Chapter 31
Adam
The fluorescent lights of the corridor flash — blink, blink, blink — as I run, the maze of Manchester Royal Infirmary disorienting me. I flick my eyes towards the signs above the doorways as I pass, seeking Ward AM1, looking for directions.
I skid to a stop in front of a nurse, who is pinning something on a noticeboard.
‘Excuse me,’ I say, breathlessly, ‘where’s AM1?’
‘Up there, first left,’ she replies, pointing in the direction I’ve just come from.
I take off again, my heart hammering in my chest. It’s two in the morning. After I got the phone call, the boys dragged me into a café and fed me water and strong coffee until I was coherent enough to book the last seat on the late flight back to Manchester. The waiting, and the flying, and the pure, piercing terror have sent my mind into overdrive.
I find the ward and push the buzzer at the door.
‘Hello?’ A voice comes through the intercom.
‘I’m here to see my brother,’ I pant, ‘Adam Parks, I mean, it’s Hugh Parks, I’m here to see him.’
‘Visiting hours start at 8 a.m.,’ she chirps back.
‘No, please, he’s just been brought in. I need to see him.’
There’s a pause, and I think I might scream, and then the door buzzes open.
‘Hugh,’ I call, running down the ward, my head turning this way and that, checking the bays for a familiar face. A nurse stands up behind reception and shushes me.
‘This is a hospital, and it’s the middle of the night,’ she scolds.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, tears building in my eyes. ‘Please, tell me where he is.’
She slides behind the desk and beckons me to follow her.
What have they done to him? I can feel my pulse in my throat. Where is he? How has this happened?
The nurse leads me into a side room, and suddenly, there he is.
He’s lying on the bed, tubes and wires snaking up and down his arms and across his body. His face is pale, his breathing shallow.
‘Oh my god.’ I dive forward, clutching the edge of the bed, taking Hugh’s hand in mine. ‘Hugh? Hugh, it’s OK. I’m here.’
The door clicks behind me as the nurse leaves me to it.
‘He’s better than he was.’ A voice comes from the darkness, and I whip my head around.
‘Becky?’ She’s sitting in the corner, her face drawn.
‘Sorry.’ She shakes her head. ‘It didn’t feel right to leave him on his own.’
I look between her and Hugh, my head spinning. ‘What’s wrong with him?’
‘Chest infection. Pneumonia,’ she says. ‘It came on so suddenly.’
I sink down onto a plastic visitors’ seat.
‘I’m going to go.’ Becky stands up.
I can’t think of anything to say, so I just sit, my eyes trained on Hugh, as she closes the door softly behind her.
The room is dark and silent, save for the beeping and dripping of the machines. Hugh looks at me through half-closed eyes.
‘Get some rest, buddy,’ I say, pulling his blanket up under his chin. Next to his arm is his Hei Hei toy, and I clutch it, suddenly, to my chest. A tear leaks out of my eye I sit back down, wiping my face, and pull out my phone. I quickly message the group chat to update them. They reply immediately:
Bil: We’ll come straight from the airport
Ferg: How is he doing? Have the doctors said anything?
Piotr: Give him a gentle squeeze from us
I swipe off the chat, not wanting to respond until I have more information.
On impulse, I tap into the camera app. Hugh’s room sits empty and dark, and I swallow. I pull the footage back, further and further, until something moves. It’s the paramedics, carrying Hugh out of his room on a stretcher. I squeeze my eyes shut, and swipe my finger back further. When I open them, the late-morning light is streaming through Hugh’s curtains.
He’s coughing; I can see that. He’s not in his chair, but his bed, and his face is red with the effort of it all, spittle collecting on his chin. My heart twists.
On the screen, the door opens, and Becky comes in, her face creased. She sits next to Hugh, taking his blood pressure, his temperature, shining a torch into his eyes. She leaves again, and then returns with a cool flannel, and mops his forehead gently. She holds his hand, and I see her mouth moving, and then she’s still and she just sits.
I fast-forward; she sits, and sits, and sits. Sometimes she leaves, and brings something back, some medication or another cold compress, but then she sits again. Hugh’s coughing gets worse, and I can see him struggling to breathe. I see her notice too, and she leaps to her feet, running out of the room. When she returns, she strokes Hugh’s forehead, murmuring something, and stays, soothing, until the paramedics come.
I lock my phone, tears streaming down my face. I should have been there; that should have been me. But I wasn’t, and she was. She stayed with him, and cared for him, and loved him.
The door clicks open again behind me, and I turn around. It’s the nurse from the front desk.
‘Hello again,’ she says, her voice soft in the dark. ‘How are we in here?’
‘What’s going to happen to him?’ I’m on my feet, my voice panicked. ‘Is he going to be OK?’
She takes Hugh’s chart from the end of his bed and flicks through it, her eyes darting to and from the machines, and then slides it back into its holder and turns to me.
‘He’s responding well to the antibiotics at the moment, but pneumonia can be complicated.’ She frowns. ‘He wasn’t in a great state when he got here.’
‘Oh, god.’ I rub my hand through my beard, my heart hammering.
‘Your brother has cerebral palsy,’ she states. ‘These infections... he’s much more susceptible. His muscles aren’t as strong as yours or mine; his breathing is shallower, he can’t cough up as effectively.’ She pauses, and looks at me. ‘If he continues to respond the way he is doing, everything will be OK. I understand he’s had chest infections in the past?’
I nod. ‘When he was younger. Only once recently, but we caught it in time.’ Hugh got a pretty nasty chest infection at his old home; it was the calling card for me to pull him out of there after too many red flags went unheeded.
‘That’s testament to the care he’s getting.’ She deftly folds a second blanket and places it gently across Hugh’s legs. ‘A good diet is really important. And physio, proper holistic therapy.’
‘He gets all of those things.’
‘Oxygen therapy could help, too.’
I nod, only half participating in the conversation. Everything will be OK... he’s much more susceptible. What is she trying to tell me?
‘So he’s going to be OK?’
‘We’ll know more over the next twenty-four hours.’ She looks at me kindly. ‘The best thing you can do is look after yourself. It’s unlikely anything will change over the next few hours. Why don’t you go home and get some rest, and come back in the morning, when the doctor’s here?’
I nod, and then shake my head, torn. My mind is all over the place; I can’t think straight, and I can’t take in what she’s saying to me. I don’t want to leave but if I don’t sleep, or shower, or give myself a second to process, what use will I be when the doctor comes?
‘OK,’ I say. ‘I’ll be back as soon as possible.’