21. “What About Us?” - P!nk
“What About Us?” - P!nk
Maisie’s at the penthouse for our morning meeting, and I watch her slide on her mask of neutrality as she approaches.
I just saw her chatting with one of the PPOs at the foyer doors, her head thrown back in laughter, but by the time she reaches me in the great room, she looks like nothing more than a cool professional.
She slides the green box onto the low table in front of me and quickly curtsies. I’m pretty sure the icy chill I feel is coming from her frosty demeanor and not a draft from outside. She hands me my coffee, and our eyes meet. Hers betray nothing, and I wonder again how we got to this place.
“Thank you,” I murmur, and sip the hot latte, hoping it will fight the nip in the room.
She doesn’t stay long. Our business has been taking less and less time these days.
I don’t know if it’s because there are actually fewer things to handle or because neither of us wants to prolong things any more than necessary.
Where we would have laughed and joked before, there’s only a gaping awkwardness now.
I lift out a stack of correspondence from the box. Every week Maisie sorts through the letters the palace receives and selects the ones she thinks I will be most interested in, then I read each one in the stack and choose a few to personally respond to.
After reading several of them, I come across one clearly written by a child. There’s usually a couple in every pile, but the return address on this one is a nearby hospital. I slice it open.
Hello Your Majesty,
My name is John Matthews Manchester. I am seven years old. I am staying at the hospital. Would you please join me for some tea? I’m in room 308. I hope you come.
Yours truly, John Matthews Manchester
There’s another note inside the envelope, written in a different hand.
Your Majesty, I am John’s nurse at the Wesbourne Cancer Institute.
He has been diagnosed with stage IV leukemia.
They do not expect him to see Christmas.
His one request for weeks has been to have tea with the queen.
I realize this is an impossible ask, but I wanted to do my part in helping John.
If there is any way at all you would be able to pop in for a visit, or even send a card, you would be brightening the life of a small boy who won’t be here much longer.
I swipe a tissue from the table and dab at my eyes, being careful with my mascara.
I will have Maisie send him the biggest gift basket the hospital has ever seen.
Obviously a visit in person would be better, but it’s out of the question.
Not only would Henry explode at the idea, but there’s no way I could bring myself to willingly walk through the doors of another hospital with that sickening smell of death hovering.
My father may have died over a decade ago, but that stench has never left me.
I continue reading through my correspondence, but the words are blurring together. Many of the messages contain ridiculous requests, and I know Maisie has stuck them in for humor’s sake. I warm to her ever so slightly for not giving up that part of our routine.
By the time I’ve read through the sixth letter without processing what it said, I toss the entire stack back into the box.
Grabbing my coffee, I walk over to the large windows.
Outside, Wesbourne is covered in a layer of snow, the sunlight glinting off it like it has something to prove.
It’s a world full of possibilities. I only wish I could be out there doing my part to make them happen rather than stuck in this tower, unable to do a single thing that will make a difference.
I glance over my shoulder at the box. The blue envelope containing John Matthews’s letter winks at me from the sea of white. I know it’s impossible, but what if I was able to get in to see him? I can’t handle the thought of him dying with his one wish unfulfilled.
Henry will never go for the idea, but I haven’t seen him all morning anyway. What’s keeping me from sneaking out if I want to?
The mob of security at the doors, that’s what. I can’t exactly slip out the back door, since I don’t know how to rappel down the side of a skyscraper.
I walk to one side of the great room before turning and walking to the other. There has to be a way. John Matthews Manchester may only be one subject in my kingdom, but getting to him has suddenly become the top priority on my agenda.
All I need to do is convince the security team to let me out of the penthouse. The rest shouldn’t be too difficult.
And just like that, I have my solution.
The lift stops at the floor for the spa. Convincing Roberts of my newfound love of pampering was way too easy. Davies moves out of the elevator first to do a quick scan, then motions for me to follow him.
“Actually, can you come back in here?” I say.
He frowns but steps back into the lift. I bite my lip and hand him the card. He scans both John’s note and the one from his nurse, his face unreadable the whole time. When he’s finished, he hands them back. “A very sad situation, ma’am.”
“It is,” I say. The next few seconds will determine the outcome of my plan. “I found myself asking what kind of queen I am if I don’t help those who desperately need it. If I only do the things that are expected of me, or that keep me safe, how am I supposed to hold my head up?”
He stares at me impassively, but there’s a softness around his eyes. “I don’t like where this is headed, ma’am.”
“Come on, Davies. Imagine if it was Tyson lying in that hospital room. Wouldn’t you want me to do everything in my power to honor his final wish?”
“No offense, ma’am, but his final wish would probably involve the latest Minecraft edition.” The side of his mouth quirks ever so slightly.
“Undoubtedly. And you know I would bend over backwards to get it for him.”
He takes a deep breath and releases it through his nose. “I could lose my job over this.”
I touch his arm. His suit jacket feels stiff under my fingers. “I’ll make sure that doesn’t happen. A queen’s power must be good for something, right?”
After studying me for a few more moments, he sets his mouth in a grim line. “Let’s do it.”
Davies may be breaking all kinds of rules and protocols to get me to the Cancer Institute, but he’s still doing everything in his power to keep me safe.
We took one of the less conspicuous SUVs from the garage at the Atlantis (no flags flying from the bonnet), and he made sure I was strapped securely into the center seat before pulling out of the lot.
Now we’re parked at a back entrance to the hospital while he talks to someone inside on his phone. Before embarking on this mission, he assured me he will not be leaving my side for anything, including the restroom, in case I wanted to change my mind. I didn’t.
He hangs up and turns back to me. “They are sending an escort to walk us inside, but the idea is to keep your presence here a secret.”
I couldn’t be more in favor of that plan.
A group of six hospital security personnel exit through the back doors.
They surround Davies and me as we walk the short distance to the main building.
It’s not until we’re inside that I realize I haven’t panicked once about setting foot in here.
The smell hits me like a strong gale, and I cling to Davies’s arm to steady myself.
“You okay?” His face is tightly drawn.
I nod. “I’m great. Let’s go. Room 308.”
We’re given access to a private lift used by the cleaning crews. A dull throbbing starts at my temples as we ascend to the third floor. One of the security officers assured me they would have a pot of tea brought up straight away.
The doors open onto a hallway decked out with red and green streamers. An evergreen wreath hangs outside each patient room. Davies walks close to me until we reach the right one, the placard outside reading J. Manchester.
“This is it,” I whisper.
Davies knocks on the door with his giant fist. It opens to reveal a young woman with auburn hair dressed in Disney-princess scrubs. At first, she looks at Davies in confusion, but when her eyes land on me, she covers her mouth and starts chanting, “Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod.”
Davies pushes past her, leading me inside with a hand on my upper arm.
He quickly shuts the door behind us. The room is dark, the TV on the wall turned to some kids’ channel, several animated characters dancing around what appears to be a massive sleeping dog.
The bed takes up most of the space. The little boy in it hardly takes up any space at all.
His head is bald, his eyes sunken in their sockets. His skin looks pasty, and his lips are dry and cracked. My heart splinters open at the same moment my stomach does a nauseating lurch.
John Matthews looks up at Davies and me as we enter. Recognition lights a spark in his eyes, and he does his best to sit up. His nurse rushes to his side to raise the bed for him.
“Your Majesty.” His chapped lips pull into a smile. “I knew you’d come.” He turns to his nurse, whose name tag says Amanda H, RN. “Didn’t I tell you she’d come?”
For the next half hour I have the sweetest and most unconventional tea of my life. John Matthews is surprisingly upbeat for a kid who may not live another two weeks. He tells me about his two rabbits, Beatrix and Potter, and about his favorite teacher, Miss Emily.
“Where are your parents?” I ask.
“Mum’s at work. She’ll be by after.” He runs his fingers along the stripes on his blanket. “I haven’t seen my dad for a long time.”
Bloody hell. This kid is on his deathbed, and neither of his parents are here.
I’ve hardly noticed the nausea plaguing me like a telemarketer, or the dull ache behind my eyes.
John and I invited Nurse Amanda and Davies to join us, but they said they preferred to stick to their duties—Amanda bustling around the room arranging medications, and Davies alternately peering through the glass in the door and the window.