Chapter Seventeen 10 June 2023 #3
“You look good. Different, but good.”
I scooped up the phone so I could have him gathered in my hands again. “I’m the same old person.”
We looked at each other for a while in the light pools of our screens, and it was almost like I was curled up in the bed beside him.
I so rarely went into his room that I was unfailingly curious about it.
Whenever I found myself in there, I quietly inhaled as many details as possible.
I had an odd temptation to rifle through his drawers until I uncovered all of his secrets.
“Where did you and Finn go tonight?” I asked.
“Just to Poobah for a bit.”
“You at the Grand Poobah?”
He smiled, adjusting the bare arm folded behind his head, distracting me. “Well, what else am I supposed to do when you’re not around?”
It occurred to me that he might meet someone on these nights out with Finn, that he could be talking to other girls already. He had every right to do so, even if it caused a hot bubble of jealousy to rise up in my gut.
“Tell me what you’ve been doing,” he said. “What’s your approval rating at now?”
“I don’t know, forty something,” I said, as if I didn’t know it was precisely 48.8 per cent. How I ached for it to reach fifty, the moment the British people were officially split on my character.
“Well, get the people doing the survey to call me next time, and I’ll give you full marks. That’s sure to bump you up a percentage point.”
“Full marks?” I said doubtfully. “What about how I’m always leaving my washing on the line, and you have to bring it in for me?”
“I’d still give you a ten out of ten.”
“What about how I let Ragu lick the plates?”
“Ugh, you’re right, your fatal flaw. Okay, nine out of ten.”
The sun finally broke through the clouds and warmed my already pink face.
“I have to think of a worthy cause,” I said. “In November, they want me to host a reception for a charity that doesn’t get enough attention.”
He smiled, but it was a strained smile, and I realised that by November, I would have been in London for almost twelve months. Sometimes, the end of the year felt like the sheer drop off a dark cliff. Either I would crash-land or float to the ground.
“Who are you going to pick?”
“I don’t know. It’s the first time I get to choose something, and now I can’t seem to think of anything.”
He thought for a while. “What about that place you went when you were a kid? The hospital in Africa that helps women after childbirth. It’s perfect. It’s everything you care about, and the hospital probably needs the support.”
I stared into the phone, wondering how he could possibly remember that.
When had I told him? Four years ago? Six?
Probably it had happened on a long bushwalk when we were trudging across weatherbeaten plateaus, my feet aching, all civilised small talk exhausted a few kilometres back, so that the real conversation between us began to unfurl.
Whether we were walking through a dripping rainforest, or wading along the shores of Narcissus Bay, I had told him about the time I went to Kenya with Mum to visit a hospital that treated obstetric fistula, a horror pregnancy complication that ruined the lives of millions of women in sub-Saharan Africa.
While we were there, a fifteen-year-old girl had burst through the doors of the hospital, and she wept when the staff said they could help her.
That was the moment I’d decided to be a doctor. It was why I’d always planned to choose obstetrics as my specialty when my residency was done.
“Can I ask you something?” I said to him.
“Of course.”
“And you have to be honest.”
“Okay.”
“Would it not be better that I finish my training and then go volunteer at that hospital? Wouldn’t that have more impact than just throwing a party to raise awareness about it?”
Jack’s parents were legendary protesters who had saved a pristine waterway from government greed. I couldn’t imagine that he would ever think charity functions were a worthy use of my time.
But he shrugged. “Both options make the world better. You’re a great doctor. But when you speak, the world sits up and pays attention. So maybe you just need to decide which one would make you happier. Sometimes you just have to choose.”
I nodded.
“I’ll come,” he added. “In November, I’ll come to the reception thing. If you invite me, that is. I mean, I can’t make a huge donation or anything, but I’ll be there if you want me to be, and maybe…”
He trailed off, and I saw that he was nervous.
“Would you?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
“You’ll come to London in November?”
“Yeah.”
We exchanged fluttery smiles. Until Granny had mentioned it, I’d never considered that I could just ask him to board a plane and come see me. In five months, he might be standing among all those men in ties and tails, out of place among the British establishment, but warm and solid by my side.
“Okay,” I said. “That means I’ve picked a charitable cause, and I’ve put someone on the guest list.”
“Good.”
I was tempted to ask that he leave the line open while he slept, so that whenever I wanted to see him, I’d pull my phone out of my pocket and find him there, steeped in shadows, his eyelashes fanned against his cheek.
“I should let you go,” I said finally. “It’s late.”
“Okay.”
“I miss you,” I said softly, and then realised the truth had slipped out. “And Finn. And Ragu. I miss you guys. Is the cottage a complete frat house without me?”
He smiled. “We’re doing okay, but it’s not the same. We miss you too, Lex.”
Reluctantly, we said goodbye, and I was alone again in the sunken garden.
I ran my fingers through the daisy-studded grass.
The UK’s maternal death rate was the highest it had been in twenty years.
Pregnancy was four times deadlier for Black Britons than white.
Up to 100,000 people worldwide suffered an obstetric fistula during childbirth every year.
I might never help deliver a baby again, but there were other things I could do with my time.
Maybe.
I needed time to examine it from every angle, like a jewel placed on my palm.