DAY 19
Get a pet
“Look! Isn’t he adorable?”
Annie’s eyes traveled to Polly’s feet, which were clad in silver platforms, wobbly and shimmering. She seemed to be almost straining out of them, as if she was too impatient to be walking on the ground like normal people. “That’s a dog.”
“A puppy.” Polly bent down to scoop up the wriggling tangle of limbs at her feet. The puppy was a boxer, Annie thought—snub nose, dark wet eyes. Emitting a strong smell of damp fur. “His name’s Buster.”
“But where did you—?”
“Oh, I just woke up and thought, you know what I always wanted?”
“Fleas? Rabies?”
“A cute puppy. So I went and got one from a guy on Gumtree. It was that easy.”
“Um, how much did you—?”
“Oh, eight hundred or something.” Polly was blowing kisses and making silly faces at the little thing, which was letting out a high whining sound.
Eight hundred pounds. That was almost a whole month’s rent on Annie’s horrible flat. She tried not to roll her eyes. “Poll, you know you’ve brought a dog into a place full of sick people. You do realize we’re in the hospital?”
“It’s okay. I’m sure he won’t catch anything.”
“Polly. How did you even get him in?”
“I smuggled him in my bag.” She was defensive now. “I thought he might cheer people up. It’s so depressing in here.”
“Yes, it is depressing on the neurology ward, but honestly. Look at him.”
Buster, wide-eyed and wriggling, was now doing a small wee. Polly held him away from her as it puddled on the floor of the corridor, which funnily enough was the color of urine to start with. “Oops.”
“I’m getting Dr. Max,” said Annie.
* * *
She found him on his knees in front of the vending machine, his arm inside it and an expression of ferocious concentration on his face. “Are you okay?”
“Shh! This is a very delicate maneuver...aha!” A KitKat Chunky finally fell down and he pulled his hand out, victorious, clutching it. “Surgical hands one, bastard thieving machine zero.” He saw Annie’s look. “I paid for it! It just didn’t come out. And I haven’t had any lunch.”
“I’m not judging. I just need your help with something.”
“What?” he said, spraying chocolate.
Annie told him.
His face darkened. “Right. I’m not having this. Take me to her.”
Ten minutes later, Dr. Max had dispatched a sulky Polly to her MRI with a lecture about all the types of infection you could pick up from a puppy, and was now on his hands and knees mopping up the wee with a roll of blue hospital paper. Buster was cowering near the wall.
“Can I...?” Annie offered timidly.
“No. It’s done now. Bloody irresponsible puppy farmers. Turning dogs into breeding machines. Poor wee mite isn’t ready to be away from his mum—look how scared he is.”
“Why did she—”
“Disinhibition.” He sat back on his heels, sighing. “It’s a bad sign, Annie. It means the tumor’s eating away at her. The bits of her brain that control impulse and judgment... You know how you airbrush a picture, with the little dots? That’s what’s happening inside her brain right now.”
Annie nodded, a lump rising in her throat. “She danced in a fountain the other day.”
“See? Loss of control. It’s not good.”
“But she seems so well. Happy, most of the time.”
He tutted. “It’s not happiness, it’s euphoria. There’s also memory loss, and mood swings, what we call emotional lability.”
“But—”
“This isn’t some inspirational ‘making the most of life’ movie, Annie. This is brain damage. That’s what you’re seeing.”
“I danced in the fountain, too.”
His bushy eyebrows twitched. “I didn’t have you down for the fountain-dancing sort.”
“I’m not. I don’t really know what happened. I guess I thought I could stop her doing anything really over the top.”
He nodded. “You’re a good influence on her. Dancing aside. It seems to...distract her somehow from what’s going on. Keeps her on an even keel.”
“So it’s getting worse.”
“Aye. And it’ll get worse still. Och, Annie, are you crying?”
“It’s just...” She bit her lip as a flood of salt rushed to her eyes. “The poor puppy, away from his mum. It isn’t fair.”
He stood awkwardly, holding a wodge of wee-stained paper. “Come on, Annie. We get enough crying on this ward.”
“S-sorry. Will Buster be able to go back to his mum for a while?”
“I’ll try to bring him back tomorrow. Give that bloody breeder a piece of my mind. He can stay in my office for now. I’ll find him a wee bed.”
“Do you want me to come with you tomorrow, to the breeder?”
He looked surprised. “Are you no’ at work?”
“It’s Saturday.”
“Oh, aye, I lose track of time in here.” He smiled, his eyes softening. “Only if you do the punching. I need to save these surgical hands of mine for performing miracles. Have you a good right hook, Annie?”
“I can hold my own. I grew up on a council estate, you know.”
“Och, well, then. I’ll insist you come.”
* * *
“It was so unfair of McGrumpy to take poor Buster away,” Polly complained as they wandered to the exit of the hospital later. She kept stopping to wave at people, ask after them. “Hey, Paul, how’s that ankle? Take it easy on the court next time! Mercy! Did you get your hair done?” Cleaners, admin staff, consultants, nurses—she seemed to know everyone. “I am too capable of looking after a puppy. He’s got no right to say I’m not.”
“How do you find time to meet all these people?” Annie asked as Polly waved at another porter.
“Oh, I’ve spent half my life here in the last few months. Waiting for scans, getting blood taken, chemo... I truly make the most of the NHS.”
Annie had also spent a lot of time in the hospital, and she didn’t know anyone’s name. Before Polly she’d always kept her nose in a book, or tried to answer work emails on her phone, feeling guilty about not being in the office. Awkwardly—going for casual but missing by a mile—she said, “You know Dr. Max?”
“The man who’s had his hands inside my skull? I am familiar with his work, yes.”
“Well...what’s his deal? Is he...you know?” Annie felt herself blushing. She hated that. It was never a delicate rosy tint with her, rather an explosion of red like when you squashed a tomato. “Is he married or anything? I mean, he seems to practically live in the hospital.”
Polly started laughing. “Annie, you little minx. You’ve got a crush on Dr. McGrumpy?”
“No. No, I don’t. I was just wondering about their private lives. They work so hard.” He didn’t wear a ring, but that might be for hygiene reasons.
“Annie and Max, sitting in a tree—”
“Shh!” Annie looked around fearfully.
“I don’t know if he’s married. Married to the job, I suspect. But, Annie, we don’t have time to fall in love. We’ve got living to do! Although he wants to stop me having any fun at all.”
She thought of Dr. Max’s advice. Keep her on an even keel. “Listen, Poll, I’m sorry about the dog. But there’s other fun things we can do. What would you most like to try for the next happy thing?”
“Honestly, what I’d really love to do—please don’t hate me for this—is give you a makeover.”
Annie groaned. “Seriously? It’s such a cliché. Is it going to change something fundamental if I stick on a bit of lipstick?”
Polly tucked an arm in hers. Annie hoped it didn’t have puppy wee on it. “Look, I get what you’re saying. I get that it’s a bit patronizing to make someone over. But there are just so many different looks in the world. So many clothes, so many hair colors, so many types of makeup. And I spent most of my life up to now wearing the same things. Suits, shift dresses. Jeans, jeans and more jeans. Yoga pants. The same Barry M eyeliner. That’s why I’m now trying to wear every random thing in my wardrobe, you see. You always wear black?”
Annie looked down at her outfit, trousers and a gray shirt she’d worn to work. “It’s just easier. Saves time in the morning.” Even as she said it she knew it was an excuse. And she’d once liked clothes, hadn’t she? She’d bought so many maternity outfits when she was pregnant, loving the changing shape of herself, the promise of what was to come.
Polly wheedled, “It’d be so much fun. Why do you think I dress like this?” She plucked at the getup she was in today, a short pink frilly dress worn with orange tights. “I don’t have a lot of time, Annie. I may never get to wear culottes or cowboy boots again. I have to do it now, or never. So, join me? Remember, if plan A doesn’t work, there’s twenty-five other letters to choose from.”
“Is this where you play the cancer card?”
“I thought it was sort of implied.”
What could she say? Polly was dying—that cancer card was real. The least Annie could do was put on a stupid dress. “Fine. Why don’t you come over to mine and we can, I don’t know, do our nails or something.”
“Amazing. I’ll bring brownies.”
“We’re not nine,” Annie grumbled. “It’s not like a sleepover where... Oh.”
“Annie?” Polly turned back to where she’d stopped. “You’ve gone white. Are you okay?”
Move. Hide. Quick. Quick! But Annie’s legs weren’t moving. She was frozen, staring straight ahead, at the man sitting in the snack bar. She couldn’t see what he was drinking, but she knew what it would be. Latte, one sugar. Half if he was trying to lose weight. He wore jeans and a green polo shirt, and his arms looked tanned and strong.
His voice shouting in from the corridor. “Annie, call an ambulance!” Fumbling in the bedsheets for her phone, struggling to dial the number as panic coursed through her...
Polly waved a hand in front of her face. “Annie? Are you okay? Hey, that’s a song.” Her voice was clear and piercing. Annie came back to herself and scuttled on by, until she was past the snack bar. Polly came swaggering after, in her impractical shoes, pausing to wave at a junior doctor. “Oh, hey, Kieran, working nights today? Don’t forget to try those supplements I mentioned. Great for boosting melatonin.”
Annie sank onto a seat—green plastic, the stuffing leaking out. The noises of the hospital washed over her, squeaking wheels and beeping monitors and hurrying feet. Lives being lost. Lives just starting.
“What’s the matter?” said Polly.
“I... It was just...someone I hadn’t seen for a while.”
“Who? Your long-lost dad? Your one true love? Something’s really upset you.”
“No. No, I’m fine. I just—I didn’t have any dinner. I better go home, I think.”
She walked to the door very fast, head down, face half-covered by her scarf. Though she didn’t think he would see her even if they passed; she was pretty sure he never thought about her at all.