Chapter 31
THIRTY-ONE
The taxi crept on through the congested streets.
Ben didn’t say much more – he was mostly looking at his phone, tapping intermittently as he presumably exchanged messages with Molly.
I hoped that he was assuring her we were on our way, and hoped even more fervently that she was passing on at least slightly encouraging updates from the doctors who were treating Arthur.
I’d texted Molly myself and told her I was in the cab with Ben, but I said nothing about why I’d turned up at their home in the first place. The crisis in Sam’s and my relationship was trivial in contrast to what she and Ben were going through.
What must it feel like, I wondered, to have that kind of bond with another person – to be so united in unconditional love for the tiny life you’d created together that you felt that if it ended, your lives would be over too? It must be terrifying, but wonderful too.
If Arthur pulled through – and surely he must because the alternative was unthinkable – Molly and Ben would never forget this.
The trauma of almost losing their son would surely bring them even closer to each other and to their baby, strengthening the ties that held together their little unit of three.
And for Arthur, what would it be like growing up with parents who loved you and each other so completely?
Perhaps there had been a time, when I was Arthur’s age and maybe a while after that, when my mum and dad had felt that way about each other and about me.
But I’d been too little to remember it. From as early as I’d been able to speak, I could remember being used as a conduit between my parents when they weren’t speaking to each other.
Georgia, tell your father dinner’s on the table.
We’d better be on best behaviour, Georgia – your mother’s in one of her moods again.
Or, even more frequently, Go to bed, Georgia.
Your parents are talking. Which meant that they were about to launch into one of their frightening rows, which I’d spend hiding under the covers, waiting for the shouting to stop and bracing myself for the shattering crash as one of them threw something on the floor or at the wall.
Their separation should have come as a relief to me. By twelve, I was already aware that they’d only stayed together as long as they had because of me. After that, although I was to be shunted between two homes, at least those homes would be more peaceful, I’d thought.
But Mum and Dad had lacked whatever skills it takes for divorced people to co-parent successfully. Their animosity towards each other didn’t end with their marriage; if anything, it intensified. And now the most effective weapon they had to wound each other with was me.
If she found out that Dad had started seeing someone, Mum would plan a solo holiday so I’d have to go and stay with him, cramping his style with his new girlfriend.
If Mum took up a new hobby, Dad would immediately shift his contact time with me so he was no longer available on the evenings she wanted to be off doing Pilates or life drawing or whatever the latest craze was – understandably, none of them lasted much longer than Dad’s girlfriends did.
There was one evening when I was fourteen that I would never forget.
Mum had arranged to meet friends for dinner because it was Wednesday, the night I usually spent at Dad’s place.
In an uncharacteristically good mood, glammed up for her evening out, Mum had walked me to the Tube station and kissed me goodbye.
The journey was familiar – I did it on my own regularly – but long, all the way across London from Queensway to Loughton.
I settled down with my book and waited while stop after stop passed, until at last it was time to get off the train and make my way to Dad’s house, a ten-minute walk from the station.
But when I knocked on the door of his house, there was no reply. I had no key, although I did have a mobile phone – not that that helped me because neither of my parents were answering theirs.
I didn’t know what to do. It was November and already dark, and the quiet suburban street where Dad lived seemed suddenly menacing.
I waited, shivering, for ten minutes and then retraced my steps to the station, got back on the Central line and did the journey in reverse.
It was only when I arrived back at Mum’s flat that I remembered I had no key for that either – Mum had mislaid hers a few days before and borrowed mine, saying I would be at Dad’s place so wouldn’t need it, and she would be home when I got back after school on Friday.
Except I was back two days early, and she was out. Again, both my parents’ phones went unanswered. So I did the only thing I could think of and got back on the Tube and returned to Loughton. Still no one home; still no one answering their phones. I returned to Queensway – same result.
It was gone eleven when I arrived at Loughton for the third time. This time, Dad answered the door.
‘What the hell are you doing here, Georgia?’
I told him. By this stage I was crying, cold, hungry and badly frightened – I’d imagined spending the whole night shuttling from east to west like some kind of human ping-pong ball until the Tubes stopped running, and I had no idea what I’d do then.
But Dad’s relief that I was okay was overshadowed by his rage at Mum.
The row they had that night was the worst they’d had since their divorce. Each blamed the other; I suspected the one thing that united them was that they also blamed me.
After that, I learned never to leave either home without the keys to both. But also, after that, neither place ever truly felt like a home.
‘We’re here.’ Ben’s voice jerked me from the remote misery of the past to the more real, pressing crisis unfolding in the present.
The two of us clambered out of the taxi, and Ben shouldered the overnight bag.
‘It’s going to be okay,’ I said, sensing his brief, anxious hesitation. ‘Come on – let’s go in and see what’s what.’
My heart was pounding as we entered the hospital. Ben knew which way to go, so I followed him along a maze of corridors, into a lift and then along more corridors, each step taking us closer to knowing whether we would find Arthur even more critically ill, recovering or just the same.
At last, we reached a door where Ben stopped. He squared his shoulders and took a deep breath before he reached out a hand and pushed it open.
Seconds later, Molly was in his arms, sobbing as if she would never be able to stop.