After the End(49)

Pip was right, and I was wrong.

What if I’m wrong now? It slides unbidden into my thoughts; a worm of doubt, burrowing into the certainty.

“My son is in intensive care at St. Elizabeth’s,” I say. “Next week a high court judge will decide whether the doctors can switch off his machines, or whether I can take him to Texas for treatment.”

Her mouth forms a perfect O.

“Cognitive behavioral therapy can have excellent results,” she says, snapping back into action, “but the waiting lists currently average six to eight weeks, so . . .” She sees my raised eyebrow, and swivels to her computer screen. “I’m going to give you something to help you sleep, and some beta blockers for the anxiety.” The printer whirs into action. “This is very much a short-term solution, though—I would still like to refer you for CBT.”

“Sure, whatever.” In six to eight weeks Dylan and I will be in Texas. I can sleep in Texas. Eat in Texas. I just need something other than whiskey and smokes—because after eighteen years as a nonsmoker I suddenly find myself with cigarettes in my pocket again—to get me through the next week.

“Here.” She hands me my prescription, a leaflet about therapy, and a sick note for my boss. She hesitates, the inside of her lip caught between her teeth. I notice the photograph on her desk: a smiling toddler with an ice-cream beard. “Good luck,” she says eventually. “I hope it . . . I hope . . .”

“Thank you.”

I send the sick note to Chester, then put an “out of office” on my email and turn off my work phone. My hotel room is closing in on me, the wallpaper swirling into the beginnings of a migraine. I take two of the beta blockers the GP prescribed, and go for a swim. I leave my clothes in the locker, then head through the walkway to the pool. Voices bounce off the tiles, and my feet slow down. A family. Mom, teaching a girl in floaties to swim; Dad, throwing dive sticks for two boys. Laughter taunts me from the water. I think of my Saturday mornings at the pool with Dylan, of standing arms outstretched for him to jump from the side. Come on, Dylan, you can do it!

My pulse pays no heed to the beta blockers, thrumming in my ears to a beat I can’t breathe to. Faster, faster, faster. Stress, she said. I back out to the locker room and get dressed, stand for a moment in the hotel lobby—where do I go, what do I do?—then go for a run, reluctant feet finding their way on the wet tarmac. I run like I’m being chased, like I’m in a bad dream with monsters breathing down my neck, like they’ll always run faster than me, no matter how hard I try. I run and I run, and then I realize my feet have brought me here. To the hospital.

It isn’t “my” time. It’s not yet lunchtime, and Pip gets to be with Dylan till three. But my chest aches—Jesus, it aches so bad—and I just want to see my boy for five minutes. Five minutes, then I’ll go back to my hotel, and shower and change, and I’ll feel better.

The crowd outside the children’s hospital is smaller today. There’s a stalwart group that comes every day, and seeing them there stops me from feeling quite so alone. In the evenings, more people arrive. Often, when I leave PICU, around ten or eleven at night, the group has swollen to fifty or so people, standing in a semicircle around the candles on the ground that spell out Dylan’s name. The press have been here every day, and the protestors have been quick to switch things up. New banners, new faces, new stunts. Keeping him in people’s minds, in their hearts. Because if he’s in their hearts, how can a court rule to let him die?

“All right, Max?” Jamie and his wife, Emma, take turns to be at the vigil. Sometimes they both come, with their little girl in her stroller. We’re sick of the system, Jamie told me, when we first spoke. They’re trying to take away our rights as parents.

“I’m doing OK.”

“We’ve been talking on the Facebook group about what to do at court.” Jamie has a shaved head, and a tattoo on his neck of his daughter’s date of birth. He and Emma set up the Facebook group—Fighting for Dylan—which now has a hundred and forty thousand followers. “We’ll be selling the T-shirts, and some of the others are working on new banners, but if there’s anything specific, just let me know, all right?”

“I will.” I clap my hand onto his shoulder. “I really appreciate you doing all this. It means a lot.” Thanks largely to Jamie and Emma, Dylan’s GoFundMe account stands at almost a quarter of a million pounds. They have mobilized supporters all over the world, sharing the link and keeping Dylan in the headlines every day. And if it’s a little weird to see my boy’s face on a stranger’s T-shirt, well, it’s a small price to pay for the money that will take us to Texas.

I nod a hello to the security staff as I go inside. Speaking to Jamie has calmed me, but as I walk down the hallway toward PICU I feel my pulse picking up, and I break into a jog, the prospect of being so close to Dylan yet not physically with him almost harder than being far apart.

If Cheryl is surprised to see me at this time, it doesn’t show on her face. She buzzes me in, and I wash my hands, and she doesn’t say anything. It’s not a law, after all—not even something imposed by the hospital—just a suggestion we all agreed to, that Pip would take the days, and I would take the evenings. But I want to see Dylan now. And, I realize suddenly, I want to see Pip.

She’s reading him a story. She sits facing him, the book resting lightly on the bed as she reads in a soft voice. “‘Chocolate mousse!’ says greedy Goose. ‘Don’t just grab it,’ says angry Rabbit.” She always did do the voices so well. Rabbit’s outraged squeal, Sheep’s yawn, Moth’s mumble through a mouthful of dishcloth.