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Nate bends down and picks up Nana’s manuscript that slid off my knees and onto the floor at some stage during the night. He sits next to me and drops the mound of paper into his lap.
‘Did you read much last night?’ he asks.
‘Not much,’ I say. ‘Nana was drifting in and out, and Mam was struggling to keep it together. I think we managed a couple of chapters.’
‘What time are you meeting the consultant this morning?’ Nate asks.
I shrug. ‘Dunno. The nurses said morning rounds are usually around eight or nine.’
Nate twists his wrist and looks at his watch.
‘Please don’t suggest I go home in the meantime,’ I say.
‘I won’t,’ Nate says. ‘I was just going to suggest we get some breakfast.’
‘Thanks. But I’m not hungry.’
Nate drags his hand over his tired face and breathes heavily. I wonder what he’s thinking. I wonder if he’s finding all this difficult and uncomfortable. I know he likes Nana. He’s always been honest and told me he envies how close Ben and I are to her. Nate’s grandparents were dead before he was born, and his parents retired to the south of France five years ago and only come home at Christmas for a week. He doesn’t have the same sense of family that I do. He gets on well with both his younger brothers, but one is moving to Canada next month. The other is a permanent student who doesn’t want to grow up. Nate doesn’t have much in common with either of them. I think Nate looks at my family and sees how close we are, and it reinforces a sense of missing out for him. I think that’s why he was so ecstatic when we found out I was pregnant. He was thrilled to start a family. His own family.
I sigh heavily and make myself lightheaded. I sway forward, almost sliding off the chair, but Nate stretches his arm across me and pins me gently in place.
‘You okay?’ he says, worried.
‘Sorry, yeah.’ I shake my head. ‘Was just thinking about stuff.’
‘Want to talk about it?’
‘Not really.’
Nate reaches for my hand and, without overthinking it, my fingers slip between his. It’s a reflex, and it’s comforting to slip into the memory of being together. A calm silence falls over us as we sit side by side lost in our own thoughts.
The hospital slowly clambers to life around us. Breakfast teacups clatter as they wobble on wonky trollies in the distance. Doctors in scrubs fly by with their pagers beeping. Patients in dressing gowns and slippers walk the corridor, nodding as they pass by. Nurses in pristine uniforms link the arms of patients too weak to walk alone. And then there’s Nana – too ill to walk at all, and my heart stings with jealousy as I watch the other patients who I hope will get better soon and go home. I wish Nana could join them.
A dapper doctor in a navy pinstripe suit with an unbuttoned white coat appears in front of Nate and me, smiling politely.
‘Holly?’ he says, extending his hand.
I tuck Nana’s manuscript under my arm and stand up to shake his hand. ‘Yeah. I’m Holly.’ I smile, wondering how he could possibly know my name.
‘You’re Annie’s granddaughter,’ he says, shaking my hand firmly. ‘It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. I’m James Matthews. I’m one of the consultants on your grandmother’s team. Annie talks about you all the time. You and Ben too, of course.’
I grin brightly, remembering Marcy told me the same thing when we first met. It’s lovely to know Nana speaks about us.
The doctor twists his head over his shoulder and glances around the corridor. ‘Is Blair here?’
‘She’s just gone to get some coffee,’ Nate explains, standing up also.
‘Ah, okay. Good.’ He forces his sleeve ever so slightly up his arm and checks his watch. ‘Do you think she’ll be long? I’m anxious to speak to her this morning.’
‘Is it more bad news?’ My voice cracks.
The doctor shifts his weight from one foot to the other and stuffs his hands into his pockets, but his gaze remains professionally on mine. ‘Your grandmother is very ill, Holly. You do know how unwell she is at this time?’
My eyes are round, and I nod.
‘We know how serious things are,’ Nate explains, and I feel the palm of his hand find the base of my spine, and he traces small, calming circles.
‘I know Nana doesn’t want chemo,’ I say, acknowledging her wish, that I could never fully bring myself to accept. ‘But what about another surgery? You hear about people having multiple surgeries for cancer all the time. A woman in the news last week in Florida had a huge tumour removed from her stomach, and she was eighty-seven. Can’t you at least try…’ I trail off.
