SIX
“You haven’t said much since we got to the house yesterday.” Mum pulls me aside as Dad and Briar walk ahead through the hospital’s automatic doors. “Is there something on your mind?”
“What do you expect me to say with him in earshot?” I gesture to my nephew as he looks up at the stippled ceiling in the foyer.
“I guess there’s a few unresolved things to talk about at a better time, right?”
“Yeah, there is,” I mutter under my breath as we catch up. “Like why you never told me about him to begin with.”
“It’s complicated.” Mum frowns, wringing her hands before her.
“No, Mum,” I say. “ I don’t think it is.” I may have distanced myself from my sister, but I’m not that cold-hearted. “Let’s focus on why we’re here though.”
We’re here for Kath. For Briar. For the final moments as a complete family.
Mum and Dad returned to the ward yesterday morning after our discussion and ended up staying until night. Complications meant they were too nervous to leave in case things rapidly declined. Their faces said it all when they finally came back to Kath’s to catch some sleep in a proper bed in the early hours of this morning.
She’s deteriorated. The likelihood of her coming off the machines is slim, and they still haven’t got responses from any of the brain activity tests.
How she can go from being able to speak a few words when I saw her Friday night, to a near vegetable on Sunday … I can’t understand it. But I guess the bleeds on her brain were really that bad, and perhaps if I hadn’t been such a stubborn bitch and had gone to see her myself, I might have realised that.
But what’s done is done, and I won’t feel bad for putting Briar’s needs first. I just won’t.
I can’t.
I follow my parents into the elevator, aware they know where to find Kath and I don’t. Briar watches the numbers change on the display as we ascend to the second floor, fascinated by the movement of the car as it comes to a stop.
The sterile odour hits me first as we exit into the waiting room. It’s the smell of cleanliness, and death. Of finalities and nightmares come true.
“I’ll go ask if she’s had her tests again.”
Something in the way Mum talks about Kath, as though she’s coherent and likely to walk away from this, irks me. Not that I expect her to treat Kath like an object, but the tone still grates at me as I watch her cross the patterned carpet to the nurses’ station.
“Should we sit?” I ask Dad.
He looks around the space as though he’s lost, like he’s woken from a dream and he’s still trying to work out if where he is, is real or not.
“She might not be long.” He shifts his gaze to Mum.
I squat down to Briar’s level. “You okay?”
“Why are we here?” He reaches out and takes my hand, clutching it tight as he shuffles in closer.
“This is where your mum is, buddy. Remember?”
“I don’t like it.” Tears prick his eyes, and I pull him closer as Mum returns.
“They’ll take us through to talk with the doctor.” She indicates we should follow the nurse who’s opened the alarmed doors for us.
Pale blue walls give way to cream, as though colour doesn’t matter anymore when your prognosis isn’t all that flash. I keep Briar’s hand in mine as the nurse brings us all to a stop outside a tastefully decorated office. The plush sofa on one wall and decorative vases with fake flowers give it a definite feminine softness. A comfort, I guess, when your days are spent in sterile confinement.
“I’ll wait outside with Briar,” I say as Mum and Dad enter.
“The doctor will want to speak to the whole family,” the nurse reassures softly before leaving with a gentle smile.
I take a seat on a plain stackable chair beside the two-seater sofa that Mum and Dad fill. Briar keeps close, tucking himself between my legs, seeking comfort. Setting my own inhibitions aside, I place both hands on his waist and pick him up, settling the kid on my lap.
I don’t miss Mum’s curious gaze.
Our focus is drawn to the door as who I assume to be the doctor enters. “Harris family?” She clutches a folder to her chest, dressed impeccably in a knee-length skirt and silky blouse.
Her warm brown eyes assess Briar, the curls in her dark blonde hair bouncing as she turns abruptly to my parents.
“Dr Carlson.”
Dad shakes her hand. Mum clutches her purse in her lap tighter.
“I’ll do my best to explain,” the good doctor says as she takes a seat at the laminate desk, “but if you need me to elaborate, please interrupt.”
The following ten or so minutes is spent with the doctor doing everything she can to break the medical terminology down so everybody can understand what she’s saying, whilst also avoiding too many details, presumably so as not to upset Briar.
It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know there’s no coming back from this for Kath. Soft tissue isn’t so forgiving on blunt force trauma.
With each complication the doctor ticks off on her list of things to explain, I find myself naturally pulling Briar tighter. He watches the woman with unhindered interest, his eyes wide, and that shock of dark hair unmoving on his still head. The kid never flinches, absorbing, processing, blocking.
We’re given the options: keep her on life support and hope for a miracle, or take the situation for what it is. Being the realists they are, my parents ask for the stats. What are the odds of her regaining consciousness? What are the chances that she’ll be able to communicate if she does? What does her future hold?
Does she even have one?
The outlook is bleak, dismal, and ultimately non-existent.
I hold my breath as the reality that the child I hold in my arms is about to become motherless, possibly an orphan, strikes. He’s oblivious to it all, fidgeting with my bracelet while the adults talk, while the process is explained, and the protocols around deciding to switch off life support are detailed.
It’s not until Mum starts sobbing again and the doctor asks if we’re ready to say our goodbyes that he breaks from his trance.
“Goodbye?” he asks, twisting to look up at me.
“Yeah.” I glance over at Dad as he consoles Mum, and address the doctor. “Is it okay if I take him for a walk first to explain this?”
“Sure. Take all the time you need.” Her sympathetic gaze falls on my nephew, the look on her face saying it all: this is so damn unfair; every kid needs his or her mum.
“We’re going to see if we can find you a drink, okay?” I guide Briar to stand, and rise from my seat. “Let’s go explore.”
He takes my hand with unwavering trust, and lets me lead him from the room that’ll forever be permanently etched in my memories, every last detail.
“Aunty Mimi?”
“Yeah?” I look down at him as we start back the way we came in.
“I need to go toilet.”
“Of course, buddy. Hold on.” I look around and locate the symbol pointing to facilities in the opposite direction from where we were headed.
Satisfied he can do it alone, I remind him not to lock the door and stand outside, guarding the room for him.
Reality hits, hidden in the drifted tones of bleach and citrus.
This is it. After today, I’ll be an only child. As of now, there’s no fixing what was left unsaid. As of today, Briar faces a life without either parent in it.
At least, I think his dad isn’t involved.
My heart races, and I pull out my phone to ring the only person aware of the situation who seems impartial enough to offer me advice on what to do next. Officer Evan North.
“Hey. I was hoping to hear from you soon,” he answers with genuine concern. No greeting, just straight to the chase.
“Do you have a minute?” I whisper.
“Sure. Where are you?”
“At the hospital,” I say. “Briar’s in the bathroom, and I’m waiting outside.”
“Oh. You decided to take him to see her?” He sounds sceptical.
I sigh, hanging my head as I hear a flush from inside. “They’re switching off her life support,” I whisper. “She’s brain dead. No signs of life at all.”
“I’m so sorry, Amelia.”
“Yeah,” I half chuckle. “I am too.” Yet more for things that happened nine years ago, not now.
I release my grip on the door as I recognise the sound of the faucet switching off. “I don’t know how to explain it to Briar.”
The kid in question exits, staring up at me curiously.
“The policeman,” I mouth to him as Evan starts to talk.
“Be honest,” he says, seemingly switching to police officer mode. “I’m not saying give every detail, but tell him what happened, and that her body doesn’t want to work anymore.” I look down at Briar, my stomach drawing in knots as he patiently waits beside me. “Assure him he won’t be alone, and that she loved him. He might blame himself for her going away.”
Jesus—I can’t do this.
“Don’t be afraid to show him you’re upset too, otherwise he may think it’s expected that he shouldn’t be either.”
Briar slips his hand in mine as an orderly passes us by, and my heart breaks into a thousand pieces for this poor child. Adults can reason, justify, and make sense of loss—even if we may never accept it. But a child …
“Thank you,” I whisper down the line, afraid if I use the full strength of my voice I’ll crack.
He hesitates; something in the way he lets out a long heavy breath tells me he chooses his words carefully. “You might not feel it, but you’re doing an amazing job with him. He’s lucky to have you, Mimi.”
“I hope you’re right.” I sigh, squeezing Briar’s hand. “We should talk … after this.”
I catch his smile in the tone of his reply. “Yeah, we should.”
“I’ll ring you tonight.” I disconnect, and pocket my phone, wondering how crazy he thinks I am for calling him on his own time about this like we’re old friends and the past nine years never happened.
It was impulse, though. I can’t ask Mum and Dad for advice on how to break the news, not when Mum barely has a grip on her own emotions. And Jess? It would just involve half an hour of explaining things that I don’t have time for.
Evan—he’s probably seen this happen on the job a hundred times or more in some capacity or another, plus he knows us. He knows why Kath and I don’t talk, and he understands. At least I hope he does.
Briar looks up at me, waiting for direction. The look in his eyes says, “What do we do now?”
I squat down and reach out for him, wrapping my arms around his body as he does the same around my shoulders. He pulls me tighter and sighs, saying everything and yet nothing all at once. Despite the fact he’s probably a little old for it, I wrap my arms tighter around him and pick him up, hefting his weight onto my hip. It feels awkward yet strangely natural at the same time, considering I’ve never carried a child this way before now. Given the way he rests his chin on my shoulder, I think he appreciates the closeness as well.
“It’s time I told you what happened to Mummy, okay?”
He nods as we start down the hall to the waiting room again. I reach the doors through to the public area and stall. No way can I break this to him in a room full of strangers, but I also don’t want to do it in the office with my parents where he’s going to get caught up in the frenzy of grief when everyone around him breaks down at the explanation.
Instead, I pace with him on my hip, adjusting him to my front after a while and using both arms to hold him close. Back and forth between the ends of the hallway we go, passing dark rooms and open wards. And all the while I try to explain as best I can that Kath won’t be with us anymore, and that her body is broken beyond repair.
As predicted by Evan, Briar blames himself. His chin trembles as he asks me if his mummy is leaving because he refused to pick up in his room. I reassure him it’s not his fault, but I can understand how his little mind needs to find a reason for this punishment. Bad things happen when you’ve been naughty, so surely he’s messed up somewhere along the way to deserve this?
As distressed as he is, I manage to keep things relatively under control until it comes to explaining the now, and why we’re here.
“We need to go see Mum and say goodbye, okay?”
“Will we come see her tomorrow, too?”
“No, baby.” I reach up and stroke his dark hair away from those unmistakable eyes. “This will be the last time we get to see Mum, okay? So I need you to tell her everything you want to. Everything. She’ll want to hear it all.”
He goes disturbingly quiet; his body stiff before he lifts both hands and, arching against my hold, beats his little fists around my head.
“Why can’t we come back?” he yells. “I want to stay here with her!”
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. You can’t. I’m so sorry.” I set him down, trying to draw him into a bear hug, but he pulls away, still hitting.
So I do the only thing I can to give this tiny human support as his world comes screeching to a halt around him: I take it. I let him expel all his frustrations onto me, to exorcise his need to hate and blame, to cope.
He hits out, even adds in a kick or two for a full two to three minutes, until he tires and falls to the floor. I scoop him in my arms as he wails, his lament echoing my own at this being his reality.
Mum reaches out as I re-enter the office, her hand retracting as she clearly realises I have this under control. I, the woman who made it her life mission to avoid connections and any reminders of what I lost, have found it within myself to be what a child in turmoil needs.
Stranger things have happened, I guess.
Worse things are about to right now.