Flyaway

by Lucy Christopher

  I stretch across the gear stick and rest my head on Granddad's shoulder. ‘You're coming with me this time,’ I say. ‘Into the hospital. He needs all of our strength.’

  CHAPTER 64

  I make Granddad park the car, then wait for him to get out and join me. He takes a handkerchief and wipes it around his face.

  ‘I won't stay long,’ he says.

  We walk in together. I keep my hand inside the crook of his elbow. He coughs and blows his nose, and dawdles. We stop to wait for the lifts.

  ‘You're not going to disappear again, are you?’ I ask. ‘When we get to Dad's ward?’

  Granddad holds his handkerchief to his nose and blows loudly. He looks around at everyone else waiting for the lifts.

  ‘I'll stay,’ he says. ‘Just for a bit. Seems the doctors are doing a good job with your father.’

  I lead him down the corridor to Intensive Care. Mum is waiting outside the door. I brace myself, wait for her to grab me by the shoulders and start telling me off. But instead, she hugs me. I breathe in the flowery smell of her cardigan.

  ‘I'm sorry,’ she says. ‘I should have told you more of what was going on. You ran away so fast, I didn't have time to explain.’ She pushes me back to look at my face. ‘Jack and I were worried.’

  It's my turn to apologise. I look away, guilty. ‘Dad's OK, though?’ I ask.

  She nods. ‘He's still sick, Isla, but the medication is working now.’

  ‘But last night, he . . . ?’

  ‘I know.’ She brushes her fingers through my hair. ‘I was scared too. But they've added in some different antibiotics, and he's responding. The infection's not as bad.’

  ‘Was it because of me?’ I say. ‘Because I went to visit him after I'd been at the lake?’

  She shakes her head quickly. ‘It's just something that happens,’ she says. ‘One of those things, could have been anything.’ Mum moves her hand to my forehead and pushes away my frown. ‘It's no one's fault.’

  Jack's behind her. His eyes are reddish and small as if he hasn't slept. There's a bit of twig in his hair and a small leaf stuck to his jumper.

  ‘Where've you been?’ I ask.

  ‘Went looking for you, you idiot.’

  ‘To the lake?’

  He nods. He's looking at me strangely, a smile playing on his lips.

  ‘What did you see?’

  ‘I saw you running really fast and a swan chasing after you. Then I lost you.’

  I smile back at him. ‘Couldn't keep up?’

  ‘No.’ He frowns. ‘You just had a head start.’ He keeps frowning as he watches me. ‘You OK now?’ he asks.

  I shrug. ‘If Dad is.’

  I hear Mum talking softly to Granddad, thanking him for finding me. He's brushing away her gratitude.

  ‘It was the swans,’ he says. ‘I wouldn't have gone out there if it hadn't been for their noise . . .‘

  I let his words fade out behind me as I take a step towards Dad's ward. Jack comes with me, saying something to the nurse as we pass. We walk down the centre aisle of the room, past all the other patients. I see him immediately. There are tubes running into his arm and nose, but he no longer has the mask over his face. His eyes are closed. I walk up to him. He doesn't look that different to how he looked last night, still so sick. Jack comes to stand beside me.

  ‘His temperature's down,’ he says. ‘And he's not asleep all the time.’

  I brush my fingers lightly against Dad's arm. His eyes flicker open, just for a moment. He doesn't smile, doesn't move any other part of his face, but I know he's seen me . . . he knows I'm here. I place my hand on his. His skin still feels a little waxy. His fingers twitch and grip at mine.

  ‘I've brought Granddad to see you,’ I say.

  CHAPTER 65

  I don't hang about to watch Granddad go in. Instead, I go to find Harry. A nurse lets me in.

  ‘Haven't seen you for a few days,’ she says.

  Harry's door is open this time. He's sitting up in bed, but turned away from me and looking out of the window. Granddad's green beanie is still on his head. I can't see any orangey tufts of hair underneath it. My legs are shaking a bit when I take a step towards him. I think I'm nervous about how he will react to me after what happened at the lake. Perhaps he regrets it; perhaps he didn't want to kiss me. After all, it's three days since we went down there and I've had no text message from him. But when he turns towards me, his smile is brilliant and makes his whole face shine.

  ‘What took you so long?’ he says.

  My breath comes out in a rush. I don't know where to start. So I walk right up to him and sit on the edge of his bed. ‘I was waiting for you to text me.’

  He laughs and reaches forward to hug me. ‘That's your fault,’ he says, his words loud and low in my ear. ‘When you chucked my clothes out the window, you chucked my phone out with them.’ He pulls away and looks at my face. ‘Imagine how I explained that to my mum.’

  The skin over his cheeks looks stretched, and his eyebrows have almost disappeared.

  ‘Are you OK?’ I whisper. ‘You look kind of different.’

  He sighs. He lifts his hand to the beanie. ‘You ready?’ he asks.

  He pulls it off. Underneath, he's bald. His skin is so white and his head looks suddenly huge.

  ‘Shaved it yesterday,’ he says. ‘I was fed up with it coming out.’

  I reach up and touch his head. It feels so soft. When I brush my fingers along it, I can feel the tiniest fuzz of hair.

  ‘It's like fur,’ I say.

  His eyes look enormous without his scruffy hair, brighter than ever. He moves to put his hat back on but I stop his hand.

  ‘It suits you,’ I say.

  He smiles crookedly. ‘Now you're just being nice. You don't have to say that.’

  ‘I'm not. You look like some sort of creature, something wild.’

  ‘Like a rat you mean?’ He looks down at his duvet. ‘Some sort of bald mole?’

  I wait for him to look back to me. ‘No.’ I touch his head again, I love the way his skin is so soft against my fingertips. ‘You look beautiful.’

  The words are out before I realise it. I freeze, my hand still on his head. Already I can feel my cheeks colouring from embarrassment.

  But he moves towards me and kisses me softly.

  ‘Thanks,’ he says.

  He clasps his arms around me and hugs me for ages. I rest my head down against his shoulder. ‘When's your transplant?’ I ask.

  ‘About two weeks’ time. They're bringing bone marrow across from Germany. Crazy, isn't it?’ I feel him tense beneath me.

  ‘What will happen?’

  He shifts so he can see me when he speaks. ‘They'll use drugs to kill off all my bone marrow and cancer cells, then they'll hook up this German person's bone marrow and feed it through here.‘ He touches the place on his chest where I saw the two tubes coming out. ‘Hopefully my body will like it. Otherwise . . .’ His words disappear as he glances away from me.

  I shudder suddenly. ‘How long?’ I whisper. ‘How long have you got if your body doesn't?’

  He keeps looking away from me. ‘I don't know really, maybe not long at all.’

  He looks so sad that I want to make him smile.

  ‘You know what they say about German bone marrow?’ I say.

  ‘What's that?’

  ‘It's the best! It's tougher and stronger than anything. It's like putting titanium in your spine. You'll be as strong as Wolverine.’

  He smiles. ‘Better be.’ His voice is whispery. He wants to get more words out, but he can't. It's enough, though. I can guess what he wants to say. It's what I'm thinking, too. There's only a fifty per cent chance; only half a chance all this will work. He might even die on the day it happens. I lean right into him and wrap my arms around his chest. I can feel the tubes through his pyjamas, resting against my cheek, but I bury into him anyway and breathe in that pine tree smell of his. I feel his chest trembling, as if he's trying to
hold back a whole avalanche of tears. After a while, he relaxes. He moves his face so that it's resting on my hair and I feel his breath against my ear. We stay like that for ages.

  It's Harry who moves first. He pushes me off him, wipes his hand across his nose.

  ‘So, tell me,’ he says, quietly. ‘You went to the lake again, didn't you?’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘There's something about you when you've been down there. It's like a sparkle or something. It's infectious. And anyway, the swan's not there any more and I figured you had something to do with it.’

  So I tell him. ‘I found her flock,’ I say. ‘I led her to them.’

  I tell him about running across the fields and collapsing near the lake. I even tell him of the dream I had when I took off with the swans.

  ‘It felt so real,’ I whisper. ‘It felt like I was flying. It felt as though the swans flew with me to Granddad's.’

  His eyes dart over my face. ‘It wouldn't be the first time you flew.’ He smiles and I know he's remembering what happened on the lake that night. He turns to the window. ‘Now that she's found her flock, do you think she'll stay there, I mean, will she ever come back?’

  His eyes are skimming across the water, watching.

  ‘Will you miss her?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ He shrugs. ‘What else do I have to look at now?’

  He shuffles over on his mattress so I can squeeze up next to him. We both look out at the water.

  ‘I'll visit you,’ I say.

  ‘Promise?’ He turns to look at me. ‘You're not just going to forget me once your dad gets better?’

  I raise my eyebrows. ‘As if!’

  Harry leans back against the wall. ‘How is he anyway?’

  So I tell him about that, too. I explain how I thought Dad was dying last night. It's so easy talking to Harry. It's as if I can tell him anything at all. He holds my hand tightly as I speak.

  ‘Promise me something else?’ he says.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Promise we'll see that swan again before I go into isolation?’

  I look at his bright eyes. ‘What if she doesn't come back here? What if she stays on Granddad's lake?’

  ‘Then I'll ask my doctor if I can come with you, just once . . . just one afternoon.’

  ‘Will they let you?’

  He grins. ‘Maybe if I beg and plead and say it's my dying wish.’

  ‘Hey!‘ I pinch his arm. ‘Don't even joke about that stuff.’

  Then I hold up my little finger and tell him to wrap his little finger around mine and shake a fairy's handshake.

  ‘I promise,’ I say softly.

  Harry's face crumples into a laugh as he tries to understand me. He won't let me release my little finger from his.

  ‘I'll hold you to it, you know.’

  And I hope more than anything that he does.

  CHAPTER 66

  I meet them at the hospital cafe. Jack's fiddling with his paper coffee cup, tearing bits off the top of it. Granddad's there, too, but he doesn't have a coffee in front of him. I can tell by how tense he looks that he's itching to get going.

  ‘Did you see Dad?’ I ask.

  He nods, glancing around at the other customers. ‘He looks better than I thought. The doctors are more skilled, this time.’

  He gets up quickly, his chair squeaking on the concrete. He raises his eyebrows at Mum. ‘See you then, Cath.’

  ‘Bye, Martin.’ She smiles, and I can see how grateful she is that Granddad came today. She looks at me, slightly amazed.

  ‘Well done,’ she says. ‘He really would do anything for you.’

  She pushes across a cup of hot chocolate to me, and explains what happens next.

  ‘They'll monitor Dad carefully for the next few days,’ she says. ‘Just to make sure he keeps getting better. They'll help him to get used to his new valve.’

  ‘When does he come out?’ Jack asks.

  Mum leans over to gather up the bits of coffee cup he's spread on the table.

  ‘He'll be in hospital a while longer,’ she says. ‘They have to make sure he's fully recovering first.’

  We walk to the car. It's parked in a different place from where Mum left it last night, so I guess they must have been home in between, or else they came to Granddad's when I was still asleep. My flying model is still in there, though.

  I stretch out across the back seat, use the model as a pillow. I tilt my head so I can look at the sky. My whole body is still aching from last night, my muscles throbbing from the run. I shut my eyes and let my head sink into the wings. I breathe in that smell of lake.

  CHAPTER 67

  I visit Dad every day. It's not long before they take the tubes out of his nose. Then he's back in his old ward and eating the regular hospital food again. We bring him little treats each day, too. Mum lets me choose things for him from the hospital shop. Dad scoffs them all, even though the nurses say he shouldn't be this hungry yet.

  ‘You're like a bin,’ I tell him. ‘We just keep chucking things inside you.’

  I watch Dad getting better. His breathing is heavy and raggedy at first, but it becomes normal again after a day or two. Then he's well enough to get out of his bed. His steps are slow and shaky, and he has to grasp the corner of his bedside table and wait a moment to get his breath back, but he does it. He walks the whole way around his ward. The next day he walks around it without stopping.

  I help him back into his bed. Plump up his pillows for him. He's got thinner since he's been here. I wonder how long it will be before he's properly Dad-shaped again. I think about the swan on her new lake. She must be changing shape, too, getting fuller and fatter in preparation for her migration home. Her grey baby feathers will be transforming into white, adult ones. It's only Harry who doesn't get healthier, and his feathers don't grow back.

  I visit him every time I see Dad, and sit with him on his bed. We look out at the lake. The reeds have turned strawyellow and there are huge puddles on the track. He's gone quieter without the swan. He says it's because he misses her, but I know he's worried about his transplant. He laces his fingers, crossing and uncrossing his thumbs. I wish I could smooth the frown from his face.

  CHAPTER 68

  It's later that evening when I take the wing model and spread its wings across the kitchen table. It's art tomorrow, and Mrs Diver wants us to present our finished projects. I'm dreading it. I haven't done any more work on mine and the rest of my class will only make fun of me again. It'll be awful. But Mum has agreed to help me clean up the feathers. So I let her.

  She finds disinfectant under the sink and stain remover in the laundry cupboard. I tip capfuls into bowls and pour water on top. We dip rags in and swirl them around. Then we rub gently at the wings. Some of the mud comes out straightaway and makes the water brown. We keep rubbing until every single mark has gone from the feathers and they change from brownish-grey to white. Then Mum finds a needle and thread and helps sew up the gaps where feathers have fallen out. I try on the harness. Mum gasps as I spread the wings out behind me.

  ‘It's magnificent,’ she says.

  I move my fingers and rotate my arms so that some of the feathers tilt. Others are too damaged to move.

  ‘Turn around,’ she says.

  So I do. One of my wings gets caught against the glasses cupboard and the other one knocks over the lamp. Mum dives for it. She replaces the lamp then helps me fold up the wing model.

  ‘You don't have to worry about tomorrow,’ she says. ‘Just show them this; show them how all the wires work and how you made it. They'll be amazed. And if they're not, they're idiots.’

  I blink at her. ‘Idiots?’

  ‘Yeah.’ She helps unbuckle the straps across my chest. ‘I think what you've built is brilliant. Dad does too. And, by the sounds of it . . .’ she stops to poke me in the ribs, ‘. . . so does Harry.’

  I feel my cheeks blushing and I know Mum sees.

  ‘So,’ she says. ‘If we all
love what you've created, what have you got to worry about?’

  CHAPTER 69

  Mrs Diver taps her pen, getting everyone's attention. It's my turn to do my presentation. She watches my face carefully as I stand.

  ‘You OK?’ she mouths.

  I nod. I take my wing model to the front of the class. Already I can hear people whispering and someone, probably Jordan, muffling a laugh. Mrs Diver shushes everyone and tells me to begin. I swallow and try not to look at the bunch of boys in the back row who are still flapping their arms about and pretending to be birds. I look at Mrs Diver's picture of Leonardo and pretend I'm just talking to him.

  ‘Leonardo da Vinci studied bird wings when he researched his flying machines,’ I say. ‘He drew sketches of how he could connect wings to a man's body. So, when I found a stuffed swan in my granddad's barn, I thought that my flying model would be a bit like this . . . a kind of flying machine that used real bird wings.’

  I return my gaze to the class. The boys at the back are still grinning madly, just waiting to make bird noises again. Some of the kids at the front are doodling on their workbooks, not bothered about my presentation; others are passing notes. I step into the harness. I get Mrs Diver to help tighten the leather straps across my chest and fasten the velcro loops. There's a few hushed murmurs. The kids at the front have noticed. But others still don't have a clue that I've just attached a pair of wings to my back. So I bend my elbows and bring my fists towards my chest, then I force them back out again. The wires are stiff, but I manage it. I open my wings, and start beating them. The air they create sends a stack of papers floating towards the floor. They make text book pages flap and turn. I move my fingers so that the feathers angle and separate. I roll my shoulders and the wings flutter behind me.

  The class goes quiet. Heads turn towards me.

  ‘I observed how a whooper swan used her wings,’ I say. ‘I made sketches.’

  Mrs Diver holds up the pencil drawings I did of the swan on the lake. She nods her head in approval. I keep beating the wings slowly.

  ‘I thought that if I learnt how a swan flew, I could work out which parts of the stuffed wings I'd need to move to copy.’