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I sense, rather than see, Tina's disappointment.
Following the doctor, I walk through the dimly lit corridors and up two flights of stairs. The children's ward is at the top of the sixties-built block, secured by electronically locked doors. When he presses the code and ushers me in I notice the brightly painted murals adorning the walls. Ariel, Belle and Cinderella on one side, Buzz, Woody and Monsters Inc. on the other.
They've put Max in a room to the left of the nurses’ station. The doctor explains that until the tests come back tomorrow, letting them know the type of virus he's contracted, his isolation is a temporary measure.
Nothing can prepare you for the sight of your child lying in a hospital cot. Even through the window I can see him there, naked save for his nappy. There are tubes fixed to his tiny nose, and a drip is attached to his arm. Though he's still, his tiny chest flutters rapidly, the tight skin below his rib cage concave as he breathes.
I don't think I've ever felt so helpless.
“You can go in,” the doctor says, opening the door. A young nurse looks up at the sound, gifting me a reassuring smile.
“Look Max, your mummy is here.”
I choke, covering my mouth with my hand, trying to swallow the sobs back down. It’s hard to recognize the scrappy little thing lying in the plastic cot. I've never seen Max so still.
“You can come and sit with him.” The nurse stands back, offering me her seat. “He'll be reassured to hear your voice. He's doing so well, fighting so hard.”
The doctor follows me to Max's cot, pointing out each tube and explaining what they do. He talks of oxygen percentages and prognoses, telling me we can expect Max to get worse before he starts to recover. A dip is normal, expected. They're ready for it.
“Can I touch him?” My face is wet with tears. Max’s hand is curled up on his chest. Above it, on his wrist, is a tiny band with his name on, as if he's going to a festival.
“Of course, but try not to touch the tubes. When he needs a nappy change we'll show you how to do it without pulling them out.” Her voice is reassuring.
Reaching out, I run the pad of my finger down the back of Max's hand. His skin feels warm but not hot. The indentation from my finger lingers long after I've touched him.
“That's the dehydration,” the nurse explains. “His skin will plump up soon.”
Eventually the two of them leave, showing me the call button before closing the door softly behind them. Sitting down, I keep my hand on Max's, watching as he finally sleeps. The room is silent except for the sound of his breathing, and I notice how the hospital has a timbre of its own. Hollow and damp, punctuated by the occasional cry from the ward, or a muted conversation between the nurses outside.
Though I can't think of anything to say, I sing softly to Max, a song that once meant something to Alex and me. It was on the stereo the first night we made love. The first dance at our wedding. And though I don't remember all the words, I know enough to remember how much Alex and I used to love The Temper Trap. He used to mouth the lyrics to me, promising he wouldn’t stop until it was over. I can almost see him doing it now.
That images is all it takes to break the dam. I sob the words silently as tears roll down my face, and I’m praying that Alex has picked up the message.
I don't care about that picture. I don't care about the band. All I want is for Max to get better and for Alex to come home.
We both need him.
19
The children’s ward comes to life a little before seven in the morning. The night-time hush gives way to the bustle of morning rounds, as nurses come in and out of the room, reading Max's monitors and writing on his chart. The squeaky wheels of a loaded trolley heralds the arrival of breakfast, and a hum of chatter and cries fill the rooms around us.
Stretching, I try to relieve the knots in my neck that have formed from an uncomfortable night sitting on a wooden chair. Max is still quiet, his eyes closed, his dry lips parted. His nose looks sore where the tubes go in.
“His temperature has stabilized,” the nurse tells me as she removes the ear thermometer. She's in her early thirties with a fiery mane of hair. Her name is Claire or Clara, I can't remember which; I was too busy staring at Max to listen.
“Is that a good sign?” I have to know.
She flashes me a quick smile. “It means he'll be more comfortable.”
“What time does the doctor make his rounds?” Though my knowledge of the inner workings of hospitals mostly comes from movies, I know for sure that rounds happen daily. And that's when I'm likely to find out the most information.
“In about half an hour. Maybe you'd like to pop into the waiting room in the meantime, I think your family would like to see you.”
Walking into the sterile-smelling room, I notice the crowd has multiplied. As well as Tina, Amy, and David, Andrea arrived sometime in the night, and Beth has made it, too. It feels as though there's only one person missing.
That, and a corner of my heart.
“Has Alex called?” I immediately home in on Tina. A moment later she's hugging me, asking me about Max, her eyes streaming with tears.
