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And, yeah, I didn't ask him about the picture, in fact it didn’t even cross my mind until we’d finished talking. Maybe it was his concern that won me over, or my need to hear another human voice. All I do know is I have to ignore the nagging in my head that tells me I'm stirring up heartache, that I should get everything out in the open where it belongs.
On Thursday night, Max can't sleep at all. His nose is stuffed, his lungs full of mucus, and I have to keep him upright to help him breathe. In my sleep-deprived, slightly panicked state, I finally call Alex's mum, desperate for another opinion. Having been effectively laughed out of the doctor's office, I'm finding it hard to judge the situation. To see the line between concern and anxiety.
“Have you tried Oil of Olbas?” Tina suggests. “Fill a bowl with hot water and put a few drops in. Make him breathe in the steam.”
I don't bother to point out the dangers of hot water near a baby. If I dangled Max anywhere near a bowl of boiling water, he's bound to lunge at it. The scald risk is too great.
“I don't have any,” I lie. Alex has some stashed in our bathroom cabinet. He swears by it, like his mum.
Max wheezes loudly. The air he inhales mixes with the fluid in his airways, whis
tling as he tries to take it in. He wriggles in my arms, his sad eyes staring up at me. It's as if he's begging me for help.
That only makes me feel more useless. I hold him tight, whispering everything will be okay, and his soft cheek feels hot against my own. His chest moves rapidly with his shallow breaths, the skin beneath his ribcage looking hollow and tight.
“I'm going to try to get him to sleep,” I tell Tina. “I'll let you know how he is in the morning.”
“Call me first thing, I'll pop over with some stuff for him. Give you a bit of a break.”
Max refuses to settle, which isn't a surprise. For the past twelve hours he's hardly taken in any liquids, turning his head away every time I offer him a bottle. His lips are red and cracked, eyes haunted and sunken. And as the night progresses, his cries become weaker.
I don't know what to do. By this time his temperature is sky high, skin red and tight. It's like holding a hot water bottle in my arms. I try to reduce his fever with a cool flannel, but he pushes it away weakly, whimpering.
In desperation, I try to call Alex. Though I'm trying to be strong for Max's sake, tears fill my eyes, my lip wobbling as I dial the number. And of course I get Stuart's voicemail. But this time I leave a shaky message, asking Alex to call me back, hoping he can hear how much I need him.
By 3:00 a.m. Max is quiet. His body has stopped wriggling, and he lies limply in my arms. At first I think he's asleep, but when I look down I'm shocked to see his eyes are still open. Unfocused and hazy.
Something is very, very wrong.
I'm not imagining this, am I? His sickness isn't a figment of my neurotic depression. His chest flutters beneath his white vest, his dry lips trembling as he tries to get enough air in. All the time he's staring at something that isn’t there.
By the time I call for an ambulance I'm practically incoherent. The operator tries to calm me down, asking questions with a calm, patient voice. I answer them hysterically, noticing the skin around his mouth and nose is turning blue, crying hard as I realise he's barely breathing.
“The paramedics will be with you in five minutes. Can you make sure the front door is open for them?” she asks calmly.
“Yes, I'm going down now,” I manage to answer. Holding Max in one arm and my phone in the other, I clamber down the stairs, wrenching the front door open.
“Lara?” A sleepy David opens his door. He's only wearing pyjama bottoms. His chest is bare. “Is something wrong?”
Tears trail down my cheeks. Sobbing, I try to explain. “Max isn’t breathing properly. The ambulance is on its way.” I look down at him. He wheezes loudly.
“Shit. Let me grab a top.” David disappears, returning less than a minute later, wearing jeans and a crumpled t-shirt. Gently, he touches Max's face. Wincing as he brushes his skin. “How long did they say the ambulance would be?” He steps through the front door, craning his head to look down the street. A few minutes later, the white van arrives. Though the blue lights fixed to the top are flashing, the sirens are silent. I'm not sure if this is a good thing or not.
The next moments are a blur. The paramedics gently take Max from my arms, laying him on the hall floor as they carry out an assessment. They attach an oxygen mask to his face, then turn to me, explaining that he needs to go to hospital, where he'll get the appropriate treatment. Then they carry him into the ambulance, placing his tiny body on the gurney, one paramedic holding the oxygen mask while the other closes the ambulance doors, getting into the driver’s seat.
It takes ten minutes to get to hospital. This time the sirens are loud, wailing through the night air like a lamentation. They echo my own cries as I watch the paramedic helping Max to breathe. His body is still limp and unresponsive. I keep checking my watch, shocked to see only a few seconds have passed, each moment feeling like a long, drawn out torture.
“Nearly there, love,” the paramedic says. “I told your husband to meet us at A&E. The roads are pretty clear tonight.”
My husband? My first thought is, how the hell did they call Alex? It's only then that I realise he's talking about David.
I hate the way the disappointment tastes bitter in my mouth.
God, I need him. I start sobbing again, so scared that Max is dying. Though I can’t see his face beneath all the plastic tubes, I try to hold things together as they wheel him into the hospital, covering my mouth to muffle the sobs as I follow the gurney.
They take Max straight to an examination room, while a friendly-faced junior nurse leads me to the waiting room, explaining that someone will be in to talk to me soon. When I protest, wanting to stay with Max, she rubs my arm softly.
“I know you want to be with him but there isn't enough room,” she explains. “You're his mum, he needs you to be strong. Let the doctors do their job, and as soon as he's ready, I promise you'll see him.”
