The Butterfly Novels Box Set: Contemporary YA Series (And By The Way; And For Your Information; And Actually)

by Denise Deegan

I alternate between hospital and school. Mum helps out, picking me up from school, dropping me home to shower and change and eat ‘some decent food’, then driving me to the hospital. Someone calls to leave their dog with me. I have to turn them down. There is no way I can mind a dog right now. Though I would so love to.

  One Saturday, Mum tells me she’s taking me out for the day.

  ‘But—’

  ‘You’ve no choice in this, Sarah. It’s booked. We’re going. Pack togs.’

  It turns out to be the nicest day. Just the two of us, in this really Zen-style spa. First we go for a swim. Then a jacuzzi. Then we each have a back massage. Oh my God, the smell of the oils is, like, so amazing. I think I might have been a bit tense.

  I wake with a hand on my shoulder and someone calling my name. Oh my God, I fell asleep. Worse, I’ve been drooling. Luckily, I’m face down with my head in a hole, so she can’t see. Still, I’m mortified. I don’t move.

  ‘I’ll just leave you a moment to put on your robe. Take your time.’

  Afterwards, we sit in this lovely room looking out onto a tropical garden. I can’t believe how quiet it is here. Especially compared to the hospital and school. No wonder I fell asleep.

  ‘Thanks, Mum. That was amazing.’

  She smiles. ‘It was good, wasn’t it?’ she says, like we’ve just done something decadent.

  I feel more able for the hospital now. More able for the camp bed. At the entrance to the hospital, she hands me a little make-up bag. I zip it open and there are all the things I love, all the things that make a day a better day. Lip gloss. Sparkly eye shadow. Fake eyelashes. False nails. I look at her. These are the kind of things she’d never have given me before. These are the kind of things she’d have frowned on.

  ‘The fake eyelashes look fun,’ she says, enthusiastically.

  I look at them. They look like black feathers with green spots on them.

  ‘That they do. That they do,’ I say in a funny voice.

  ‘Here. Give me a hug.’

  I reach over to her and we hug.

  ‘I’m so proud of you.’

  And when she talks to me like that, I’m still kind of surprised.

  It’s now November. Shane just keeps going, getting no better, no worse. Just more and more tired. And I’m so afraid. He sleeps most of the time now. And the packets of Jelly Tots pile up. I hate leaving him to go to school, but he insists I do. And the only reason I listen is that I don’t want him to have to fight me. He needs all his energy to fight this.

  Nothing that we’re learning seems relevant. None of it means anything. Then again, I’m not sure it ever did. It’s Friday and I’m in the canteen with Rachel, eating a proper lunch (Mum’s idea). Alex has gone to the loo again. Just as well this is her last day at school before her ‘maternity leave’. It’s two weeks now before the baby’s due and, honestly, she spends more time in the bathroom than the classroom.

  ‘Something’s wrong,’ Rachel says.

  I look up from my lunch. Alex is walking towards us. She looks like she’s seen a ghost.

  ‘I’ve had a show,’ she whispers in horror.

  Oh my God. ‘Does that mean you’re in labour?’

  ‘I don’t know. I can’t remember. Don’t you have to be in pain?’ She looks at Rachel.

  ‘Yeah, I think so,’ Rachel says.

  Phew!

  ‘Did you capture it?’ Rachel asks Alex.

  I laugh. Then realise she’s serious. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Yeah, I have it here in my pocket,’ Alex says sarcastically.

  ‘Was there blood?’ Rachel asks, ignoring us both.

  ‘No. No, I don’t think so.’ Alex looks worried again.

  ‘We should get to the hospital,’ Rachel says. Her voice is so calm it’s freaky – like someone telling you not to panic when that’s exactly what you should be doing. ‘Let’s go to the office. We have to ring your dad.’

  Automatically we get up, leave our trays, and start walking, heads high, cool.

  Out on the corridor, Alex starts to panic. ‘This isn’t it, is it, Rache?’

  ‘Think so.’

  ‘But it can’t be. It’s too early. Like, for the baby.’ She looks so worried.

  And even though I’m freaking, here, I do spot a good sign: Alex is worried for the baby.

  ‘It’s only two weeks early,’ Rachel says. ‘Babies are born premature all the time.’

  ‘Mike, slow down,’ Alex’s dad says. ‘You’ll get us all killed.’

  ‘Sorry,’ he says, and slows.

  They’re up front. We’re in the back with Alex. At the RDS, the traffic gets heavy and grinds to a halt.

  ‘Go in the bus lane,’ Alex’s dad says. He looks like he’s having the baby.

  Mike doesn’t look too great either. Which makes me worse. I remind myself that Alex isn’t in labour. We’re just being careful.

  Beside me, she grips her stomach and groans. I stare at her.

  ‘False contraction?’ I ask hopefully.

  Her face contorts in pain. ‘Doesn’t feel false,’ she says, through gritted teeth.

  Oh God.

  ‘Mike, speed up, for Christ sake,’ Alex’s dad says. He turns around in his seat. ‘Are you OK, sweetheart? Hang on, we’re nearly there.’

  At the hospital, they get Alex a wheelchair. Every time she gets a contraction, she grips the arms and leans forward. God. Her whole face is screwed up.

  ‘Can we have an epidural?’ I ask the nurse.

  She looks at me and smiles. Like I’m some sort of cute kid or something.

  ‘I’m serious,’ I say.

  ‘We’ll have to examine Alex first. Don’t worry, we know what we’re doing.’

  Alex gets another contraction. Her knuckles go white. She grits her teeth. When it’s over she says, ‘Sarah’s right. I need an epidural. Now.’

  ‘Let’s get you to the ward and have a look.’ I don’t want to think what she’ll be looking at. ‘Then we’ll know better where we’re at.’

  Alex is brought to an empty ward. The nurse helps her into bed, then asks us to leave while she examines Alex. She pulls the curtains around the bed. We disappear down the corridor, looking at each other in silence.

  After a few minutes, the nurse comes out to us.

  ‘She’s two centimetres dilated,’ she says.

  I look at Rache.

  ‘Not very advanced,’ she whispers.

  ‘Labour has started but we’ll be here for a while,’ the nurse continues.

  ‘So do we go back in to her?’ I ask, keen to be with Alex.

  She looks at us. ‘Maybe just two of you.’

  ‘I’ll wait outside,’ Mike says.

  ‘Do you mind if I just see what Alex wants?’ her dad asks the nurse.

  ‘Of course.’ She smiles.

  We go in to Alex. She’s hooked up to some kind of machine.

  ‘What’s that?’ I ask.

  ‘A monitor to make sure the baby’s OK.’

  ‘Cool.’

  Her dad asks her who she wants with her. She chooses me and Rachel. ‘No offence, Dad. But they’re, like, girls?’

  ‘It’s OK. I understand.’ Actually, he looks kind of relieved. ‘I’ll just be outside in the waiting room. Call if you need me.’

  ‘OK. Thanks.’ She smiles. Then she gets a contraction.

  ‘What about the epidural?’ I ask when it’s over.

  ‘They said it’s too early. It’ll just slow the thing down.’

  ‘Jesus,’ I say. ‘Do you want me to rub your shoulder?’

  ‘Touch me and you die.’

  I back away. From the one ante-natal class we went to, I try to remember what to do … Daddy could be stroking Mummy’s tummy now … If he is suicidal, I think. But speaking of Daddy … what about Louis? I look at Alex. Would she want him here? Would her father? Or would they kill him on sight? He should know, though, shouldn’t he? He’s been, like, around and stuff. Oh God. I’m not sure if I should bring him
up right now, though. Alex just told the nurse to go fuck herself. And she’s a pretty nice nurse.

  While Alex gets contraction after contraction, I get more and more convinced that Louis should be here. Or at least he should know. I look at her, gripped by another contraction. If I ask her, she’ll say no. But if I don’t ask and he shows up, she might actually be glad. It’d show he cares. And that she’s not on her own. Which, of course, she’s not – we’re here. But still. When her latest contraction eases, I tell her I have to go to the loo.

  ‘Need anything?’ I ask.

  ‘Epidural,’ she says through gritted teeth as another contraction hits. God they’re coming very quickly now. Maybe they need to examine her again.

  I go outside to the waiting area. Her dad looks at me as if to ask, ‘any news?’ Suddenly I think, he’s this shit-hot rock star. If anyone can get Alex an epidural, he can. I tell him she really needs it now.

  ‘Leave it with me,’ he says, getting up like he’s glad there’s something he can do.

  I hurry outside to call Louis. When I turn on my phone, though, I see a load of missed calls from Deirdre. I start to call her but before I can, the phone rings. Oh God, it’s her.

  ‘Hello?’ I say, heart pounding.

  ‘Sarah. Thank God I got you.’

  Oh God. ‘Is everything OK?’ My voice sounds very small.

  ‘It’s Shane. He’s asking for you.’

  ‘Is he OK?’

  There’s a long pause. ‘I don’t think so, Sarah,’ she says, and her voice breaks. ‘You need to come.’

  I just hang up. I run back into Alex.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Rachel asks me.

  ‘There’s something wrong with Shane. I gotta go. I’m so sorry Alex.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. Go. I’ll be fine.’

  I hug her. Then I run.

  I burst into the waiting area. Alex’s dad stands immediately. I put my hands up.

  ‘It’s OK. Everything’s fine with Alex. I just have to go.’

  He looks at me, all concerned. ‘Is everything OK?’

  ‘No.’ I tell him about Shane, talking so fast my words merge.

  ‘Mike will drive you,’ he says.

  ‘There’s no need—’ I start.

  But Mike stands up. ‘Let’s go,’ he says.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say to both of them. I look back to where I’ve just come from. Then I look back at Alex’s dad. ‘She’ll be OK,’ I say. And it’s funny how much I need to hear those words.

  ‘The anaesthetist is on her way with the epidural. In a few minutes, she won’t feel a thing. Don’t worry. She will be fine.’

  I feel like hugging him. Then I remember. He’s a rock star. So I just go.

  We rush through traffic, in silence. I think about Alex. I close my eyes and pray that she’ll be OK. Then I remember Louis. I take out my phone.

  ‘Sis!’ he says cheerfully.

  ‘Alex is having the baby.’

  Silence.

  ‘She’s in hospital.’

  ‘Oh, Jesus. Is she in pain?’

  Seriously, what a question? ‘She’s having an epidural.’

  There’s a long silence. ‘I should go in,’ he says, but sounds unsure.

  I say nothing. It’s up to him.

  ‘Who’s with her?’

  ‘Rachel and a nurse.’

  ‘What about her father?’

  ‘In the waiting room.’

  ‘Fuck. And you?’

  ‘On my way to Shane. Something’s happened. He’s asking for me.’

  Another pause. ‘Do you want me to go with you?’

  ‘No. His parents will be there. But tell Mum so she knows where I am, OK?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Are you going to Alex?’ I ask.

  ‘Did she ask for me?’

  ‘No. But that doesn’t mean she wouldn’t like you to be there. Or at least know you’re there, you know, outside, in the waiting area.’ We pull up in front of the hospital. ‘Louis, I’ve to go.’

  ‘OK, OK, good luck,’ he says. ‘Call me if you need me.’

  I hang up, thank Mike and hurry into the hospital.

  FORTY-ONE | STAY

  At the entrance to the ward, I stop. Two weeks ago, I stood here with Dad, looking up a corridor of flowers. Now the flowers are gone and I feel like I’m in a nightmare. I take a deep breath and hurry. I’m almost at Shane’s room when the door opens and a nurse comes out. It’s Emma, who is young and fun and never gives out about me lying on (or in) the bed. When she sees me now, she looks so sad, like she’s actually going to cry. Fear grips me. She hugs me. Which is terrifying. I pull back.

  ‘He’s going to be OK, isn’t he?’ I ask desperately. Please say yes. Please say yes.

  She presses her lips together and her eyes fill.

  ‘He’s waiting for you,’ she says, and pushes the door open. Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.

  The room is in shadow. Everything still. His parents are by his side, Deirdre holding his hand, his dad’s arm around her. Shane is lying flat, on his side.

  ‘He’s not supposed to be lying down!’ I say. ‘It’s bad for his lungs. And where’s his oxygen?’ I look around for it.

  They turn together. Oh God, their faces. Oh, Jesus. Oh God. Oh, no.

  Deirdre gets up. She comes to me and hugs me. Her body shudders and she starts to cry. I pull back. Not wanting this. But she takes my hand and brings me to the top of the bed. To Shane. Who said he could fight this.

  ‘He can still hear,’ she says.

  I stare at her. This isn’t happening. It can’t be happening.

  ‘Sit with him, Sarah,’ she says. ‘He’s been waiting for you.’

  What do they all mean, waiting? Waiting for what? But I know what. I sink into the seat. I take his hand. Oh God, it’s so cold. I cover it with the blanket. It hurts so much to see him like this – so weak, so exhausted. His eyes struggle open. He smiles so weakly like it’s taking all his energy.

  ‘Hey,’ he whispers. But it’s his eyes that speak. They say, ‘Here we are. Can you believe it? Already?’

  I try to smile. But tears are clouding my eyes.

  ‘I wanted one last hug.’

  I cover my mouth. It’s just so final. I try not to cry (he won’t want me to). But my whole body shakes with a massive sob and I can’t stop myself.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. Why can’t I be brave? Why can’t I be brave like Deirdre?

  ‘God, I love you,’ he says. He closes his eyes, exhausted.

  I put my cheek to his and I tell him I love him. I put my arms around him so gently. This couldn’t be it. Our final hug.

  He whispers something. I move back to see his face.

  ‘I’ll never stop loving you, Sarah.’

  Oh God. I can’t let him go. I just can’t. ‘Shane. It’s OK. It’s just a bug. A stupid bug. We can fight it. You know we can.’ I squeeze his hand. ‘Please, Shane. I love you so much. Do this for me. Fight it. Please.’

  Behind me, his mum breaks down.

  He closes his eyes.

  ‘Shane?’

  He doesn’t answer.

  I turn around in panic. Another nurse, an older one, comes up to the bed. Has she been there all this time or did she just arrive? She takes Shane’s pulse. All three of us look at her. Hoping. Praying this isn’t it.

  ‘He’s sleeping,’ she says.

  I breathe again.

  All through the night, Shane’s breathing becomes weaker and shallower and slower. Every breath brings me one step closer to admitting that he has lost the fight, that he really is slipping away. I am losing him. I look at Deirdre. I can see her heart breaking in her face. I slip my hand from Shane’s. I take hers and put it in his. This is her boy. Her child. No one’s pain is greater than hers. Even mine which is so huge. She looks at me and smiles. So sadly. She takes my left hand and puts it in his left. She holds my right in her left. She holds his right in her right. We form a circle. And all I can think is, his dad is
left out. But when I look behind, he’s actually fallen asleep. I sit, arms aching from holding hands for so long, listening to every breath, knowing now, admitting, that we’re just waiting for the end.

  And then, after hours, Shane’s breathing stops. His mum gasps. We both turn together, to look for the nurse. She checks the pulse in Shane’s wrist, then his neck. Then she checks her watch. Automatically, I check mine. Four a.m. She shakes her head.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  His dad, awake again, reaches for Deirdre. Giving me a moment alone with Shane. I bend over him and whisper in his ear.

  ‘I love you so much. I’ll never stop. I swear.’ I squeeze his hand so tightly. I kiss his cheek and can’t believe that soon I’ll never be able to do that again. I don’t want to let him go. I don’t want to leave. I want to stay here forever. I want to die too. Go wherever he’s gone.

  No one shoos us out. The nurses let us sit with him. They let us cry. For hours. And when we finally walk out of that room, oh God, the sun’s coming up. Pink and golden. How can the sun rise today? How can life go on, just like that?

  Out on the corridor, Deirdre holds my hands and smiles. Her face is swollen and red.

  ‘I’m sorry you never got to live with us. I’d have liked that.’ And I’m crying again, thinking of what could have been. She hugs me then. She smells of him. Oh God. Finally, she lets me go. She smiles. ‘This isn’t goodbye. I’ll be calling you, OK?’

  I nod. She grips my arms, looks into my eyes.

  ‘He wanted you to be happy. To go live your life. You know that, don’t you? You’ve given enough now, all right? Go live your life.’

  Which sets me off again. I’m not just going to head off into the sunset. He was my sunset. And he’s gone. I wipe my nose with the back of my hand. And, so she thinks I’m OK, I smile.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say.

  They walk down the corridor, holding each other, looking like they’ve lost their entire world. I know what that feels like.

  I stand, stunned and so alone, wanting to sneak back in to him but knowing the nurses are in there now. And it’s too late. I take out my phone to call my mum. But one of the night nurses – a woman I’ve never met before – tells me that Mum is in the Day Room. She’s been here all night.