We Own the Sky(42)
“Hello, Auntie Lola.”
Anna smiled. She always seemed to relax when Lola was around.
“Now, they’re all for you, Jack, but would you like to choose one to hold?”
Jack’s face flushed with joy. He had always loved balloons. He sought them out on the street, the ones given out for free by phone companies and campaigning politicians. At children’s parties, he would ask if he was allowed to take an extra one home.
“So here’s the thing,” Lola said, after Jack had chosen a red one. “I’ve done the balloons with the hashtag, #JackStrong, and I’ve started a little campaign on Twitter, just for well-wishers really, and we already have some retweets, someone from that Essex program and that nice Scarlett girl from Gogglebox.”
“What’s Gogglebox?” Anna said.
“Oh, you have to see it. Terribly funny. Anyway, I thought it would be good to raise awareness about Jack’s illness, but sometimes getting these celebrities involved on Twitter can be a real game changer. Trips to Disneyland, balloon rides et cetera, et cetera.”
She was speaking about him as if he was dying. Everyone was speaking about him as if he was dying.
“India,” Lola said, placing all the wool strings into her daughter’s little clenched fist, “do you want to give Jack the rest of the balloons?”
India hesitated. For a moment she was uncharacteristically shy, but Lola
nudged her forward, and she stood next to Jack’s bed, in her little pink dress and woven headscarf. She presented the balloons one at a time, Jack making sure they were securely in his hand.
As we were watching Jack and India, there was a knock at the door. A nurse walked in and handed Jack a parcel.
“Is it for me?” Jack said.
“Is your name Jack Coates?”
Jack nodded excitedly and stared at the box, feeling it, gently shaking it, the way he would do with the Christmas presents under the tree.
With Anna’s help, he opened the package, neatly tearing off the paper, then folding it and putting it on the bed. Inside was a scrapbook and on the cover it said “Dear Jack, From All Your Friends In 1A.”
Jack opened the scrapbook as if each page were made of the most precious, delicate petals. On the first page, the words were written in an assortment of big and small letters, drawn by the hands of different children: Jack, we know how much you like tall buildings. So we wanted to do something special for you... We hope you get well soon and can’t wait to see you again!
Slowly he began to turn the pages. Pasted onto the rainbow-colored paper
were pictures of his classmates on top of tall buildings, up on cliffs, looking out to sea. The Telecom Tower, Canary Wharf, the lighthouse at Beachy Head. The children were all holding signs saying “Get Well Soon, Jack.”
“You’re The Best, Jack.”
“We Love You, Jack!”
I had never seen him look like that before. It was as if he had unwrapped the world. He savored each and every picture, every single message on every single page. Then he paused for a moment, lingering on one photo. It was his best friends at school, Martin, Tony and Emil on the top floor of a skyscraper somewhere in London. They were grinning and holding a sign that said: “Jack Coates: Pokémon Collector and Superstar.” Jack’s bottom lip started to quiver and then, for the first time since all of this began, he started to cry.
*
On the day of the operation, Jack cheerfully sat upright on the gurney, his surgical gown making him look like a little elf. As we descended into the bowels of the hospital, the bright yellows and reds of the children’s ward turned to sullen greens and browns as we entered the complex of vestibules and waiting rooms where we would eventually leave Jack.
We kissed him and told him we’d see him in a bit, not wanting him to think he was going anywhere for long.
“Bye-bye,” he said, unphased. “Kiss Little Teddy,” he added, holding up his
bear, whose arm had been bandaged by a nurse.
*
We sat on a bench in a park for hours that day, waiting for Dr. Flanagan’s assistant to call. To think that once, we were so worried about a rogue mole, a tiny lump that appeared on the side of Jack’s neck. To think that once we used to agonize about his milestones, wondering why he hadn’t yet started to walk, why he had no interest in stacking more than three blocks at a time. To think that we were worried about all that, when Dr. Flanagan was now cutting into Jack’s skull with a circular saw. A neat cut, like a cartoon ice hole. Another human being’s hands inside my child’s brain.
That afternoon, we sat in the park and tried to ignore the trudge of time. When you lived in peace, when your concerns were minor and mundane, time was invisible: it flowed, ebbed, like an app quietly running in the background. But now time was impossible to ignore: it was menacing, counting down, the second hand on a giant Orwellian clock.
I didn’t know what to do, so out of habit I opened Hope’s Place on my phone and saw that I had a number of private messages.
Subject: Best Wishes
Sent: Mon Jul 7, 2014 1:58 pm
From: Camilla
Recipient: Rob
Hi Rob, I see from your posting last week that today is Jack’s operation. I just wanted to wish you well and let you know that I’m thinking of you all.