The Ties That Bind

by Lexi Landsman

  David stayed silent a few moments, let the laughter die down. Then he turned to the young man. ‘Actually, it was a very good question. And since you seem so confident in your skills – whatever they may be – why don’t you answer it?’

  The boy’s smirk faded. He remained silent, so David pressed on. ‘Well, does everyone have the same blind spot?’

  The rest of the students grinned, especially the girl with red hair whose cheeks were now the same colour. The young man fidgeted with his pencil and his posture drooped slightly. ‘Different,’ he said, his voice not brimming with the confidence it carried before.

  David shouldn’t have pushed him, but he did. ‘How so?’

  ‘Well, every set of eyes is individual, so their blind spots would have to be different,’ he answered in a nonchalant tone.

  Instead of embarrassing him further, David flicked onto the next slide. ‘Actually, though every eye is different, their structure remains the same. So, everyone’s blind spot would be in the same position – fifteen degrees to the left of fixation, and that of the right is fifteen degrees to the right.’

  He indicated on the diagram showing the cross-section of an eye. ‘The region of space that falls on the blind area of one eye falls on the seeing retina in the other eye. So, if we have both eyes open, we wouldn’t notice our blind spots as our eyes fill in the space.’

  As he prepared the next slide, realising they’d spent too much time on the blind spot, he noticed his phone flashing on the podium. He always kept it on silent during lectures but – at Courtney’s insistence – David had it in his field of vision should she need to tell him something urgent. Of course, her ‘urgent’ had only ever been text messaging things like: ‘Buy sourdough bread on the way home.’ Or ‘Pick up Matt’s blazer from Marion.’ Or ‘Have you seen my keys?’

  David ignored his phone and pressed on, trying hard to maintain concentration with a flashing light hovering in his eye line. He paused for a moment and looked at the number. It wasn’t familiar. He rarely gave his mobile number out, so it was unusual not to know the caller. Ignoring it, he continued.

  ‘Please turn to page 320 of your textbook. Hopefully, you’ve all done your readings. If not, I urge you to catch up, it will come in handy for your mid-semester assignments.’

  David walked forward and handed the first three front rows a wad of papers detailing their assignment. As they passed them down, he returned to the podium. His phone was flashing again, this time with a text message: ‘Call Miami Primary urgently.’

  In an instant, a surge of adrenaline made him lose focus. Throughout Matthew’s time at the school, David had never been asked to call them. Courtney went to parent–teacher nights but it was his number that was listed as the emergency contact. His first thought was that Matthew was in trouble, maybe he skipped classes to do some soccer drills. Matthew never got in trouble at school, but David knew that his son would rate practising soccer today more important than going to a lesson.

  ‘Sorry, everyone,’ he said abruptly, ‘the lecture will be ending early. So, read over your assignment sheet and we’ll go through it next week.’

  As he swiftly shut his laptop and unplugged it, he could hear the whispers. David walked hastily down the lecture hall steps, passing the rows of students as he headed to the exit, thinking of what he would say if Matthew had skipped class.

  He quickly dialled the school, and the voice on the other end was cold. ‘Doctor Hamilton, your son has been taken to Miami Children’s Hospital. We found a number of rather disturbing bruises on his body and a deep gash that was bleeding profusely.’

  ‘He fell when we were away,’ David said, confused. It was rare for an injury like that to warrant hospitalisation. ‘Why did he go to the hospital?’

  ‘Why?’ she repeated in a mocking tone. ‘Because he also fainted on the playground.’

  David didn’t waste any more time wondering why the woman was being so abrupt. He hung up the phone without responding. His medical training had taught him never to panic, to think rationally. Read the symptoms, locate the problem, and formulate a diagnosis. But there was never a course on dealing with your own child. He was already dialling Courtney as he got into his car. His palms were sweaty, so when he stepped on the accelerator, the steering wheel nearly slipped from his grasp.

  Courtney’s phone rang out. He hit redial but had no luck. Instead, he left a message with Amy at the gallery, who sensed the urgency in his voice and said she would find Courtney and tell her to call him straightaway.

  As David hit the highway headed for the hospital, his mind was racing. Why had Matthew fainted? Had the wound become infected? David was worried; he couldn’t deny it. But at the same time, he assured himself that there had to be a logical explanation.

  He pulled up in front of the hospital without bothering to check if he had parked legally. The lecture he had just given on blind spots ushered forward an unsettling thought: had he been so focused on his work that he had been blind to his own son?

  By the time Matthew was born, Courtney had filled a shelf with books on parenthood and babies. She thought she knew everything there possibly was to know.

  Except this is what the books didn’t tell her: When your child hurts, you feel the pain.

  So, when David told Courtney over the phone that Matthew was in the hospital, she instantly pressed her hands to her stomach, as if he were still in her womb and she could protect him.

  Amy dropped her at the hospital because Courtney was too shaken up to drive. She sat silently in the car the whole way, trying to absorb Amy’s assurances that he’d probably over-exerted himself at lunch.

  When Courtney arrived at the hospital and frantically ran to the front desk, she was led to a square room with a single faded blue couch and told to wait. Patiently. After being informed that her son had been rushed to hospital but not told why, the word ‘wait’ didn’t register on any sort of level. When the word ‘patiently’ was thrown in, Courtney felt, for the first time in her life, like she could throw a punch. David’s phone was off and her head was pounding. She suffered from migraines, but the pain she was experiencing was far worse. Deep behind her eyes, between her nose, mixed with a spiral of nausea.

  A woman walked into the room, wearing what couldn’t possibly be nurse’s scrubs – a skirt suit with a pale blue shirt.

  ‘I’m Fran Gerome. I’m a social worker. We’ve received a referral about your son and I’m here to investigate.’ She stretched out her hand, but Courtney left Fran’s manicured nails hovering in mid-air. Courtney’s jaw felt like it was hanging open. Anger pulsed behind her eyelids. ‘Where is my son? I want to see him. What’s going on?’

  ‘We’ve been informed that your son has a number of bruises and wounds that haven’t healed, and he fainted on the school playground today. So, I’ll just need to ask you some questions. Are you aware of your son’s bruises?’

  Courtney laughed, in shock. ‘He’s a boy, he plays in the garden and on the playground. He’s having a competition with his best friend to see who can accumulate the most bruises.’ As soon as she answered, she realised how stupid it sounded. What mother would let her son compete for injuries?

  The woman raised an eyebrow and scribbled something in her notepad. ‘Has he fainted before?’

  ‘No, never,’ Courtney said.

  The woman studied Courtney’s face and body language as she continued. ‘How often do you take your child for medical check-ups?’

  ‘As often as we need to. If he has a cold. When he’s sick.’ The line of questioning was making Courtney nervous. She had nothing to hide but the woman was making her feel like her every word was being analysed.

  She scribbled something again. ‘How do you discipline your child?’

  Courtney stood up, trembling, and reached for the door handle. ‘You think I’d hurt my own son?’

  ‘We have to investigate. I’m just doing my job.’

  ‘Your job? I’m his mother. I need to do my job
and see my son. Where is my husband?’ Courtney suddenly wondered if David was at the hospital getting the same accusatory treatment.

  ‘He’s speaking now with my colleague.’

  ‘I want to see my son.’ She spoke louder than she should have, her anxiety breaking through her unsteady voice.

  ‘I just have a few more questions,’ Fran said, gesturing for Courtney to sit back down.

  ‘Do you have children?’ Courtney asked sharply.

  The woman seemed startled. She straightened her suit jacket and, after a pause, answered, ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘I didn’t think so.’ And with that Courtney pushed past her and ran down the hospital corridor in search of her son.

  10

  ‘LET’S go through this again,’ the social worker was saying, but all David could think about was keeping his fists on the table. His palms were clammy. He usually had plenty of patience but he was struggling to sit still. He stood up and started to pace around the room.

  ‘I’ve told you everything. My son cut his leg while he was fixing his bike. He fell onto a glass bottle last weekend, on his shin. It was healing fine. The rest of the bruises were just the normal activities of any growing boy.’

  The man dipped his chin down and looked at David through the corner of his eye. ‘So, he just happened to cut the same leg within a week?’

  David’s voice was clipped. ‘Yes.’

  The social worker had a receding hairline and a wrinkled forehead. He smelled like sweat, cigarettes and fermenting orange juice. David was suddenly claustrophobic. His cheeks felt like they were being roasted from the inside. ‘Can you open the door?’

  David didn’t know why he had asked. He wasn’t being detained and it was within reach. But the social worker was twice his size and David couldn’t think of anything worse than being pinned down by his sweaty arms and garlic breath. ‘If you answer my questions, this won’t take much longer,’ he said plainly.

  ‘What more is there to know?’ David snapped. ‘We’ve been through this three times already. I have nothing further to tell you. This investigation is a waste of time – yours and mine.’

  ‘We’ll decide that, Doctor Hamilton.’

  ‘I’ve answered everything you’ve asked. Now I’d like to see my son and my wife.’

  There was a knock at the door. The social worker got up and stepped outside, his scent lingering. He returned a few moments later, looking displeased. ‘The doctor wants to talk to you,’ he said, opening the door.

  As David stepped out, it felt like he was being released from jail.

  When he entered the doctor’s office he found Courtney sitting on her own in the room with her hands over her face. As she saw David, she threw her arms around him. She was sobbing, mascara running down her cheeks. ‘It’s okay,’ he said, rubbing her back and kissing the top of her head.

  ‘They think –’ she sobbed, unable to finish her sentence.

  At that moment, the doctor stepped in and Courtney released herself from David’s embrace.

  ‘I’m Doctor Anderson,’ he said, his voice calm and soothing. ‘I’m sorry for what you’ve just been through. In situations when a child presents like this and they’ve received a referral, they have to investigate. But after we run some more tests on your son, you shouldn’t hear from them again.’ David felt the first rush of relief. ‘I’ve been with your son. He’s doing fine now,’ he assured them.

  The doctor gestured for them to sit down. He straightened some papers on his desk and opened a file with Matthew’s name printed on a sticker. He scanned over a page and David tried to decipher his messy handwriting. He was waiting for Doctor Anderson to speak but the man seemed to be deliberately taking his time. It was odd being on this side of the doctor’s desk; now David understood why his patients often seemed jittery, as if they were sitting on chairs made from razor blades.

  Courtney reached for David’s hand and he held hers in a firm grasp. He looked at the clock on the wall. It was already the late afternoon and they still hadn’t seen their son.

  ‘We’ve done some investigations on Matthew,’ the doctor said. He had big hands with fat fingers, the kind David imagined to be better suited to hard labour than the delicacies of surgery. ‘And I’m afraid,’ he cleared his throat and sat upright, ‘some of the tests have given me reason for concern.’

  ‘We didn’t abuse our son,’ Courtney blurted out.

  ‘I know,’ he said reassuringly. ‘And I’ve spoken to the social workers. Once I finish the tests, their investigation should be over. I’m sorry for how this has all come about.’

  David was relieved for a moment, until he realised that if the tests proved their innocence, it meant the doctors had found something.

  ‘Is your son taking any medication? Any at all?’

  ‘No,’ Courtney answered.

  ‘Does he have any allergies or medical conditions?’

  ‘He has asthma, but he’s been fine for a few years. He takes his pump every now and then.’

  ‘Have you noticed any changes in him lately?’

  David’s mind felt foggy as he tried to think.

  ‘Changes?’ Courtney asked. ‘What do you mean by changes?’

  ‘Well, has he been acting different in any way?’

  David scanned his memories from the past few days – he couldn’t think of anything unusual. ‘He’s been himself. Playful and mischievous.’

  ‘Actually,’ Courtney said, ‘after he fell on the bottle on our trip to Key West, he was very quiet and I thought he had a fever. He woke up late, which is unusual for him, and, come to think of it, he has been looking a little pale.’

  The doctor wrote something on his notepad. ‘You see,’ he said, measuring his words and speaking slowly. David knew that tone; he sometimes used it with patients before he delivered bad news. ‘We ran a CBC – complete blood count – which revealed that your son has abnormally high leukocytes, white blood cells, which explains his fever. This could also be caused by an infection, but we haven’t been able to find one. Additionally he has a low red cell count, which might account for his pale complexion and fatigue. He also has a low neutrophil count and a low platelet count, which combined can lead to cuts that heal slowly, easy bruising or bleeding.’

  David felt Courtney squeeze his hand. He wanted the doctor to get to the point. ‘Given these findings, we’ll need to keep him here and run some more tests.’

  Courtney turned to David, searching for reassurance, but he kept his eyes on the doctor.

  ‘What kind of tests?’ David asked.

  ‘We’d like to do a bone-marrow biopsy.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Courtney said, glancing at David and then at the doctor.

  David gazed out the window to where it was a beautiful sunny day, a day just like any other. Except not for them.

  ‘Just to rule out the possibility of it being something sinister.’

  David heard Courtney draw her breath. It was only then that he noticed the certificate framed on the wall: paediatric oncologist.

  ‘What will the biopsy show?’ David asked.

  ‘Look, I don’t want to jump to any conclusions just yet. The biopsy will be looking closely at his cells, making sure there’s nothing there that shouldn’t be.’

  Courtney raised her eyebrows. ‘How soon do you need to do it? Is it painful?’

  ‘We’ll do it first thing in the morning. For kids, we do it under general anaesthetic, so he won’t feel anything during the procedure, but he may have some discomfort or pain for a few days after.’

  When they walked out of Doctor Anderson’s office, David felt like he might be sick. ‘Everything will be fine,’ he said to Courtney, trying to reassure her. ‘It’s just precautionary.’

  She looked up at him with red-stained eyes. ‘Are you sure?’ He knew she was asking him not as a father but as a doctor.

  ‘Yes, of course I’m sure,’ he lied.

  Courtney went to the bathroom and when she w
as out of sight, David knocked on Doctor Anderson’s door and stepped inside before the man had even looked up. ‘Doctor Anderson, what are you really testing for?’

  The doctor had kind eyes, with soft creases at the sides. ‘As I said, his results do point to something more sinister, which a bone-marrow biopsy and aspiration is the conclusive test for.’

  ‘Look, Doctor Anderson, I appreciate your sensitivity and I understand you don’t want us to worry if there’s no need to. I’m an ophthalmologist. I see patients myself every day and I know you’re trying to protect us. I also know you don’t get a bone-marrow biopsy unless there are enough red flags to warrant one.’

  He peered down at his hands as if he could find an answer in them. ‘You’re right, David. Then, as a doctor you would know that it’s best not to give a pre-emptive diagnosis.’

  David glanced at the door to make sure Courtney wasn’t in earshot. ‘Please, Doctor Anderson,’ he said softly, ‘what are you looking for?’

  The doctor paused for a moment and then looked him square in the eyes. ‘We are testing your son for leukaemia.’

  11

  JADE woke in a sweat to the sound of her own voice crying out in her sleep. It was as if her body had its own sensory memories of the fires – she could still feel the heat on her skin, see the blackness of the sky, hear the sound of the fiery explosions.

  Lying on the couch in the cabin in Fairmont, she thought of all the people who lost their lives, all the children now without parents. All the families without their livestock, without their farms, without their cattle, without their pets, without their homes.

  Jade closed her eyes and tried to picture her garden, the alpacas under the trees and the dappled light under the olive grove. Childhood memories rushed to her mind: climbing up one of the solid branches and jumping down to startle her father, riding her neighbour’s horse through the paddock, learning how to sun-dry olives in the glasshouse, helping her mother plant the roses and collect lavender for the vases.

  She thought of the trees, of the secret spots where she played in the long afternoons, of the oak in her garden where her mother had engraved her name in the shape of a heart. The landscape was the home of all her childhood memories. And now they were nothing but ash.