AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“There's still some congestion but it's much clearer. He's making an amazing recovery.”
I'm surprised at how invested all the staff have become in Max's health. It's a wonderful thing to see. Their dedication to his well-being is something I don't think I'll ever forget, and I'm more than thankful.
“He actually cried last night,” I tell him. “I think it's the first time I've been happy to be woken up by his sobs.”
The doctor grins at my enthusiasm. “He should be ready for discharge tomorrow. I expect you'll be glad to get him back home.”
If I'm truly honest, I'm not sure I will. Memories of that night when Max struggled for breath assault me. My inability to help, the panic. The all-consuming fear.
The thought of not having the doctors and nurses around to help, should he suffer a relapse, is like an icy hand curling around my heart.
“I haven't been home for days. We don't have any food, any milk...” I trail off.
His smile is gentle, he must be used to dealing with neurotic parents. “Why don't you go home for a few hours and get things ready? Maybe one of the family can sit with Max while you’re gone.”
When Tina arrives an hour later, I tell her about the doctor's suggestion, explaining they plan to discharge Max tomorrow as long as his oxygen levels remain steady.
She shuffles her chair closer to his cot. “Of course I'll look after him, you deserve a break. Have a nap, too. And a shower.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Do I smell?” I've been washing myself thoroughly every morning, frightened to introduce any more germs into Max's tiny body. But the antibacterial liquid soap isn't exactly Jo Malone. I smell functional at best.
“Don't be silly.” Tina laughs. “I thought you'd like a few home comforts. Anyway, I expect Alex will be here soon. He can help you out then.”
I'd call her delusional, but the fact is I still haven't been able to tell her about that phone call. I'm finding it hard to process myself, let alone watch her go through the same thing. I know I have to do it eventually, and I will.
As soon as Max is out of hospital.
“Maybe.” I smile, but it’s forced. “In the meantime, thank you for helping. I appreciate it.”
Yes she can be nosy, and occasionally interfering, but Tina's heart is in the right place. She's been here for her grandson, sitting with him every day. You can't buy that kind of love.
Stepping out of the hospital, I feel like a prisoner getting an early release. Turning my head, I glance back at the grey concrete of the building now behind me, unwilling to leave. I’m scared, too.
The sensible part of my brain tells me Max is out of the woods. His oxygen levels have improved and he's started to feed. He can go back to being a normal baby. It's me who feels different. As if my heart has been scarred by the experience. Beneath the tough outer-membrane the fear that something could happen to him is all too raw.
I catch a bus back to Shoreditch, standing with my hand wrapped around the cool, metal pole, watching as people get on and off. A baby cries and I immediately whip my head around, my stomach lurching when I realise it isn't Max. Being away from him, even for a couple of hours, is harder than I expected.
When the bus finally reaches my stop, the air brakes sounding like a deep, agonising sigh, I find myself reluctant to get off. It isn't often I step off a bus without having Max's buggy to push, and my hands feel strangely empty. Even walking along the pavement feels weird, as if the world is ever so slightly mad, and I go to grab a buggy handle for balance, my fingers curling into a fist when I realise it isn't there.
He's okay, I tell myself.
I decide to text Tina on the off chance. Everything all right?
She shoots me back a reply straight away. He's absolutely fine. Now stop worrying.
But it's almost impossible to stop fretting. I don't think I ever will. Now that the membrane of my blind optimism is breached, I can't help think about all the roadblocks that line our future. The viruses, the bacteria, the cars that drive too fast. The kids who call names, the daddies who don't come home. They're all there, waiting for us. Goading us on.
I'm still stewing on it all when I let myself into the front door. From old habit, more than anything else, I tap lightly on David's door to let him know I'm here.
There's no response. Strange; it's early afternoon, he's usually working.
Shrugging, I make my way to our upstairs flat, slipping the key in our door for the first time in days.
There's a staleness to the air which I notice as soon as I step inside. As if it's stood still for too long, become bored and lazy. The first thing I do is open all the windows, watching the breeze lift the ends of the curtains. Though it's cloudy, the sun is strong enough to push through the hazy layer, casting a pale yellow glow on our wooden floor. It pools at my feet, turning my toes golden, highlighting the horrendous chips that have decimated the polish there. With my mangled feet, bitten down nails and general aroma of hospital, I'm a walking mess.
The shower sorts some of that out. It washes away the aroma of anti-bacterial wash, replacing it with the familiar floral scent of my shower gel. It soothes my body, too; the hot spray hammering on my muscles like a thousand tiny fingers. I stay in there a bit too long. Enough for the skin on my fingers to wrinkle up. When I finally emerge, I'm shocked to see nearly two hours have passed since I was at the hospital.
Hurrying, I dry my hair and wind it into a messy bun, pulling on a fresh pair of jeans and a T-shirt. Then I pack some fresh clothes for Max, ready for his journey home. The shelves of the fridge have already been stocked with essentials—thanks to David, no doubt—so by quarter past five I'm ready to go back to the hospital.
