Chapter Twelve
Sharon
Smalltown Boy by Bronski Beat
Danny looks sick. Which is a ridiculous thing to think when I pull back the curtain to his space on Saturday afternoon. Of course he’s sick. He’s in hospital. He has cancer. He has AIDS.
And yet it still makes my stomach flip with shock when I see the sallow, grey tone of his skin and when I notice a new lesion on the side of his nose.
It’s small and red, but I see it. How strange that ten days ago I wouldn’t have known what I was looking at but now I can spot them when they’re barely bigger than a mole.
“Do I look that bad?” Danny asks, as I step inside and pull the curtain closed behind me.
“You don’t look great, I’ve got to be honest,” I reply, very much as a test of his sense of humour, because if he’s still got that, then he’s still got a lot.
“Well, what’s your excuse?” he says as I drop my bag in the chair. I then bring a hand to my hair.
“Did I go too short?” I ask. “Mehmet squeezed me in first thing. On a Saturday too.”
He rolls his eyes and then grimaces as if that caused him some pain. “You took them cake, didn’t you?”
I shrug as I start to rummage through my bag. “I woke early. What else was there to do but make babka? And I really needed a haircut.”
When Danny doesn’t reply, I look up at him.
“Do you think I’ll ever go there again?” he asks when my eyes meet his.
“Go where?”
“To the Turkish barbers on Uxbridge Road.”
I frown in confusion. “Why wouldn’t you?”
“They won’t cut my hair looking like this,” he says. “If I even get out.”
“You’ll get out,” I say quickly and forcefully. I won’t hear of him talking like this.
It’s then that I realise how, as frustrating as it was, having Danny in denial was possibly easier to manage than seeing and hearing him in defeat.
“You’ll get out,” I repeat, “and we’ll go together. We’ll take them another babka and we’ll drink that oppressively strong coffee they make while they give you the best short back and sides money can buy in West London.”
He gives me a smile but it feels forced, like a consolation prize.
“I’ve brought your post. I hadn’t checked it for a few days so there were a few things for you…” I find the envelopes in my bag and pull them out, “but nothing that looks urgent. Shall I leave it here?”
I gesture to the bedside table and he nods, not even giving the post a second glance.
“Have you eaten?”
“I’ve eaten,” he replies. “Whether what I ate could accurately be called food or not is another matter.”
“That’s what I thought.” I dig deeper into my bag, pull out a multipack of chocolate bars and throw them on the bed next to Danny. “But look at this.”
His eyes drop to the multipack, which he picks up. “Snickers? What are Snickers?”
“It’s the new name for Marathon bars, apparently,” I inform him. “It’s terrible, isn’t it?”
“It will never catch on,” he says and drops them again.
“Do you want one?”
“Nah,” he says, closing his eyes.
Moving my bag to the floor, I sit down in the chair. I wait in silence for the change in his breath, to learn that he’s fallen asleep, but I don’t notice it deepening or elongating.
“You won’t believe what I’m doing tonight,” I tell him. Maybe he wants to be distracted. Maybe he wants to talk about something other than his illness and his symptoms and this ward that is both the best and worst place to be right now.
He opens one eye. It’s enough of a sign for me to keep talking.
“I’m going to a comic book meet and greet with an author. With…” I lean closer to him. “Florence Fucking Nightingale.”
His other eye opens. Wide.
“What? Nurse Chiu?”
“Yes, she asked me last night,” I say. I’m not sure if I should be smiling but I can’t seem to help it, even when I see the circles under Danny’s eyes.
“And you’re going to go? With her?”
Nodding, I reach over to grab a Marathon – shit, no, a Snickers – and open up the packet. I throw one at Danny before taking one for myself.
“But you hate her,” he points out, ignoring the chocolate bar.
“Hate is a strong word,” I say, taking a bite. I chew as I speak. “I hate how these chocolate bars are now called Snickers. I don’t hate Nurse Chiu.”
“But you don’t exactly like her…” Danny narrows his eyes on me. “Unless. Wait.” He lifts his hands, fingers extended and palms flat towards me. “You like her.”
I nearly choke on my mouthful. After promptly swallowing, I lean forward in my chair. “I don’t think you understand the significance of the event that is taking place this evening. It’s a meet and greet with AJ Ripley, the creator of Lady Phantom. You know, my favourite comic book character.”
“Oh, that one you fancy the pants, and the purple tights, off?”
“The very one. I tried to get tickets when I first heard about the event but they’d all sold out.
I’ve called the shop four times this week to see if they had cancellations but nope, nothing.
And all of a sudden, a ticket drops in my lap, thanks to Nurse Chiu.
Which is to say, she could be Saddam Hussein.
She could be Margaret Thatcher. She could be my mother, and I would still go with her to this event. ”
“Your mother? Really?”
“Fine, I wouldn’t go if she was my mother, but there is no way I’m missing out on this tonight, even if I have to put up with Kate Chiu being self-righteous and bossy and know-it-all about, well, everything.”
“Hmm, and you think you both have nothing in common?” Danny says, and a corner of his mouth kicks up.
“We don’t have anything in common!” I protest but then replay the words I just spoke. “Well, not much anyway.”
The corner of Danny’s mouth, much to my delight, stays up. “What are you going to wear?”
I have a brief flashback to when I posed this question to Danny before he went on his date with that girl, Juliet, on Wednesday.
I still want to know what happened that evening, but now’s not the time to ask.
Not when he’s got a smile on his face and he’s picked up the Snickers bar, inspecting the new branding like maybe he might open it.
“I haven’t thought about it much.”
“Liar.”
“I haven’t!”
“Stop lying.”
I take another bite of chocolate, peanuts and caramel. It may have a new silly name, but at least it still tastes the same. “Probably what I’m wearing now,” I say eventually. It’s not like I have a wardrobe of cocktail dresses to choose from, nor the body to wear them.
“Really, Sharon? You look like a lesbian lumberjack. I would at least try and smarten it up with a blazer or something. Maybe a bit of lippy.”
I scowl at him. “Since when have you known me to wear lipstick?”
“Who knows, if Nurse Chiu is wearing lipstick maybe you’ll end up with some on your mouth by the end of the night.”
Horrified, I throw my empty wrapper at him. “That is not going to happen. She only asked because her friend couldn’t make it or something. I imagine once we get there, she’ll probably drop me faster than a hot potato.”
“You have to admit, she’s very pretty, in an ice queen sort of way.”
“An ice queen?”
“Yeah, all cold and abrupt and in charge. It’s quite a turn on.”
Something prickles the skin at the base of my neck and around my collar. Something unnameable but deeply unpleasant.
“But you already have a girl, don’t you?” I tease. I’m focused on how it’s the perfect way to distract him, but then his face falls.
“I don’t have a girl, no,” is his quiet response before his eyes close and that’s enough to tell me this conversation is over.
I swallow around an ugly-tasting lump. “Do you want me to ask Nurse Chiu if she’s interested?”
Danny’s eyes open. “I couldn’t. Wouldn’t. The poor woman gave me a bed bath the last time I was here.”
“You didn’t tell me that!”
“A girl is entitled to her secrets,” he says with a slow pout and it’s a joyful glimpse at the Danny I know and love. The Danny who isn’t sick. The Danny who is full of life and laughter and late nights.
“I don’t want to know all your secrets,” I say, laughing with him. “Speaking of which, let’s open your post.”
He groans but reaches out for the envelopes. “Bank statement,” he puts the top one down. “Credit card bill.” The next goes on top of the first. “Oh, this could be my payslip,” he says and starts to open the brown envelope in his hand.
I pull the Thermos I packed earlier out of my bag and find the two mugs I also placed in there. There’s a reason Danny calls me Mary Poppins when it comes to what I can pack in a briefcase-sized handbag.
“Oh. Fuck,” Danny says, and I stop pouring out the special goji berry and ginger tea I bought from Chinatown. It’s supposed to boost the immune system, according to the kind-eyed elderly man I bought it from.
“What?”
He tosses the letter in my direction and I free up my hands. But before I get the chance to read the letter, the curtain opens and one of the nurses stands there. Orla, I believe her name is. She’s a tall, thin young woman with narrow features but warm eyes that sparkle when she smiles.
“Sharon Goldblatt?” she asks, looking at me.
“Yes?” I answer.
“Here’s a message for you, from Nurse Chiu.” She hands me a piece of paper, offers me a quick smile and then walks away, closing the curtain behind her.
I glance at the paper, reading the very few words written there.
Wear a suit tonight. Black one ideally. White shirt. No arguments.
“Well, what does she say? Don’t keep me in suspenders!” Danny says after I read it for the third time.
“She wants me to wear a suit this evening. A black one.”
“Well, no need to worry about what to wear now. She’s got a plan for you, clearly.”
“I don’t like being told what to do,” I say but my tone doesn’t match the sentiment. I sound like the air has been knocked out of my lungs.
“Try it,” Danny says. “Just this once.”
“Maybe,” I say and then I clear my throat. “Now where were we?”
“You were about to read this charming letter from my charming employer.” Danny points at the piece of folded paper on my lap.
I pick it up and read. “‘Dear Mr. Morgan. Due to unforeseen circumstances…’” I pause as my eyes read ahead.
But Danny’s waiting so I press on. “‘We are required to terminate your employment with immediate effect. As per your contract, there is no notice period or remuneration for hours not worked. Yours sincerely…’” I look up at Danny, horrified. “They can’t do this!”
He sighs. “I believe they just did.”
“But they don’t even offer you an explanation,” I exclaim. “They have to at least explain why.”
“We both know why,” Danny snarls. “They found out, didn’t they?”
An anchor drops in my stomach. “Then that’s… discrimination.”
“Discrimination that the vast majority of this country agrees with. Forget it, Sharon. It was a shitty job anyway.”
“I’m going to go the Citizen’s Advice Bureau about this. They’ll know what law it goes against.”
“Don’t waste your energy,” Danny says. “Is that tea still warm?”
I put the letter down and return to pouring out tea into mugs.
I hand him one and then cup my own, grateful for the shock of heat it gives me.
I feel frozen with outrage about that letter.
Danny, however, seems to want to put it behind him.
He takes a tentative sip of tea, winces and then puts the mug down on the bedside table.
“Does it taste bad?” I ask.
“No, no. I have a few lesions in my mouth. They hurt when I drink hot things.” He shuffles down lower in the bed, sliding under the covers.
He’s still wearing the T-shirt he wore yesterday and I wonder if he’s showered or washed or eaten a real meal since I left last night.
I haven’t even asked him if there have been any updates from the doctors about his latest T-cell results.
But when he closes his eyes and brings an arm over his forehead, I decide against asking him any more questions.
We stay like this in silence for many minutes. Me chewing on what words are the right ones to say, and him staying motionless, completely still. Just when I think he’s about to fall asleep, he speaks.
“So which suit are you going to wear?”
He still hasn’t moved, forearm draped over his forehead.
I swallow a jagged lump in my throat before I can speak. “She said it had to be black, so maybe the palazzo pants one I got a few months ago. They’re this weird crepe material but I like it because they’re not too tight.”
“Good choice. They make your bum look great,” Danny remarks and his eyes flicker open.
“Oh,” I say, because I don’t know what else to say and I’m preoccupied with feeling my cheeks heat up.
Silence falls between us again but Danny’s eyes stay open, looking up at the ceiling.
“You know whose bed this is, don’t you?”
I don’t reply immediately because I’m confused.
“Mr Smythe,” Danny says. “The man with the loud voice who always told the same stories over and over again.”
I look around as if for confirmation.
“He’s not here anymore,” Danny adds.
“Maybe he got better?” I offer, but there’s a churning in my stomach that makes me feel nauseous.
“Maybe he did,” Danny says in a quiet voice. “He probably had to go back to work or he would get the sack too and I don’t think Mr Smythe the interior designer could cope with being poor.”
I lean closer. “Please don’t worry about money or working or anything, Danny,” I tell him. “As soon as my grandmother’s money clears, we will be set for a very long time.”
“I don’t want to…” he sighs and I’m pretty sure it costs him greatly to do so. “I will pay you back.”
“No, you—”
“I will.” He raises his voice but closes his eyes again, his arm slipping to cover his eyelids. “I will pay you back, when I’m better.”
I open my mouth to protest again but realise that would be the wrong thing to do. A very wrong thing to do.
“Fine,” I agree. “You can pay me back. When you’re better.”
There’s a little grunt of what I think is satisfaction and then Danny is completely quiet and still again.
Chatter from around the ward fills the silence and I squeeze my mug a little tighter.
I pick up the notepaper that Kate’s message was written on and, after staring at it for a few minutes, I fold it up and put it in my pocket.
When Danny’s soft snores settle into a steady rhythm, I finish my tea, get up and go and see if any of the other patients want a chat.