We Own the Sky(25)

“Yes. It’s necessary, Rob. This has gone on long enough.”

“All right, I’ll take him. They have a walk-in clinic after school. It’s probably just a little ear infection or something. Do you remember he used to get them when he was little?”

“So you think it is something?” she said.

“Jesus, Anna. No, not at all. I’m just saying that I really don’t think you should worry...”

As we were speaking, we watched Jack climb onto the back of the sofa and

then do a tightrope maneuver along one arm.

“Look at him,” I said. “There’s nothing wrong with him.”

“I hope so,” Anna said. “He does get quite tired, doesn’t he, with school.”

Jack had now climbed down from the sofa and was attempting to do a

headstand on the floor.

“Seriously, sweetheart. He’ll be absolutely fine.”





6

“Now, I don’t want you to worry, but there is something here I think we should have a little look into,” the doctor said, regarding the report. Next to me, I could feel Anna wince and then lean forward in her seat.

Two weeks ago, I had been here in this same doctor’s office with Jack. The doctor watched him walk in a straight line, shone lights in his eyes, tested his reflexes with a rubber hammer. He was fine, the doctor said, absolutely fine. But what Jack was experiencing did sound a little like epilepsy, so as a precaution they would need to do some blood tests and a CT scan.

We all went together for Jack’s scan. We told him there wouldn’t be any pain, and they were just going to take a picture of his head. We promised him that if he managed to lie very, very still—as still as a statue, Jack—then we would all go to McDonald’s for a Happy Meal and ice cream.

“So,” the doctor said, “the scan does show a little something on Jack’s brain.

Now, we don’t know exactly what this is yet, but just to be extra cautious, we do need to get you an appointment with a specialist.”

“A little something. What does that mean?” I asked.

“Well, first of all, don’t panic. These things almost always turn out to be nothing. It could be several things—some kind of growth, a cyst. And, in a very small number of cases, a tumor. But even if it was that, they mostly turn out to be benign.”

Tumor. I thought of Jack, outside in the playroom.

“And there’s nothing more you can tell us?” Anna asked.

The doctor looked at his screen, moving his lips as he read. “No, nothing more I’m afraid. Just that there is a lesion, and it requires further investigation.”

Anna took a deep breath, and I could see her pinching the skin on her hand.

“So what happens now?” I said. “Will he need an operation?”

The doctor pressed his hands together. “Goodness, let’s not talk about that yet, Mr. Coates. We don’t even know what it is yet. It’s probably absolutely nothing.

But, to be on the safe side, I have referred Jack to a specialist, so we don’t lose any time.”

“Is it possible to see them this week?” Anna asked.

The doctor took a deep breath and looked down at his calendar. “I can get you

in on Wednesday, if that suits.”

“Thank you,” she said.

A specialist? Why did Jack have to see a specialist, when there was probably nothing wrong? It didn’t make any sense. “And you really can’t tell us any more?” I asked the doctor.

“I’m sorry, I really can’t. Dr. Kennety will be infinitely more qualified to make a judgment on the scan.”

“Right,” I said, “I understand that. But surely you can say something from your experience...”

There was a photo on the doctor’s desk, facing away from us, and I wondered if it was his children.

“If it is a tumor,” the doctor said, “then at Jack’s age, he would certainly need an operation. But we just don’t know, and it would be unethical and unfair of me to speculate. As I said, if it is a tumor—and that’s a big, big if—mostly they turn out to be benign. So I know it’s difficult, but please try not to worry.”

Benign. Mostly benign. My legs felt shaky as we left, and I was just about to confer with Anna, when Jack charged toward us wearing some sort of cape.

“Can we go to McDonald’s?”

“Of course we can,” I said, ruffling his hair, smoothing down his cape.

In McDonald’s, while I nabbed a table, Jack walked to the counter with Anna.

He was wearing his  Angry Birds sweatshirt and blue jeans. His hair was a little too long, his blond curls looping behind his ears. He came triumphantly back from the counter holding his Happy Meal box.

Jack sat at the table, carefully deconstructing his hamburger. We watched him as he methodically removed the gherkins, scraped off the sauce and then ate in a dignified silence. When he finished, he smiled, dabs of sauce around his mouth, and asked if he could have another one. There was nothing wrong with him.

There couldn’t be. Just look at him!

  *

“I don’t want to go, Rob.”

“I know, but it will take your mind off things.”

“Right,” Anna said, looking away. “And why you do want to go so much?