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‘Well, now that it is happening what has she said?’
‘We didn’t actually talk about it,’ Gavin says. ‘Not properly.’
‘What?’ My hands slam onto my hips. ‘Why not?’
‘Because, Heather, it’s not that simple. This is a messed-up situation. And Charlotte is scared. And now that she thinks I’ve been hiding stuff from her she’s completely freaked out and doesn’t trust me. And she definitely doesn’t trust you.’
‘So, you had a fight?’ I say, worried that Gavin is putting a silly row with his wife over something as important as Kayla’s treatment. It’s almost as if he doesn’t know how serious this is. Or as if he doesn’twantto know.
‘Eh, it’s a bit more than a fight, Heather,’ Gavin snaps. ‘It’s not as if she’s annoyed with me for leaving the toilet seat up, you know.’
‘You’re acting like a child,’ I say, pretty annoyed by Gavin’s snarky attitude.
‘Heather, I will talk to my wife. But you need to calm down and stop pushing so hard. The time has to be right.’
‘Jesus. Gavin, how can you be so calm? Will Charlotte sign the consent form or not? I can bring the forms home with me. She doesn’t even have to come into the hospital if she doesn’t want to. But we need her consent.’
Gavin looks at me with teary eyes and it’s the first time I notice how bloodshot they are. I wonder if he got any sleep at all last night.
‘Call her,’ I say, softening. ‘Ask her now. Or, I can ask her if you want to avoid another row.’
‘No. Jesus no. Are you mad?’ Gavin says, and I immediately shift my glance towards Kayla, worried that he’ll wake her. ‘Charlotte would lose her mind all together if you jump in.’
‘But I can explain.’
‘Heather, no.’ Gavin’s eyes widen and round like saucers. ‘It’s not your place. Molly is Charlotte’s daughter. Mine and Charlotte’s. This really is nothing to do with you.’
‘Nothing to do with me? Are you for real?’ I hiss. ‘Look at her, Gavin. Just look at her.’
Gavin’s eyes swell with tears as they sweep over our sleeping daughter tucked into her hospital bed.
‘Tell me again how this has nothing to do with me.’
‘This is so hard.’ Gavin sighs. ‘It’s too hard.’
‘Gavin, sit down,’ I say, pointing to the chair beside me, noticing how pale he’s suddenly become. I’m worried that he’s going to keel over.
‘I know it’s hard,’ I say, but I’m lying. I can’t understand why Gavin is so reluctant to talk to Charlotte about this. I can’t understand how he’s not ecstatic that Kayla and Molly are a match. Molly’s stem cells could save Kayla’s life. It’s fantastic news.
‘I have to go into work for a few hours today,’ Gavin says, dragging shaking hands through his hair.
‘What? Now? But you only just got here.’ My eyes narrow, suspecting this is an excuse to put off going home and talking to Charlotte.
‘The place is falling to pieces without me. We’ve lost two big clients already this month. I need to be more present.’ Gavin pauses and drops his head into his hands. ‘But I need to be here too.’
‘I know,’ I say, and this time I really do understand. My life before Kayla’s diagnosis seems like a lifetime ago already. I exist now only as a mother of a sick child. I’m not a person in my own right anymore, I don’t have the time or inclination to be.
It’s taken me quite a while to realise that I’m lonely. Kayla is spending more and more time sleeping and I miss our chats andFriendsbinges. When I’m at Gavin’s place I usually hang out in my room, trying to give Charlotte her space and not invade her privacy. My friends at work who were so supportive when Kayla was first diagnosed only call or text now when they realise they haven’t in quite a while and their moral compass compels them to check in. One of the girls told me last week that someone new has been hired to fill my role and our boss loves her, so goodness knows if my job is even there to go back to when the time comes.
It’s a similar story with Kayla’s school. The teachers called and offered support initially. They even held a fundraiser and donated the funds to the National Cancer Organisation in Kayla’s name. But as days and weeks drag on, life continues for everyone else as normal while we’re stuck in this never-ending loop of treatment and surgeries and ups and downs. And despite my best intentions, I can feel myself growing bitter and jealous.
I’m jealous for Kayla. Jealous of her teammates continuing to play basketball without her. Jealous when Kayla shows me photos on Instagram of her friends out shopping or going to the cinema or simply being normal, healthy teenagers.
I’m jealous for me. Jealous of the girls in work chatting and gossiping over morning coffee. I’m jealous of their friendship with my replacement. I’m jealous of their financial stability, bonuses and day-to-day routine.
But mostly I’m jealous of Gavin. I’m jealous that although he’s here as much as he can be, he goes home to a healthy, happy child. A child he can hug without worrying he will hurt her delicate bones. A child he can watch eat a meal without fear that everything is going to come back up. A child he can play with, run with, skip with. And mostly, a child he can watch grow, become a woman, maybe get married and have children of her own. In recent days, as I watch Kayla lose even more weight, I worry that all of those things will be snatched from her. From me.
‘Will you tell here I was here?’ Gavin asks, cutting into my burning thoughts.
