Shannon, who had been so full of promise, looked a little bit unhealthier when I saw her, and Mo let it slip that she had been running around with an undesirable crowd. I’d tried to speak to her about it but she changed the subject and slammed the door on me, an act which I’m hoping and praying is just part of her teenage years and not something more concerning.
‘I’m worried about her,’ I told Mo, but it was like talking to a brick wall. ‘I don’t like where she’s heading, and I need you to promise you’ll keep a closer eye on her.’
‘She’s her daddy’s girl,’ said Mo, which made my skin crawl at the thought of Sean McGee influencing my beautiful niece in any way. ‘You can’t control that any more, Kate. It’s up to Shannon now.’
And then there’s my dad. My culpable, reflective, deep and sincere father, who wears his heart on his sleeve as he constantly fights with his own addictions and traumatic past, living alone and probably just about scraping by while I live here in a different country, in a totally different world, where I’m settled and happy and have enough love in my life to make me feel like I can move mountains.
‘You’ll come and visit us again soon?’ I said to him on our last phone call. ‘We loved having you here at Christmas, so why not come over again and stay a bit longer this time? I’ve some holidays to take before the tax year ends.’
‘I’d love that,’ he said, but I could hear fear in his voice. Something was going on over there and I didn’t like it.
I wish I could take a leaf out of my own book and go easier on myself, as I used to tell David to do, but no matter how much I try, since the new year came around, I can’t stop feeling like I’ve left my real life behind.
The sun begins to set in the distance and I close my eyes to breathe in the moment as I hear David’s voice lilting up and down in the background. It might be the estate agent again, I think, feeling a flutter of excitement as I allow the prospect of our offer being accepted to be a possibility. I smile as I picture us in our first family home and let myself drift off in that much more positive thought. We’ve talked a lot about babies, and I just know my life will be complete when we have our own child. Then again, would I want to be here, so far away from my own family, when that happens?
‘Kate, I just got great news!’ David shouts, which clicks me out of my daydream immediately. I stand up and make my way through the balcony doors to where he stands there, his arms wide open in disbelief.
‘What is it?’ I ask as I walk towards him. It’s the house. It has to be the house.
‘Mum has got the all-clear at last,’ he tells me, his voice shaking with delight. ‘She is completely cancer free and is hoping to come and see us very soon.’
I run towards him, just like I did earlier, but this time he doesn’t spin me round. This is a new kind of delight. It’s a relief, it’s the answer to our repeated prayers, and it’s the perfect sign, just what I needed, that everything in our little world is beginning to make sense at last. Maybe, just maybe, everything is going to be all right.
DAVID
I wake up the next morning after hearing my mum’s news to find Kate gone from the bedroom. When I call out her name, she is nowhere to be found. I check the kitchen and the tiny balcony where she so often spends her mornings off reading or meditating, and it’s only when I look at the calendar on our fridge, which she marks so impeccably, that I notice she has in fact been at work since eight this morning. How could I have forgotten? I don’t think that has ever happened before.
I crawl back into bed, glad of the silence now, and take comfort in knowing she is all right, and I drift off in a hungover daze as I ignore my phone, which bleeps through message after message. It’s Saturday morning, so I’m betting it’s some of my work colleagues who live locally, wanting to meet up for a pint later in the afternoon. The very thought of it is enough to make me feel queasy, especially as I remember knocking back the bottle of wine and a few beers last night to celebrate a great day of progress.
I sleep for at least an hour, get up and shower and, as I’m enjoying a coffee and slow coming round to the day ahead, my phone rings and demands an answer. It’s Annie, Kate’s mum, and I know the moment I hear her voice that something is terribly wrong.
‘Is Kate with you?’ she asks. I can tell her voice is slightly slurred and I recall how Kate told me she was concerned her mum might be drinking a bit on the quiet lately. ‘I don’t want to tell her over the phone. I need you to tell her, David.’
‘Annie, love, I’ve absolutely no idea what you’re talking about,’ I say, flicking the switch on the coffee machine again to get my second cup of fuel. I rub my forehead. I don’t think Annie Foley has ever had reason to call me before, and I didn’t have her number saved, so to hear her voice has come as a bit of a surprise to say the least.
‘We’ve been messaging you all morning,’ she says, weeping now. ‘Is Kate working?’
‘Yes, what’s wrong?’ I ask, rubbing my pounding forehead.‘I’m sorry, I haven’t even looked at my messages yet. What’s happened?’
‘I’ve got the most awful news,’ she says, and I sit down at the table, ready to hear the worst even though I have no idea what to expect. ‘I can’t tell Kate myself, I’m sorry. I think it would be better coming from you.’
I curse and swear out loud as I try to find a parking space at the children’s hospital. It is only less than ten miles from our home, but the journey feels as if it’s taking years as I weave through the heavy Saturday afternoon traffic. My heart is in my mouth as I lock up the car, and I hear every footstep I take as I make my way towards the state-of-the-art children’s wing where Kate has worked for almost two years now.
When I get to the door, I stop and take a deep breath, praying for the inner strength to carry out this most awful task and break the news to the person I love the most in the whole world – news that is going to smash her own world into pieces.
I’ve practised what I’m going to say so many times on the short journey, how I’ll tell her, what I’ll say, where I’ll say it. I couldn’t phone ahead to warn her as I have to give her the news in person, so I’ve turned up here at her place of work and now I have to find a way to break it to her.
I walk past reception, press the number on the elevator for the Savannah ward, where Kate works with childrenwith cardiology problems. When I step out onto the ward, I’m immediately greeted by one of her colleagues.
‘I’m so sorry, but it’s parents only for visiting,’ she tells me in apology. ‘Oh hang on, you’re Kate’s partner? David, is it?’
She beams a smile in recognition, but then her face falls instantly when she realizes I’m hardly here on a social visit.
‘I need to talk to Kate in private, please,’ I tell her, my own voice barely recognizable as the words spill off my tongue. ‘Is there somewhere I can take her? Maybe you have a room we could talk away from everyone? I’ll have to take her home straight away, I’m sorry.’
The lady’s face nods slowly in acknowledgement that I’m about to deliver some horrible news, and she leads me down the corridor to a little sea-green coloured room with two sofas and a low coffee table with just a box of tissues on it.
A quick glance at the posters on the walls and the leaflets in a holder that stands freely by one of the sofas tells me that this room has seen its fair share of bad news being delivered.
