“Then don’t keep her waiting, Mrs Pollock,” said Mr Bontempi encouragingly. “Go quickly. And be strong, Oksa—your mother needs you.”
The next few days were nerve-racking for the Pollocks. Taking Mr Bontempi’s sound advice, Oksa tried very hard to build a shell around herself and to deal with the constant aching sadness that ate away at her. Every day she spent hours at the hospital with her mother, along with her father. Hiding her anguish as best she could, she’d lay out all the gifts she and her father had bought in town that morning on the bed: nightgowns, each prettier than the last, eau de toilette, flowers and gizmos to brighten up the room, crystallized fruit—Marie’s guilty pleasure—CDs of relaxing music, etc. She’d read aloud from celebrity magazines to take her mum’s mind off things and tell her whatever came into her head, from the morning news to the latest funny stories she’d heard. In the evening she’d come back from the hospital, wrung out by the effort of not crying. She’d throw herself on her bed, often in tears, her heart in pieces. Her father would come and do his best to comfort her, although he was also bitterly upset. As for Dragomira, she’d sit up with her in a chair next to her bed. But a gran, however caring she is, isn’t a mother. Overwhelmed by sadness, Oksa would eventually sink into a fitful sleep, plagued by her worries about a dismal future.
When she’d been admitted to the hospital, Marie Pollock had been in a critical condition. Her family was shocked at the contrast between Marie’s appearance before the illness and the gaunt, ashen face of the woman lying in her hospital bed. As Dragomira had said, she wasn’t in so much pain now; but it was so hard to see her looking so weak and sapped by this disease, not to mention the bouts of nausea caused by the strong drugs they were giving her. At the same time, the medical diagnoses had confirmed that she was seriously ill and that it was proving hard to find a suitable cure. Everyone was distressed by the mood of unspoken pessimism which hung over Oksa’s mother. Yet, a few days later, to the doctors’ great surprise, her condition altered drastically.
59
A CONSPICUOUS RETURN
THE FOLLOWING WEEK OKSA WENT BACK TO SCHOOL. Gus, who was waiting to see her, made no attempt to hide his impatience or his joy.
“Hi there! I’m so glad you’re back!” he exclaimed.
And he rushed over and kissed her on the cheeks. Two sincere, clumsy and totally spontaneous kisses. What a first! Oksa couldn’t remember Gus ever kissing her, not since they’d known each other—in other words, not since they were toddlers. Taken aback, she looked down and flushed. She didn’t go as red as Gus, though, who had turned so scarlet that he seemed about to go up in flames.
“Hiya, Gus,” she said. “My mother’s home, I’m so happy! The doctors weren’t keen, they thought it was too early, but Dad insisted on having her discharged so that he could bring her home. I really thought they were going to come to blows.”
“Yes, I know,” said Gus, his cheeks and forehead still bright red. “My parents called your father yesterday evening, they’ve just told me. How is she? She looked as if she was in so much pain when we came to see her the other day.”
Oksa’s face darkened.
“She can move her left arm a bit now. She can’t walk, but she can stand up; she’s gradually regaining her balance, she’s got her sight back, and she doesn’t get dizzy any more. I hope it continues… I was so afraid Gus, you have no idea!”
“What about the doctors? What are they saying?”
“They think it’s multiple sclerosis. I did some research: it’s a serious disease which attacks the nervous system by forming lesions which alter the neurological functions. It mainly affects women. Abakum is staying with us for a few days and he and Baba make a pretty formidable team, I can tell you. I was aware they were clued up on alternative medicine, but I had no idea how much they knew. Believe it or not, Baba injected my mother with some Vermicula!”
“Er… what are Vermicula?” asked Gus.
“It’s top-secret information,” murmured Oksa, looking around cagily. “Vermicula are a widely used remedy in Edefia, particularly in microsurgery. I don’t have to tell you that the doctors here aren’t in the know. Abakum explained to me that, instead of operating on people, they inject them with a substance which contains worms the size of human cells. They make their way to where the illness has taken hold and treat it—No kidding! It does sound a little disgusting, I agree, but I think it’s worked well on my mother. In her case, it seems that lesions have formed on her nerve centre and, according to the doctors, we don’t know what the long-term effects are. From what I’ve read, the damage is usually irreversible, since it’s a degenerative disease: the affected cells don’t regenerate, you never get back what you’ve lost. That’s why the doctors have described the results of the last tests they did on my mother as a miracle. They can’t get over how much she’s improved in just a few days; this is the first time they’ve seen a case like this. We can’t say anything to them, but I’m telling you in the utmost secrecy that Abakum and Baba’s Vermicula went straight to the root of the problem: they’re the reason my mother is feeling better. Admittedly she’s not cured, far from it; but, given the extent of the damage, she should be far worse, according to the doctors. I just hope she continues to get better…”
“That’s so typical of the Pollocks—microscopic worms the size of cells! If you didn’t exist, someone would have had to invent you. What about you? How are you?” asked Gus, moving closer and stealing a glance at Oksa.
“Oh Gus, you’ve got a blackhead on your nose!” said Oksa, trying to change the subject. “Only joking… things are better now my mother’s back, even though she’s far from well. You know Dad, he won’t leave her side by so much as an inch. Otherwise, you would get a look at the Lunatrixes! Dragomira has given them permission to come downstairs in view of the special circumstances, and they’re as busy as… as…”
“As Lunatrixes?” said Gus helpfully.
Oksa laughed heartily for the first time in days.
“Exactly. They’re more bonkers than ever, their vocabulary is all over the place. But it’s lucky they’re there because my mother loves them and so do I. They give us a good laugh and they make themselves very useful.”
She paused for a second, then asked:
“What about… McGraw?”
“McGraw? Well… he asked where you were, believe it or not, you’d almost think he missed you! Apart from that, nothing special, he’s just the same as usual. Despicable, like your father said. Other than that, someone else has really missed you—”
He was interrupted by the arrival of Merlin Poicassé, who gave a loud shout of joy when he saw that Oksa had come back. He also came over to kiss her clumsily, but boldly, on the cheeks. Blushing furiously again at more hugging and kissing, Oksa wondered: “What on earth is going on with those two? Did they make a bet or something?” But if she’d seen Gus’s crestfallen expression, she’d have realized immediately that a bet was well wide of the mark—that the “someone else” who’d missed her was perhaps not who she thought it was.
As Mr Bontempi had anticipated, her week away from school didn’t have any effect on Oksa’s work. Gus had emailed her the homework she had to do along with the lessons she had to learn every day and she soon caught up. All the teachers were very kind and asked after her mother. Unfortunately McGraw hadn’t changed and was just as mocking and contemptuous as ever.
“Oh, Miss Pollock is back, just when we’d given up our last hope,” he said, with heavy emphasis on these words. “A week away from school for a hospitalized parent! How long would you have been off if it had been you taken sick? A year-long sabbatical, at least…”
A shocked murmur ran through the classroom. Oksa was literally speechless. Sitting on her own at her desk, since Gus had been relegated to the back of the class, she felt the Curbita-Flatulo firmly squeeze her wrist. She was SO angry. She put her hand on her small shoulder bag and felt for her Granok-Shooter. She wanted to use it so badly. A good Mu
ddler or Dermenburn would teach that arrogant McGraw to be sarcastic! The pressure from the Curbita-Flatulo increased and the rage which was burning Oksa up inside was quickly extinguished, as though quenched by a cool breeze—helped by the fact that she had a small act of revenge up her sleeve, just in case… a doubly satisfying act of revenge, since there was nothing magical about it at all. And McGraw had just unwittingly given her a great opportunity. As he was writing on the board, she raised her hand and called out:
“Please, sir?”
McGraw turned round in astonishment, looking tense.
“Yes?”
“Sir, there’s something odd in the last exercise you gave us,” she explained innocently. “You seem to have reversed the abscissa and the ordinate. The way it is now, the problem can’t be solved.”
An ominous silence followed this remark which was, after all, totally justified. At the back, Gus decided there was absolutely no point trying to make his friend see reason. In expectation of the catastrophe that was bound to befall the class in the next few minutes, some of the students were gnawing their bottom lips, while others wisely lowered their eyes. Oksa kept hers firmly fixed on McGraw. It was hard, but she was determined not to be the first to look away. All kinds of thoughts helped her to keep her resolve. Specific images, like Gracious Malorane endangering herself for Dragomira, the man with the decomposing arm writhing in pain, flames emerging from the Glass Column in Edefia, her mother lying on the stretcher. Even if this last mental image had nothing to do with him, it gave her more courage than all the rest combined. McGraw had belittled her mother’s illness and she wasn’t going to put up with that! The teacher rummaged through his papers and took out the exercise in question. He reread it quickly, but Oksa was confident she was right, so she didn’t take her eyes off him. Finally he looked up and fixed his dark gaze on her:
“Fortunately the brilliant Miss Pollock is here to point out her teachers’ mistakes! Perhaps I should let you take my place?” he said stiffly, his thin lips pursed in rage.
“But Dr McGraw, I’m not a teacher, I’m only thirteen!” she retorted, a hint of irony in her voice. “I just wanted to make sure it was a mistake because, otherwise, we might have found it confusing.”
“Your classmates have probably already corrected it. I’m sure everyone picked up on such a glaring mistake well before you mentioned it,” said McGraw icily, putting an end to the conversation.
Oksa smiled mockingly at him, noticing that a few of the students in the class had grabbed their pencil cases and notebooks to correct the faulty logic of the exercise and were hurriedly trying to come up with a coherent answer. Their hasty diligence and Oksa’s provocative smile didn’t escape McGraw and he spent the whole hour looking daggers at her.
Needless to say, she was given an ovation at break. The students in Year 8 Hydrogen were gloating: once more, Oksa had managed to stand up to the hateful McGraw. She slipped away just in time to avoid being carried shoulder-high in triumph, because her victory, far from going to her head, didn’t dispel her worries.
“I must phone home to find out how my mother is, I didn’t see her before I left. I’m going to get my mobile, I left it in my locker.”
“Do you want me to come with you?” Gus asked hurriedly.
“No, don’t bother. I won’t be a minute.”
The corridor was deserted, since everyone was outside in the courtyard enjoying the winter sun. Oksa fetched her phone and called home. Dragomira picked up immediately and reassured her granddaughter: Marie was fine this morning, she’d even managed to take a few steps leaning on Pavel’s arm. The Vermicula seemed to be working miracles. Her mind put at ease, Oksa hung up. But when she turned round, her relieved smile quickly vanished: she found herself face to face with the Year 9 Neanderthal, no more than a couple of feet away.
“Well, well. If it isn’t my favourite loser! You don’t seem so full of yourself without your pathetic little band of brats following you around,” he said provocatively.
“Not so full of myself as who?” retorted Oksa belligerently, massaging her wrist to relieve the pressure of the Curbita-Flatulo, which found itself in demand for the second time that morning.
“You think you’re so clever, don’t you, Miss I-can-do-everything-better-than-anyone-else! Do you really believe I don’t know who you are? You’re living in cloud cuckoo land. You’re nowhere near as strong as you think you are, my father is head and shoulders above you. He could flatten you and your whole family to a pulp if he wanted!”
“Oh yeah?” said Oksa, determined not to be overawed. “Is your father a bulldozer then?”
“You pathetic moron, you still haven’t realized, have you? MY FATHER IS MCGRAW!” yelled the Neanderthal.
60
THREE FOR THE PRICE OF ONE
WHEN SHE HEARD THIS, OKSA COULDN’T RESTRAIN herself: her Knock-Bong somehow thumped into the boy she now knew as McGraw’s son with incredible force, sending him flying. He landed heavily on the flagstone floor sixty feet away with a stifled cry.
“Wow,” thought Oksa, rubbing her wrist, “that was worth a little pain from the Curbita-Flatulo!”
But the thick-set lout was already struggling to his feet, looking a little dazed but hell-bent on revenge—Oksa could see that clearly from his furious face, which didn’t bode well at all. Bent double, rubbing the small of his back, he lumbered closer with a threatening expression. Suddenly, like a flash, he lunged at Oksa before she could react, crossing the sixty feet between them at a phenomenal, totally unreal, speed. Less than a second later he pounced on her, slamming her against the ground, his speed increasing the impact. Crushed under her attacker’s body, Oksa gave a deep groan of pain mingled with rage.
“You didn’t think,” spluttered Mortimer McGraw, “you were the only one who could—”
He didn’t have time to finish his sentence: Oksa had just delivered a relentless blow which weakened his resolve. Using the fingers of her right hand like the talons of an eagle swooping on its prey, she’d hit him hard on the temple. Then she rolled to one side, athletically freeing herself as her father had taught her to do in karate, capitalizing on the boy’s surprise at her counter-attack. She was about to defend herself from a fresh attack from him when someone suddenly jumped on her back, pinning her to the ground. She had just enough time to put her hands out in front of her to break her fall.
“Don’t you dare lay a finger on Mortimer, understand!” hissed a voice.
With her face against the floor, Oksa couldn’t see who was speaking. All she could see were McGraw’s son’s shoes just in front of her. There was a savage kick to her right side. Making a superhuman effort, she tried to turn over. The grip on her relaxed and Oksa was able to sit up, her ribs hurting, to see who had spoken.
“ZOE? I thought it sounded like you! Help me!”
“Leave Mortimer alone! Don’t touch my family!” snarled Zoe in return.
“You mean… that Neanderthal is your brother?”
One by one, the pieces of information slotted into place, to her total incredulity.
“That means McGraw is your father too! But I thought you were an orphan. YOU LIED!”
“No, you don’t know anything,” muttered Zoe.
She released Oksa and ran off. At the same time, Gus suddenly appeared in the corridor, worried that his friend hadn’t yet come back. Oksa raised her head just enough to see her friend charging at the Neanderthal like a wild animal. The two boys were glaring at each other, eye to eye, and Mortimer McGraw had adopted the stance of a boxer about to throw a lethal punch. But Gus intercepted his move, blocking his sworn enemy’s throat with his right arm, then hooked his leg. Despite his massive build, the Neanderthal staggered and almost lost his balance. He stopped himself falling just in time by catching hold of Gus’s uniform tie.
“I’d advise you to let me go,” said Gus through gritted teeth.
But instead of following this sound advice, Mortimer McGraw tightened his grip and was
clearly about to throw Gus against the wall. This wasn’t something the boy fancied at all, his rage giving him the strength of ten men. Catching hold of the Neanderthal by the arms, he vigorously propelled him over his hip, and threw him to the ground like a sack of potatoes.
“Are you hurt, Oksa?” panted Gus, rushing over to her as the Neanderthal ran off.
“No, I’m fine… well, actually, no, I’m not fine all,” she said, sitting on the ground with her head in her hands. “Ow!” she cried, holding her ribs, as she tried to stand.
“What’s going on?” asked Merlin, who’d just turned up with a few other students alerted by the din. “Are you hurt, Oksa? Can I help?”
“Leave it, Merlin,” replied Gus breathlessly. “I’ll look after her. Come on, Oksa, I’m taking you to the infirmary.”
Matron refused to believe Oksa when she claimed she’d broken a rib falling over and badgered her for the truth. Confronted by the student’s stubborn refusal to change her story, she called Mr Bontempi, who got there a couple of minutes later.
“Oksa, you have to tell me who did this to you,” he said, sitting down by her bed.
“I fell over, sir, honestly,” she added, seeing his unconvinced expression.
Mr Bontempi sighed.
“Oksa, it’s very hard to break a rib just by falling down in a corridor. Personally, I think that some student or other was bullying you and you don’t want to give me their name for fear of reprisals.”
Oksa Pollock: The Last Hope Page 35
