After the End(59)

Dylan’s parents hold hands.

The judge speaks.

And a courtroom holds its breath.





Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

   And sorry I could not travel both

   And be one traveler, long I stood

   And looked down one as far as I could

   —ROBERT FROST





twenty-four





Pip


The judge puts on his reading glasses and picks up his notes. “It is with a heavy heart, but with total conviction for Dylan’s interests, that I accede to the application made by St. Elizabeth’s Children’s Hospital, and rule that they may lawfully withdraw all treatment save for palliative care, and allow Dylan to die with dignity.”

Instantly, Max pulls his hand from mine. I turn to look at him, but he’s staring straight ahead, his head moving from side to side in small, fluid movements.

The judge’s voice is neutral, his gaze fixed in the middle distance, between Max’s barrister and the hospital’s. He’s still talking, now, but the words flow over me because all I can hear is the ruling, over and over again.

They may lawfully withdraw all treatment . . . and allow Dylan to die with dignity.

Max thrusts his hands in his pockets, out of my reach. I touch his arm, and he flinches as if he’s been burned. He’s still staring at the judge, still shaking his head as if he can’t believe what he’s heard. Relief floods through me that it’s all over, that Dylan doesn’t have to suffer any longer, but the relief is short-lived. I cannot celebrate a ruling that means Dylan dies, no matter how right the decision.

When Dylan was not quite a year, and crawling so fast I never stopped running after him, he was ill for a day or two. He wouldn’t be put down, and we spent the hours cuddled on the sofa, watching Disney films. He’s so lovely when he’s poorly. The thought was contraband, to be kept hidden from people who would judge me. It isn’t that I want him to be ill, I justified, only that he’s so cuddly when he is.

“Max.” I try to whisper, but my throat is tight and I have to force out the word, which comes out too loud, too sharp. No one turns to look at us, because they’re already looking, like we’re exhibits in a zoo, specimens in a lab.

Max dips his head. His eyes are closed. Perhaps he’s crying or perhaps he can’t bring himself to look at me. I want—no, I need—him to hold me, but every muscle in his body is tensing away from me. He starts to speak—too quietly for me to hear—and he’s staring at the ground and I can’t even be sure he’s speaking to me. I lean towards him, desperate to hear his voice.

The words come slowly, a pause between each one to form the next, and I want to believe I’ve misheard, but even a whisper can carry betrayal. “You made this happen.”

“What?” A kick to my guts, when I’m already down. “No! The hospital—”

“They took this to court, but you kept it here. You gave evidence that made up the judge’s mind.”

“Max, stop—”

“You signed your own son’s death warrant.”

My breath catches. A sharp pain pierces my chest and I put both hands on the bench in front of me and grasp it as though I’m falling.

“Court rise.”

We stand. There’s a rustle from the press box, and three, four, five reporters take this as their cue to leave. One of them gives a self-conscious bob of the head to the judge as he side-shuffles out, notebook clutched to his chest. The ruling will be on the internet before we leave the building, it will be in the papers tonight. The public jury will dissect the secondhand hearing as though they were standing in my shoes, and pronounce their findings as absolute. A verdict upon a verdict.

The room feels airless. The judge stands, and makes his way through a door to one side of the bench, and suddenly someone turns up the volume.

“. . . statement to the press in the next few minutes.”

“I’ve always rated him as a judge.”

“Time for a quick drink?”

Every voice but Max’s, whose angry hiss repeats in my head regardless. A death warrant. A hand touches my sleeve. It’s Robin.

“You coped incredibly well—I know how hard that must have been for you.”

“Thank you for all your help,” I say, programmed to be polite, even though the “help” is work for which he will shortly be sending an invoice to my father.

You signed your own son’s death warrant.

I turn to Max, but he’s gone, the space where he stood already filled by the knot of people surrounding me, their conversation a hushed murmur, like mourners gossiping at a funeral. I catch a glimpse of my husband’s jacket, the back of his head, and then the door closes behind him.

“Excuse me.” I push my way towards the exit. A lingering journalist steps forwards, then thinks better of it. I break into a run. Someone opens the door for me. “Max! Max!” On the concourse people sit on rows of plastic chairs, waiting to be called. Two women in wigs and gowns sweep past. I stop for a second to look for Max, and immediately two reporters flank me, recording devices already flashing red.

“How do you feel about the judgement, Mrs. Adams?”

Max is standing at the top of the stairs, one hand on the rail. A reporter stands two steps beneath him, not quite blocking his way, but almost.