Chapter 42
‘Ronan’s taken a turn for the worse,’ Mum said. ‘He’s had to go into hospital.’
‘When?’
‘Last week,’ she said.
‘But he’d been showing signs the week before that,’ Dad said. ‘It was hard for them to tell because Ronan was putting a brave face on it, but that’s what they think, it was slowly building in him.’
‘They said? Who said?’
‘The McCoys. Or that’s what the doctors told the McCoys,’ said Dad.
‘You were talking to the McCoys?’
‘Yes.’
‘Last week?’
‘Yes.’
‘And they told you?’
Dad nodded.
‘They didn’t tell me anything when I was talking to them last week,’ I said. ‘They just said that Ronan was fatigued and couldn’t come to the phone.’
‘Yes, that’s what they …’
‘And why didn’t you tell me?!’
‘Because Emma and Aaron said not to worry you in the middle of your exams.’
‘But they’re just exams!’
‘I know, son …’
‘Ronan’s my best friend!’
‘We know …’
‘If something’s happened to him I’m obviously going to want to know about it no matter what!’
‘Brendan, son, it’s what the McCoys wanted,’ said Dad.
‘Your mother and me had to follow suit. And there really was nothing serious to worry about until two days ago when he took a bigger dip. We wanted to tell you but Aaron and Emma told us to let you get your last exam done, which is why we’re telling you right now. ’
‘What’s wrong with him? What actually happened?’
‘He wasn’t keeping his food down to start with,’ said Dad. ‘Then he lost his appetite completely, then he began refusing water, which—’
‘This was two weeks ago?’ I said.
‘Yes.’
‘Right …’ I said, trying to contain the feelings that were combusting inside.
‘So a doctor came to the house and had a fluid drip hooked up for Ronan. They tried a few other things at home to get him back to his full strength, but he still wasn’t taking any food.
Then it was just on the weekend there that he took a seizure in the night – they called the ambulance and he was taken into hospital.
The doctors got him all sorted and stabilised but in the past couple of days he’s not been responding very well.
The McCoys phoned this morning to say it would be best if you came to see him today as soon as you got home. ’
‘Can we go now?’ I said.
‘Aye, son, we’ll head now.’
Dad drove. Mum stayed and said she’d have dinner ready for when we got back, but the idea of eating anything or even coming home again seemed like two improbable things as we drove to the hospital.
I sat in the passenger seat, a queasy feeling in my whole body.
It was a sunny day, not a cloud in the sky.
It was around the time when the normal school day ended: home time for primary schools; parents guiding small children into the backs of cars.
I saw bus stop drop-offs for secondary school students; the final days of school before their summers began.
I spotted students who, like me, had finished school forever and were walking in groups of jubilation, their uniforms ragged from tearing them off and snipping their ties, white shirts graffitied, laughter, singing, freedom.
When we arrived at the hospital car park I opened the car door and vomited.
It was the first thing that had come out of my mouth because Dad and me hadn’t said a word the whole drive there.
We walked together up to the automatic doors that slid open when we approached.
The hospital smell filled me with memories of Granny, memories of boyhood stitches and plaster casts from playground falls and tumbles.
Dad asked for directions and acted as my guide.
He took me towards the lift, he pressed the button.
An old man in a wheelchair was pushed along beside us.
There was a tube going into his nostrils that was attached to a tank on the back of the chair that a male nurse in blue scrubs was manning.
We got into the lift together when the doors opened and ended up facing each other.
The old man stared at me with yellowed eyes.
I nodded at him and he turned his head away from me.
The nurse behind him was staring straight ahead.
When the doors opened the nurse pushed the old man out and I watched them go down a long corridor as the lift doors closed.
When the doors opened again on the next floor we stepped out and followed the signs for Intensive Care. We arrived at the nurses’ station and Dad asked for Ronan McCoy. The nurse took over Dad’s lead and we followed her down a corridor with doors lined on either side.
We stopped at one of them and the nurse gave a gentle knock before opening it.
Mr and Mrs McCoy were inside on two chairs and stood up when they saw us.
I could hear a TV playing in the room and a rhythmic, gusting sound.
I didn’t step inside immediately. I knew Ronan was in there but I couldn’t see him from where I was standing.
I looked at the faces of Mr and Mrs McCoy; their dark-ringed eyes, their hollow cheeks and their mouths that managed a gentle smile; it was their smile that drew me inside and it was the gusting sound that made me look to my right.
Ronan was propped up in a bed, there was a clear plastic breathing mask over his ghost-white face, his eyes were closed.
The thing on his face was blasting air into his mouth causing it to flap open with each gust and his chest to bounce up and down, animating him into unnatural jolts, rocking his head between two supporting pillows.
His whole body looked frail and tiny in the big bed.
Only a fraction of the friend I had seen weeks ago.
‘Come in, Brendan,’ said Mrs McCoy.
I had only taken one step and couldn’t take my eyes off Ronan.
‘Can I have a second? Sorry.’
I turned and walked out of the room, holding back the shock of tears pooling up inside. I walked and walked until I found an alcove where there was a drinking fountain. I stood in there and cried until all the tears were rinsed out.
With nothing left to cry with, I rubbed my eyes dry and splashed water on my face from the drinking fountain. I breathed myself onto steadier feet, walked back down the corridor to the room that my best friend was in, stepped fully inside and closed the door.