We Own the Sky(98)

Anna pauses and then lets out a deep breath, as if she has been holding it in.

“Thank you, Rob. It means a lot to me to hear you say that.” Her tone was formal, still a little cold. “So, yes, I accept your apology.”

“Thank you. That’s very generous of you. Really.”

Anna shrugged. “Life’s too short, right? We know that better than anyone.”

The appetizers arrive. Little spring rolls with whiskers of carrots protruding at the ends. Anna looks down at her plate, as if she is deciding whether to start.

“I won’t lie to you, it hurt me a lot, when you said those things,” Anna says.

“About the clinic, about how we could have saved Jack and...” She stops herself and then wipes her mouth with her napkin. “Anyway, sorry, we don’t need to go over all that again. I certainly didn’t come here to berate you.”

In recent weeks, more details have emerged about the clinic. Relatives and parents of former patients have come forward, many of them seeking compensation. A former nurse went to the media and revealed details about what the staff called “dosing up.” They would give patients small quantities of morphine and steroids to simulate a clinical response to the immuno-engineering. I remember all the drugs Dr. Sladkovsky gave Jack—the little pots he used to bring, the pills I saw him slipping on Jack’s tongue.

“It’s ironic, isn’t it,” I say, “that after all the horrible things I used to say to you about the clinic and how it could have saved Jack and then, in the end, it was probably me...” I swallowed, my voice trailing off.

“Probably you what?”

“Well, that maybe it damaged him, that perhaps I cut his life short by taking him to Prague...”

Anna fiddles with her napkin ring and takes a sip of her wine. She looks at me, and I feel for a moment like one of her clients receiving counsel. “I do understand why you think like that,” she says, “but you shouldn’t. Really, don’t do it to yourself.”

“Why not?” I say. “With what we’ve learned about the clinic. It’s more than possible.”

Anna shakes her head and puts down her fork. “I have spent so much time

over the last few years beating myself up, about what we could have done with Jack, whether you were right about Sladkovsky, whether we should have gone for treatment abroad, in Germany, or pushed more on that Marsden trial. But for what? Jack was dying, Rob. He would have died, no matter what we had done.

The best specialists in the world told us that. Sladkovsky’s or no Sladkovsky’s, Jack didn’t have a chance.”

I swallow, drink some water, pick at a spring roll.

“The funny thing,” Anna says, and I think I see the slightest hint of a smile,

“is that Jack actually quite enjoyed the trip to Prague, being at the airport, on the plane.”

I smile, remembering his little backpack and how it was too big for him but he insisted on carrying it. “He did, didn’t he. He did always love going on the plane.”

“Do you remember Crete? When they let him sit in the cockpit before

takeoff?”

“I do. He absolutely loved it.”

Anna is about to say something when the waiter arrives with the main courses.

Little prawn sliders with coriander and tarragon. Cuts of beef bathed in chili. A laboriously arranged and dressed papaya salad. Anna is quiet, almost as if she thought she had said too much.

“Can I ask you?” I say, as we begin to eat. “Why did you get back in touch, on Hope’s Place?”

Anna takes a bite of her crab cake, diligently chews and swallows, and then wipes her mouth. “Well, at first, I was just a bit worried about you. I didn’t want you to kill yourself.” She stops, puts down her fork, her brow furrowing as it would when she was perturbed by a crossword clue. “But it’s a bit more complicated than that. If you must know, I think a part of me was hoping you would start talking badly about your wife, or ex-wife, or whatever I am. And then, for once and for all, I would know how horrible you really were and I could stop thinking about you.”

Anna smiles and takes a deep sip of her wine and, for a moment, it is as if we have gone back in time, a cavernous Cambridge restaurant, our lives stretching out before us. “God, Lola would kill me now,” Anna says, chuckling to herself.

“She always says I’m far too honest... Anyway, my master plan didn’t work, that was the problem. Because you didn’t say anything bad about me in your messages. You only said nice things, and you seemed so genuinely sorry.

“It was more than that, though. I loved talking to you on  Hope’s Place. The way you wrote, how you explained things, talked about your feelings. Your messages really helped me. And it was what I had always loved about you, how we used to talk for hours, in bed, late into the night. Just the two of us. So...as I said, my plan didn’t work, and I suppose that’s why I’m here.”

I dig my fingernails into my palms to stop myself from crying. “I’m so sorry,”

I say. “I’m so sorry I was horrible to you. It was disgusting what I did to you.”

“Oh, Rob,” Anna says. “You don’t need to keep saying sorry. I do understand, you know.”

“But I want to,” I say, the tears welling behind my eyes. “I just...I feel I owe it to you.”