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40
BRYN
I expectedConnor to be in the hospital, sick and unconscious. I have no idea about the illness, or what he's been through. Cancer hasn't touched my life before. So, I'm surprised when Hannah picks me up from the hotel in Perth and drives me away from the city to the suburbs in her small red hatchback.
“He's at home,” she explains. “Until we find a donor, then he’ll go into hospital for chemo before the transplant.”
Hannah gives me a breakdown of Connor’s illness, past and present, and what will to happen to him. The day she told me this was a relapse, I lost my shit again. I don’t care that last time Connor had leukaemia Hannah was in denial that he was hers. Somebody should’ve told me. The thought I might never have met my son sickens me.
I nod, and give ‘yes’ or ‘no’ answers but my anger simmers close to the surface. Eight years. Two years of chances for her to tell me. Bloody good thing I’m exhausted after the flight, otherwise, damaging words would be thrown at Hannah.
“Who does Connor think I am?” I ask as we arrive at her house, a quiet street in a new suburb, carefully planned and unusually clean compared to the London streets I’m used to. To my relief, they no longer live with her mum, although she lives nearby and fuck knows what will happen when we meet.
“I told him who you are and that you're coming to visit him.”
I choke. “And he didn't ask where I've been for eight years?”
Hannah pulls the keys from the ignition. “He has friends at school with no dad; it's not unusual. He's young, doesn't understand. I told him I found you and that as soon as you knew about him you wanted to see him straightaway.”
“Right.”
As Hannah climbs from the car into the blinding Australian summer, I don't move. What will I say? Do? Will he talk to me or hate me? I haven’t even brought him a gift. What's appropriate?
As Hannah reaches the house, a woman steps into the sunshine and glances at where I wait in the car. For a heart-stopping moment, I think it’s Hannah’s mum but she’s too young. They chat for a couple of minutes and the perspiration on my back grows with the stress and the warm car without air-con now.
The woman heads to a car parked on the street and Hannah stands under the porch outside the single storey pale-bricked house, waiting for me.
In her shorts and sleeveless tee, I’m shocked at how Hannah’s tall figure has been eaten into an unnatural skinniness by her son's cancer, and I ache as I look at her. Hannah’s pain is greater than mine, her fear stronger, and for the first time, I'm frustrated at blaming Hannah for all this. She lived with a secret that consumed her life for years. Hannah did wrong by us, but she was unwell. What’s the point in animosity? What’s done can’t be undone and Connor has a future that hasn’t happened yet.
The house is cool, the whir of the air-con loud in the quiet space as I follow Hannah through. The hallway opens to a large open-plan space, with blue sofas and a pale tiled floor. Full-length glass doors lead to a small outdoor area and the kitchen counter borders the room, tucked away at the opposite end.
A TV dominates the room and a boy sits on the sofa, legs curled under as he holds the Xbox controller. I smile that we have something in common apart from DNA.
Connor is obscured by the cushions as he lies back against the sofa, but I spot the same curly hair as the boy in the photo I’ve looked at over and over.
I sit in the armchair opposite Connor and watch quietly for a few moments.
The boy in the picture is real.
This skinny boy with brown curls focused on his game is my son. I expected a tsunami of emotion but I’m numb, a part of my brain still not accepting what’s in front of me.
Connor glances at me briefly then refocuses on the game.
“Connor, this is Bryn. I told you he was coming to see you,” says Hannah from behind me.
The boy nods but doesn't look back.
“Hey, Connor,” I say.
“Hey.”
Still no eye contact. I give a desperate look to Hannah. “He's shy around strangers,” she says. “And as he’s unwell...”
“Sure.” I tuck my hands between my knees and continue to watch the surreal situation playing out in front of me. The cheers and music from the game echo in the half-empty, quiet room.
“I'll get drinks.” Hannah heads to the kitchen.
I slump back, heart hammering. What do I do? Say? “Do you like playingCall of Duty?”
