Page 51 of You Were Always the One

A nurse greets us and shows him to his bed in a small private room off the main ward. Placing his bag on the bed, I take out what he needs.

‘I can manage,’ he says.

‘OK.’ I stand there a moment. ‘I hope it all goes really well, Miles.’

‘So do I.’ He gives me the briefest glance. ‘Thanks.’

‘I’ll call the hospital tomorrow,’ I say. ‘Just to find out how it’s gone.’

‘You could wait for me to call you,’ he says.

‘You’ll probably be in ICU for a couple of days. And the kids are going to be asking after you.’

‘Fine.’ He says it begrudgingly. ‘I suppose it makes sense.’

As I walk out of the hospital, I have mixed feelings. Relief that this will soon be behind us. But there’s fear, too, about what the surgeon will find. What the implications are going to be, for all of us.

When I get home, the kids have just come in from school. Grace is watching TV, while Max is at the kitchen table, doing something on his laptop.

He looks up, his face anxious. ‘Has Dad gone in?’

I nod. ‘Yes. I’ve just come back from taking him. I’m going to call them tomorrow to check how it’s gone.’ Going over, I kiss the top of his head. ‘Try not to worry.’

For a moment, Max doesn’t say anything. Then he looks at me. ‘Do you think he’s going to be OK?’ He sounds like a little boy again. ‘I’ve been reading about brain tumours.’

My heart goes out to him. They may not get on, but Miles is still his father, his emotional disconnect only serving to complicate times like now. Pulling out a chair, I sit down next to Max. ‘We don’t know yet what kind of tumour it is. But I understand why you’re worried.’ I gently stroke his hair. ‘A brain tumour is serious.’ I can’t lie to him. ‘But surgeons can do incredible things.’

‘That’s what Dad said.’ Max still looks anxious. ‘But what if he doesn’t get better?’

It’s so hard. This pretence that Miles and I are like a normal couple; that our marriage hasn’t become a war zone. This not letting it colour what I say to my children. ‘Let’s not worry about that until we have to,’ I say. ‘It’s still possible the tumour is benign.’

‘They would have said, though, wouldn’t they, if they thought that?’

‘Max, they really don’t know yet.’ I pause. ‘Listen,’ I say gently. ‘Whatever happens, we’ll deal with it. Together. We’re going to be OK. I promise you.’ Putting my arms around him, I hug him. ‘When something like this happens, we don’t always have the answers. It’s tough. And I know it’s scary, but when you think about it, none of us know what the future holds. Not really.’ I look at my son. ‘Promise me, won’t you, that if there’s anything you want to ask or say, you’ll talk to me. I understand how difficult this is.’

A tear rolls down Max’s cheek. ‘I don’t know why I’m upset,’ he says.

‘Because he’s your dad,’ I say gently, cursing Miles yet again for Max’s conflicted emotions; that because of the way he is with our children, nothing is simple. ‘He may not say it, but I know he loves you,’ I say.

The following day, I do my best to keep everything normal. The hustle of a school morning, before I start my work calls, but I’m preoccupied, aware that the outcome of Miles’s surgery is going to impact all of us.

When I get to Dora’s, Natalie lets me in.

‘My sister was here over the weekend. And my kids came to see her. I think Mum knew they were here. But she was asleep most of the time,’ she says. ‘She seems peaceful, though.’

‘Are you OK?’ I ask. It’s hard, watching someone you love, knowing they’re fading.

‘I am,’ she says. ‘Of course I’m sad. But just glad mostly that she’s where she wants to be.’

This morning, when I see Dora, I realise there may not be many more mornings such as this one. Even in the two days I haven’t seen her, she has faded.

‘Hi,’ I say gently. ‘How are you doing?’

Her lips move wordlessly, her eyes holding mine, as though she’s imparting a silent message. The words are just beyond her grasp, yet it’s something that’s important for her to say. Sitting beside her, I hold her hands. ‘Are you in pain, Dora?’

She hesitates. ‘No,’ she manages to articulate. Then as she goes on, I start to make out what she’s saying. ‘Tell Natalie,’ she keeps saying, ‘life is short. Tell her… Don’t waste it.’ She clasps my hands in her frail ones. ‘Be happy.’ Her eyes settle on mine, then close again.

The door opens and Natalie comes in. ‘Is she asleep?’ she says quietly.