.”

“I was about to give him a wash, but as you’re here . . .” Cheryl holds out a cloth.

Pip rolls up her sleeves and takes the cloth, and I get a bowl from the counter and fill it with warm water. “Have you checked the temperature?” she says, when I return. I feel a burst of irritation.

“No, I thought I’d just wing it. I have done this before, you know.” I look across at Cheryl and try for some solidarity, but my raised eyebrows aren’t returned. She looks away.

“Women don’t trust us, mate.” Connor comes in like he works here, loud and swaggering. “They treat us like kids ourselves, half the time.” He claps a hand on my back and peers over my shoulder, like we’re in the pub and he’s looking to get served. I shift slightly, seized by an overwhelming desire to hide Dylan from his gaze. From everyone’s gaze.

“Hey,” I manage. I want to ask how he’s doing today, but the face I saw on the bench beneath the oak tree isn’t the face I’m seeing now. Now he’s loud and cocky again—no sign of the broken man who cried into his hands.

“Nik’s at home.” Connor carries on to his own son’s bed. “School boiler’s broken down, so they’ve sent all the kids home. Bunch of pansies. They never heard of putting a coat on?”