Pneumonia. Such a pretty word, I’ve always thought; a girl’s name, perhaps, or some kind of flowering shrub.
But of course, in reality, not pretty at all. Potentially deadly. I believe they used to call it “the old man’s friend” because it often provided merciful release from some lingering painful illness, or perhaps from a life which had outlived both comfort and purpose. But not Silas! Not Silas’s life. Not after all he’s already been through.
‘How?’ Eric asks. ‘How did he get pneumonia in here? He should have been safe. We thought he’d be safe!’
‘He’s a very sick man. You have to understand that.’ The doctor looks very young, exhausted, ruffled from sleep.
‘We know he’s a sick man. But we didn’t expect him to get even sicker.’ Eric is beside himself. ‘How — did — this — happen?’
‘Please sit down. The nurse will make you some tea.’
‘I don’t want tea. I’ve done nothing but drink tea for days now. Tea isn’t the answer!’
‘Sit down, Eric.’ Mum pulls gently at his sleeve. ‘Sit down and listen to what the doctor has to say.’
Eric crumples into a chair, and the doctor explains. The pneumonia has developed suddenly and rapidly; Silas’s resistance is lowered due to his illness; they are doing all they can. He talks of x-rays and antibiotics, of more drips and further tests. Silas’s chances are not good, but he is “holding his own”. The next couple of days will be crucial.
Afterwards, when the doctor has gone, Eric sits with his head in his hands.
‘I don’t know how much more of this I can take,’ he says to no-one in particular.
‘You have to, Eric. You just have to,’ Mum tells him. ‘For Silas. We’ll go and see him, shall we? I’ll come with you. You stay here, Ruth, and phone home. Everyone will be wondering what’s happening. It’s not fair to keep them waiting.’
I go outside to use my mobile, and phone Applegarth, where Kaz, Kent and Dad are waiting for news, then I fetch myself coffee from a machine. I feel exhausted beyond any tiredness I have ever felt before. The baby has reduced (hardly the right word, but I can’t think of another) me to a lumbering elephant of a woman, and as I cart my exhausted body and its small passenger back to the relatives’ room and find myself a chair, I wonder how it is that many women go back and do the whole pregnancy thing over and over again, ending up sometimes with three, four or even more children. For whatever I may feel about my own child, now or when I get to meet it, I know for a fact that I shall never want another. I’ll have done my bit; I shall have replaced myself on the planet, and formed the next link in the family chain. I certainly don’t need to do it again.
It’s funny how thoughts of my imminent motherhood, occasional at the best of times, have gone out of the window since Silas’s illness. The baby is there, and presumably it will eventually emerge (apparently in about five weeks’ time), but I have put it to the back of my mind. I have received a reproachful phone call from the midwife enquiring as to why I’m no longer attending her classes, but it seems self-indulgent to spend time huffing and puffing on a cosy nest of cushions while the rest of my family are going through all this. No doubt when the time comes, I’ll push the baby out. People do it all the time. Apparently, it’s impossible not to push babies out when the time comes. So why all the fuss?
For the moment, all that matters is that Silas should get better. It may be that a part of me is only too willing to be relieved, if only temporarily, of thoughts of the future, or simply that I am still maintaining a degree of denial. I shall never know. What I do know is that if Silas recovers, I shall be willing to cope with anything. I will go to ante-natal classes every day if required to do so; I’ll be a model mother and even a model daughter; I’ll even sacrifice any hopes of seeing Amos again, if only Silas will get better. Please, Silas. Please, please, please get better.
‘Are you okay?’ A nurse comes into the room, and I realise that I’ve been crying.
‘Yes. Yes, I’m all right.’
‘Well, you don’t look it.’ She closes the door behind her. ‘Are you his daughter?’
‘No. He’s my uncle.’
‘You’re close, are you?’
‘Yes. I suppose we are.’ I’d never thought about it before. ‘I live with him — them.’
‘That must be hard. Especially with a baby on the way.’ She touches my hand. ‘When’s it due?’
‘Due?’
‘The baby.’
‘Of course. The baby.’ I push my hair out of my eyes and blow my nose. ‘About a month, I think.’
‘Not long to go, then.’
‘No.’
‘Can I get you a cup of tea?’
‘Please.’
Tea again. Where on earth would we be without tea? I suppose the French and the Italians have coffee on these occasions, but what about, say, the Americans? What do they drink in times of crisis? Iced tea, perhaps, at least in the summer. I’ve read about iced tea, but never actually tried any. Iced tea, lemon tea, herbal tea... My thoughts drift and swirl, and I see people — lots of people — drinking tea; Japanese women cross-legged on the floor, sobbing as they pass round tiny decorated cups; people queueing by the huge shiny urn used by one of Mum’s women’s groups; I see teapots, kettles, tea bags, tea leaves. The seahorse/rabbit appears and tells me it hates tea, and why can’t I give it milk like a normal mother? Normal mothers don’t give tea to babies, it tells me. Why can’t I behave like a normal mother? It fades away, weeping, and now I am in a boat going to look for Amos. The boat is operated by pedals, but my feet won’t reach them and there’s no-one around to help. I panic as the boat begins to quiver and tremble, as though tossed by a succession of tiny waves.
I wake up whimpering to find Mum gently shaking my shoulder.
‘Ruth? It’s all right, dear. Don’t cry.’ She touches my cheek. ‘Come on. It’s time to go home.’
‘Why? What’s happened? How’s Silas?’ The anxiety of my dream is still with me. ‘He hasn’t died, has he?’
‘No. He hasn’t died. He’s — stable.’
‘Hospital-speak,’ I tell her, now fully awake, and I think of all those other hospital clichés: “as well as can be expected,” “fighting for his life” (how can anyone who is seriously ill fight?), “comfortable”. It’s almost as though hospital staff are issued with a list of words and phrases which are supposed to give comfort but which fool nobody. ‘How is he really?’
‘Unconscious, of course, but they say his chest is a bit clearer. Eric’s staying on. I’m going home to have a bath and a nap. I’ll come back later.’
‘What about me? When can I see him?’
‘Well, I suppose you could pop in quickly now. Just for a couple of minutes. We’ll ask.’
I’ve hardly been inside the Intensive Care Unit up until now, leaving the visiting to Mum and Eric. It’s a strange place, with an atmosphere and rhythm of its own, isolated and apart like a womb; a world within a world. Staff move around in theatre scrubs, speaking softly, attending to the recumbent forms around them. They look smoothly efficient, more like technicians than nurses, but then I suppose in these circumstances efficiency is more important than the touchy-feely nurses of my imagination.
I remember Eric describing his brother as looking ‘so not Silas’, and he’s right. It’s hard to connect the still figure beneath the clinical white sheet with the Silas I know. This figure breathes — in-out, in-out — fluids are dripped in and others drain away, but everything is mechanical; everything is not Silas. Eric is sitting beside him holding his hand, but his eyes are closed, and we don’t disturb him.
‘Let’s go.’ Mum whispers, as though we are in church.
I nod, too choked to speak, and together we tiptoe from the room. As we leave the building and make our way to the car park, the grey wintry sky threatens rain, bleak skeletons of trees reaching out towards it as though in supplication. Like those other memories of the day of Silas’s operation, I know that whatever happens, I’ll always remember these things; this sky, these trees, the echoing of our footsteps along the deserted walkway; even the car park, which is half empty. Only the workers and the wounded and the families of the seriously ill visit hospitals at night.
We drive home together in silence. Dad and Kent have gone back to bed, but Kaz has stayed up to wait for us, and is dozing in a chair. Wordlessly, she gets up and holds out her arms to me, and I stumble into them.
‘Oh, Kaz,’ I sob. ‘He looks so awful.’ Kaz’s arms scarcely reach around me now, but the closeness of her and the familiar smell of her perfume (something expensive; a gift from a boyfriend?) is infinitely comforting.
‘I’ve made porridge,’ she tells us.
‘Porridge?’ Mum looks puzzled.
‘Porridge,’ says Kaz, ‘is what you need. With brown sugar and lots of cream.’
‘Porridge? At a time like this?’
‘Especially at a time like this.’ Kaz fetches bowls and spoons, and a big jug of cream from the fridge. ‘Comfort food,’ she explains. ‘Plus, you need something to soak up all that tea.’
‘How did you know about the tea?’ I ask her.
Kaz laughs. ‘I’m right, aren’t I?’
‘Spot on.’
‘Well, then. Be good girls and eat up your porridge. It’ll do you good.’