We Own the Sky(28)

“Thanks.” Anna looked broken, as if she was shrinking into the seat. I went back inside and told Lola that Anna wasn’t feeling very well and went to look for Jack. He was sitting with India under the champagne table. They had taken their shoes and socks off and had laid some paper plates out on the ground.

“We’re having a picnic,” Jack said, pretending to drink out of his shoe.

“I can see that. It looks yummy.”

“Can we play more, Daddy?”

“We have to go, I’m afraid. Mommy’s not feeling very well.”

“Oh, Dad-dee.”

“But you’ll see India very soon.”

Jack reluctantly put his trainers back on and then kissed India goodbye.

“Bye-bye, Jack,” India said formally. “I enjoyed playing with you today.”

As we were leaving, Jack kept turning around to see India, to see if she was still waving goodbye. He fell asleep as soon as he got into the car. We drove home in silence, listening to the hum of the tires on the tarmac.

“Are you okay?” I said as we pulled into the drive.

“Yes, sorry. I know I’m being unpleasant, but I just can’t stop thinking about it.” Anna checked that Jack was still sleeping and lowered her voice. “Thinking what if, what if, and I know it’s stupid but I can’t...”

“I know,” I said, wanting to tell her what Karolina had said, but I knew it would only worry her more. “You can’t think like that, you just can’t,” I said, putting my hand on her leg.

We took Jack up to bed when we got home. He was sleepy, but we managed to

stand him up, so we could get him in his pajamas and brush his teeth. When Anna had gone to get him some cream for a rash, I looked into his eyes to see if there was a droop, if his eyelids were bulging, the symptoms I had read about online. I looked from both sides, turning him toward the light, but I couldn’t see anything unusual.

We tucked him in together, putting his things—the cookie-tin lid, Darth

Vader’s ripped cloak—on the end of the bed and then putting his favorites—

Little Teddy and flashlight—next to his head, so he could find them in the night.

I sat on the end of the bed, looking at his photos and the pictures of

skyscrapers on the wall. Sometimes, after I had kissed him good-night, I

watched him through the crack in the door. He would lie on his back and then shine his flashlight on the pictures, whispering the names of all the buildings, the places he had been, the skyscrapers he was planning to climb. Tonight, though, he was quiet. Tonight, he just slept.





7

We did not speak in the taxi to Harley Street nor in the waiting room. Anna sat upright in her chair. She did not move, or read or check her phone. A woman, covered by a burka, was sitting opposite us. I knew she was ill. I could tell by the way she gently rubbed her thumb and forefinger together, the way her husband paced, his prayer beads wrapped round his knuckles.

The secretary called our name and led us through to Dr. Kennety, a small man sitting behind a large desk, like a child wearing his father’s clothes.

“Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Coates,” he said, clearing his throat as we sat down.

“Thanks for coming. Did you come from far?”

“No, just Hampstead,” Anna said softly.

“Oh, lovely, I live quite close.” He looked at us and then down at his papers.

“So let’s talk about Jack’s scans. Before we start, please bear in mind, I am just one doctor. Another doctor may well see the situation differently, and I always advise my patients, and the parents of my patients, to get a second opinion.” The doctor looked at us, raised his eyebrows, and I didn’t know if he expected a response. “So that’s my usual preamble. Now, from looking at the scans, it does seem clear that Jack has what we call a glioma, which is a type of brain tumor.”

I could hear a car alarm, hushed talking in the waiting room. Out of the

window, a pigeon walked along a shit-splattered sill. The doctor paused, waiting to see if we would react, but we were still, silent. It was as if the doctor’s words were being spoken to someone else, as if we were watching a drama unfold on the stage. I stared at a Disney World paperweight on his desk that contained a photo of a child wearing a  Finding Nemo T-shirt.

Dr. Kennety looked up from his papers, a stray hair protruding from one

nostril. “Should I give you a minute?” he said.

I tried to speak, but my throat wouldn’t open, as if it was clogged with soot. I didn’t know what Anna was doing. I could only feel her stillness, the sound of her breathing, next to me.

“I’m sorry,” the doctor said. “I’m sure this is quite a shock. However, it does appear—and this is the good news—to be slow growing.”

I managed to sit up in my seat, to catch my breath again.

“Now, some of these tumors don’t grow. They are essentially benign and just

sit there for years, and you’d never know about it. On the other hand, some of them start off benign and can then turn nasty. In Jack’s case, it does appear to be in the early stage, but we would want to take it out, to prevent it from growing into anything unpleasant.

“Here, look,” Dr. Kennety said, taking a scan of Jack’s head out of his folder.