And he does. He tells me how he woke up feeling awful, the worst he’d ever felt in his life. He thought he had some kind of bug or infection, as he could barely walk. “And I hadn’t even been drinking,” he says, trying for humor. “And so my mom drove me to the hospital and I’ve been here ever since. I’ve had some blood tests and a scan, and they won’t discharge me. Now I’m waiting to see a doctor. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, Hannah.”
He sounds choked.
“The doctors will know. They’ll tell you and then it will be OK,” I suggest.
“Yeah, I guess. I’m so sorry I didn’t call. I wasn’t able to and—”
“It’s fine.” I now hate myself for being so pissed off. “I’m only glad you called now. I was so worried about you.”
“Thanks. I just woke up, and in the middle of all this shit I’ve missed my flight. I’m gonna have to rebook.”
I nod, but he can’t see me. “Just find out what’s wrong.”
“Hannah, I have to go, the doctor just came in.”
I start to say goodbye, but he’s already hung up.
I stare at the phone and then put it down on the kitchen table. My mouth is open and I close it, then look blankly at the wall. Everything will be OK. Everything will be fine. They’ll let him out with a pack of pills, order him to rest for a bit and then, in a few days, he’ll be on a plane. But somehow I know—I simply know, I feel—that isn’t going to happen any time soon.
Chapter 10
I don’t wantto bother him, so I don’t. I just wait. And I wait and wait and he doesn’t call me back. My rib cage aches with anxiety. I can’t think, sleep, or eat, and it’s only when a courier comes later that evening and rings the doorbell that I’m startled from a daze in which I find myself sitting entirely in the dark. I move through the flat, switching on lights, and take the parcel in. I can’t even remember what I ordered, what this might be. I don’t open it. Instead I sling it under the hall table and vow to look at it later. I go through the rigmarole of switching off the lights, when only a minute ago I switched them all on, and I automatically begin the process of going to bed. My body takes me physically toward sleep, but my mind won’t follow and I watch my phone, ready to take hold of it and swipe to answer. Only he doesn’t ring.
—
At work I watch my phone all day and if anyone calls me, I converse fast and furiously, ready to end the call should my mobile ring. But it’s not until I get home that I see a message from Davey has come in while I’ve been commuting.Can I call you?he asks.
I beat him to it, WhatsApp-calling him so fast I drop the phone in the process.
“Tell me,” I say immediately.
“Oh God, Hannah,” he says. And he tells me what’s happenedto him. What the tests show, what the scan identifies. And what his diagnosis is.
“Testicular cancer,” he says. “I’m still…in shock.”
“Fuck” is all I can say as I feel the bottom fall out of his world. “Fuck.”
“Yep,” he agrees. “Fuck.”
“What does that mean? What…” But I don’t know what other questions to ask. “What does that mean?” I ask again. “How did this happen?”
“The way it always happens,” he says. “It just starts.”
“Fucking hell.” My breath has quickened and I’m hyperventilating so much I turn the phone away from my mouth, so he can’t tell what’s happening to me. I don’t want Davey comforting me. This isn’t about me.
He tells me he woke up feeling like death, his groin was uncomfortable and he thought it felt odd, but didn’t think much more about it than that until he started sweating and getting chills. His mum thought he had mumps, although he was sure he’d been vaccinated. She rushed him to the hospital.
“Mumps can cause infertility in men,” he says. “It never crossed my mind it would be worse than that.”
“Oh my God, Davey, I’m so sorry. Will you…be OK?” I dare.
“I guess. I think. I’m not sure, actually. I’ve had it explained to me, but I’m in a state of…oh, man.”
My hyperventilation crosses over into panic and I start crying, although I hide it for a minute or two while he explains that the tumor is too big to use radiotherapy on. It needs to be removed. “The whole testicle needs to go. I’m going in for surgery in three days.”
“That soon?” I ask.
“They need to get it out before I can start chemotherapy.”
