Part 31 (2/2)

'There isn't any time to talk, just get here!'

'What shall I do with Polly?'

'You'll need to bring her with you, obviously.'

'Why, what's going on? Rosie, just quit being so mysterious and say what's wrong with Joe!'

'Patrick, get here, will you?'

PATRICK.

What if that girl had been as dumb as me?

When I carried Polly through the automatic doors, I found Rosie waiting with a nurse. She looked so worried frightened terrified and I somehow knew it wasn't down to being shouted at by me, or on account of I was mad. I wasn't mad now, anyway. I was just plain scared.

They took us to a private room and told me what was happening. By the time they finished, I was ready to fall down and wors.h.i.+p Rosie, kiss her feet, and I do declare I might have done so if I'd not had Polly in my arms.

The doctor said that Polly ought to have a blood test, just to make quite sure she wasn't sick, although it was unlikely.

'But will Joe ... will he-'

I couldn't bring myself to say the word, to ask them if my son was going to die. 'We're doing everything we can for Joe,' the doctor told us. 'Please try not to worry, Mr Riley. Joe's in the best place.'

n.o.body mentioned health insurance, asked for forms or paperwork. It seemed they were more interested in making Joseph well.

ROSIE.

All through that awful night we hoped and prayed as Joe tried to decide if he was going to live or die. The grey machines went bleep, bleep, bleep. The thin green lines zig-zagged across their screens. I watched them, mesmerised. As long as they keep bleeping, I a.s.sured myself, it will be fine.

Nurses came and filled in charts, adjusted drips. They took Joe's temperature and wiped the drool off his face and sponged him down because he had a fever now.

Pat tried and tried again to phone his wife. He left a dozen messages, two dozen, but Lexie didn't reply.

Polly dozed on Pat's lap or on mine. While Polly sat or lay on Pat's lap, sucking at his cuff, I held her brother's hand his little soft white infant hand, the hand which was now bruised and purpled where a line went into it.

They'd given me his ruined clothes. One of his hoodie pockets was full of something light and hard and lumpy. So I emptied it into my lap. I wondered if there might be clues to what was making Joe so ill. I found a dozen pieces of a Lego hero. So would Joe grow up to be a hero, would he grow a beard or stubble, would this little boy grow up at all?

The grey machines bleeped on. Pat's lovely Joe, his hyperactive, never still and never silent child, lay helpless on his back and let the drugs drip into him.

PATRICK.

I couldn't find my wife. Sunday went and Monday went and Tuesday came. I called and called and called. But Lex would not pick up. It always went to voicemail.

'She might be out of range?' suggested Rosie.

'Out of range in London?'

'What if she's not in London?'

'She should have had the kids back Sunday evening and it's Tuesday afternoon.'

'Why don't you go home and get some rest? You look exhausted.'

'So do you.' The skin round Rosie's eyes was purple-bruised. It looked like she was in a fight and lost. 'I can't go home,' I said. 'My place is here with Joe.'

'Pat, your daughter needs to go to bed, poor little thing. Go back to your apartment or to mine, take Polly, go to sleep. I'll stay with Joe today and through the night. I'll put my feet up, rest my eyes, and tomorrow morning I'll go home and sleep myself.'

'You'll call me if there's any change?'

'Of course I will.'

I knew I wouldn't sleep. But I guess I must have dozed awhile. I woke to find my daughter lying on my chest and chewing on my bed sheet and to hear my cell phone ringing.

I was wide awake at once. 'W-what's happening?' I stammered, feeling beyond wicked because I'd been asleep while Rosie had been watching Joe. How could I have slept when Joe was lying there so sick? Why was I not in the hospital? What kind of father was I? 'Rosie, is he-'

'It's good news!' she cried.

'Yeah?' I thought I must be dreaming now. 'Rosie, are you sure?'

'Of course I'm sure. Pat, he's out of danger,' Rosie told me, saying every word so slow, so careful that I couldn't help but understand. 'Your son is out of danger.'

'Who told you this?'

'The doctor who's been looking after him. He promised me Joe's going to be all right. They've taken some of the machines away. He's breathing by himself. He's still on a drip, but now he's sitting up in bed. Joe spoke to us!'

'What did he say?'

'He said hey, Rosie, then he asked for you. Where's Dad that's what he said.'

'Tell him I'll be right over.'

When Poll and I came to the hospital, Joe was in a little room all by himself. But he was in a children's ward, not in the ICU. Still hooked up to half a dozen monitors and drips, still pale and bloodless, he was lying propped against some pillows, but his eyes were open.

'Hey, little dude,' I said, determined not to cry.

'Hey, Dad. Hey, Polly.' He managed a half-smile which broke my heart. 'The doctor says I was asleep for two whole days?'

'Yeah, that's right,' I said. 'You were real sick.'

'But now I'm better?'

'Almost better.'

'Daddy crying,' Polly said and hugged me round the neck, which made me cry some more.

Doctors came and went and so did nurses, an everlasting blue and green parade. They took Joe's pulse and temperature. They checked on drips, took readings, filled in charts. They spoke with us and told us what was happening in some detail.

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