Single (ARC)

by K. L. Slater

  Kane’s asthma has got steadily worse over the last year, and he knows not to push himself too hard physically. He knows when and how to use his inhaler, plus he has his brother with him to help if need be.

  Maybe it’s not Kane who’s in trouble.

  Then Harrison is in front of me, wringing his hands, his expression one of dread and panic. ‘He just fell on the floor, Mum. I couldn’t help him.’

  I turn to Steph. Her hands are glued to her mouth as she squeezes her eyes closed against the horror. I look down then and see Kane’s stricken little face. Eyes bulging, skin pale and taking on a bluish hue in front of my very eyes. He’s lying on his back, clawing at his chest and throat in a desperate bid to drag in air.

  Everything slows down as I lurch towards him. My head swims, the faces around me merging into each other and starting to spin. Harrison takes his brother’s hand, jiggles his arm as if it might help him recover.

  ‘It’s my boy… Somebody help him!’ Inside my head, my own voice sounds like a slowed-down record, slurred and deep. I bound forward and everything speeds up again.

  I snatch up Kane’s small Marvel rucksack from his side and plunge my hand in the front pouch to retrieve the inhaler I packed in there this morning before we left the house. I pull out two toy cars instead.

  His inhaler isn’t in there.

  ‘He must’ve taken it back out when he packed his toys.’ I look at a frozen Steph, my hands shaking so violently I drop the rucksack.

  Steph snaps to life, snatches up the bag and rips open the side pockets, turning it upside down and emptying out his packed lunch. She shakes it until the bag is completely empty of every last item.

  ‘I packed it, I know I did!’ I cry out. I look after my boys, I’m a good mum now. This makes me look… negligent.

  Steph wraps her arms around Harrison and he buries his face in her side.

  Kane’s face is properly blue now, his mouth stretching wide as he tries in vain to pull in enough air. I know his windpipe is swollen, closing up. The muscles in his chest have seized up, locking out the oxygen he needs so badly.

  I stare down at him, hardly able to breathe myself. My skin feels slick and damp, the voices around me swimming as one through my mind.

  My boy is going to die. He’s going to die.

  I let out a wail as I bend forward to cradle his head in my hands.

  He’s gasping… these are his last breaths. He’s slipping away from me. I’m losing him all over again.

  ‘Please… no!’ I screech up at the sky. ‘Somebody help him.’

  The crowd shrinks back slightly, and I recoil in shock as a pair of strong hands grasp my shoulders from behind and push me gently but firmly aside.

  ‘I’m a doctor,’ a deep, authoritative voice says in my ear. ‘Let me see your boy.’

  I collapse back onto my bottom, suddenly unable to keep upright, and sit speechless, making no effort to move. I simply watch as this man, this guardian angel, takes command of the situation, and my throat relaxes a touch, allowing my breathing to deepen.

  ‘His name?’ the doctor asks me.

  ‘Kane,’ I whisper hoarsely.

  He doesn’t look like your average angel. He is dressed in jeans and an unbuttoned checked shirt with a black T-shirt underneath. His face and arms are tanned, and he has short brown hair and good teeth. His amber-flecked green eyes are kind when they meet mine.

  A pretty girl of about five or six with strawberry-blonde hair shadows him. She steps back and bites her lip, calmly watches the proceedings as if she’s seen it all before.

  ‘Sit him up,’ the doctor briskly instructs the two members of staff who are hovering around. ‘Hold him there; he needs to be upright. That’s better.’ He turns to the crowd. ‘Can someone run for a first-aid kit from the reception? We need a relief inhaler. And someone else get him a hot chocolate or a sweet tea. Hurry!’

  As if by magic, people instantly respond to his natural authority. The remaining crowd willingly parts to allow people through, as his orders are followed without question.

  I watch, helpless, as he pulls off Kane’s grey fleece top and loosens the neck of his T-shirt. His long fingers are slim and nimble; his hands are square. Competent.

  ‘It’s going to be fine, Kane,’ he murmurs to my son. ‘Relax. The air is flowing in now, can you feel it? Breathe in, one, two, three… breathe out, one, two, three. Nice and slow, control it. That’s it, champ, you’re doing brilliantly. It’s going to be OK.’

  Minutes later, a breathless park ranger appears at his side with a green backpack featuring a large white cross. ‘Spare inhaler.’ She hands over the small grey apparatus.

  The doctor lifts it to Kane’s mouth and my boy pulls in precious air.

  A serious-looking young woman in her twenties appears with a steaming plastic cup. ‘I put plenty of sugar in it, like you said.’

  A few more puffs of the inhaler, and then the doctor brings the cup to Kane’s lips.

  ‘It’s sweet tea and it’s quite hot, but you can take a tiny sip,’ he encourages him. ‘And another. That’s it.’

  Kane’s eyes are not bulging quite as badly now. He’s still very pale, but the blue tinge has given way to a less frightening-looking pallor. A couple more sips of tea and another puff on the inhaler, then he turns to me and gives me a tiny weak smile, and my heart is fit to burst.

  A reassuring hum of relief rises in the crowd, and people step aside as two paramedics in green overalls appear.

  ‘Coming through, everyone,’ the taller one says as she plonks down her case of equipment. She addresses the doctor. ‘We can take it from here, thanks.’

  ‘George Mortimer.’ He introduces himself to the paramedics as he gets to his feet. He lowers his voice, but I’m standing close enough to hear. ‘Surgeon in urology at the City Hospital.’

  The paramedics’ demeanour immediately turns deferential, and they briefly confer in hushed voices, glancing down at Kane and nodding as the senior medic advises on his condition.

  The doctor turns to me and gives a quick smile. He seems completely unflustered, and waves people away as they step forward to pat him on the back.

  ‘Thank you,’ I whisper as he extends a hand to help me to my feet. ‘I’ll never be able to thank you enough for what you’ve done today.’

  I look into his eyes, and a rush of emotion has me suddenly embracing him a little too zealously, like he’s a long-lost friend. He flinches momentarily, and then relaxes into the hug, patting my back.

  Totally illogical, I know, but I feel like I never want him to let me go. I feel like I belong there, safe in his arms.

  Over his shoulder, Steph takes in my expression and gives me a tight smile. She’ll be thinking about the last thing I said to her.

  I can’t even imagine trusting another man again, so it’s just me and my boys for now.

  But this is not just another man, is it?

  This is the man who saved my son’s life.

  Two

  I watch from the back of the crowd.

  Lots of the people who’ve gathered here will be willing everything to turn out well for the little boy. But some of them are like a certain type who go to the circus. Their eyes, dark little beads of spitefulness, praying and hoping for the pretty girl to fall and end up a wet, red mess on the floor of the big top.

  The mother’s plaintive wailing cuts through the noise of the park.

  There’s a shiver of anticipation when the boy turns blue and the mother starts screeching for help. When the doctor rushes over, strong and focused, barking out orders and saving his life, it’s exciting.

  When the child begins to breathe again and the blue colour in his face recedes, they start to lose interest. One or two peel off from the sides to resume their park rides.

  The way most people can view the lives of others, as if they’re watching it through glass, never fails to stun me. The same way we can watch starving children or the atrocities of war and remain quite detached
through our television screens…

  I’m one of the last ones there. I stay until the paramedics arrive.

  I’ve been following for a long time today but nobody notices me. Nobody asks what I’m doing here. I’ve worked on my ordinariness: grey and black clothing, beanie hat, pale, uninteresting face cast down towards the floor.

  I’m good at keeping my feelings buried deep now, saying and doing all the right things.

  I’ve seen the adoration on the mother’s face. I could tell her to be careful, but it won’t do any good.

  I can see she’s already smitten.

  More fool her.

  Three

  Finally George Mortimer manages to politely extricate himself from my limpet-like embrace.

  Against the embarrassing backdrop of me thanking him incessantly, he reaches for the hand of the small girl and together they melt back into the crowd.

  The onlookers are dissipating fast, keen to resume their day at the park now that the drama has passed.

  ‘Your son is going to be fine,’ the tall paramedic tells me kindly. ‘We’ll need to take him to hospital just to get him checked over. You’ll be able to take him home when he’s been given the all-clear.’

  I feel reassured by this. My hands are still trembling from the realisation of how badly today could have turned out. They’re going to make absolutely sure my boy is one hundred per cent fine.

  ‘We’ll wait for you at home,’ Steph murmurs, and with the minimum of fuss, she leads Harrison off to a nearby refreshment stand.

  * * *

  I travel to the City Hospital in the back of the ambulance with one of the paramedics. I hold Kane’s hand, never taking my eyes from his pale little face.

  He’s still got an oxygen mask on and can’t really speak, but I make up for that by rabbiting on non-stop about all the great things we’re going to do and see and…

  ‘Take a breath, Darcy, or I’ll be putting an oxygen mask on you too,’ the paramedic jokes, winking at Kane.

  ‘Sorry.’ I give her a little smile but feel my cheeks burning.

  I’ve always got through the drama of life by vomiting out words, throwing meaningless promises about the future out there to anyone who’ll listen. Fantasising.

  I did it when Joel died, even after I found out how he’d deceived us.

  In the days after his death, I ran myself ragged planning camping holidays with the boys, a new career, moving away from the area… The list went on as I tried in vain to drown out the noise of the unspeakable truth I had discovered just before he died. All my ridiculous little stories of how everything would be just fine.

  Looking back, I can see now it was the manic stage before the full meltdown and it didn’t work, of course. Didn’t make the terrible deeds of the man I’d loved so much go away.

  What he did cut so deep, even now, I’m not sure I’ll ever quite get over it.

  * * *

  As Kane has arrived at the hospital by ambulance, we skip the chaos of A&E and he’s whisked through to see a doctor.

  Without the oxygen mask, he’s looking a little more like himself. Not quite as pale now, and there’s even a ghost of a smile when the doctor jokingly starts to inspect a non-existent foot injury before listening to his chest and taking various observations.

  ‘I don’t need to tell you he had a close shave.’ The doctor turns to me, releasing his stethoscope to hang around his neck again. ‘I think we can safely say this attack was brought on by a combination of too much vigorous exercise, overexcitement and eating a dry biscuit, which brought on a coughing fit.’ He wags his finger at Kane in mock disapproval. ‘Don’t ever leave the house without your inhaler, young man. Even if it means there’s no room for your toy car collection. Understand?’

  Kane grins and nods, self-consciously patting the arms of the child-size wheelchair he’s sitting in.

  Once they discharge him, I insist we’ll be fine making our own way back to the exit. I just need some space to get my head straight. It’s quite a walk, so we keep the wheelchair, and Kane seems to enjoy the novelty of being pushed through the glossy pale-green corridors, the drama of the asthma attack already fading fast.

  But the trauma is still very much with me. My heart continues to race too fast and when I used the bathroom on the treatment ward, my cheeks looked bright pink in the mirror and were hot to the touch.

  None of that stuff is important now, of course. Kane is fine, and that’s all that matters.

  George Mortimer’s face fills my mind again. His confidence and natural authority were so impressive, and other people there felt it too, eager to carry out his instructions. Aside from that, he was a very attractive man. Although I’d never admit it to Steph, the whole package of this guy adds up to a God-like figure in my mind.

  I can never repay him for how he helped my son today. Nothing I could do would come close.

  It feels like I’ve pushed the wheelchair for miles, but finally I spot a sign for the exit.

  ‘I’ll call us a cab and we can go straight home, sweetie. You must be exhausted.’ I ruffle Kane’s short sandy hair, the exact colour and wiry texture as his father’s. ‘I think an evening of banana milkshake, pizza and a movie might be in order. Is that OK with you?’

  He twists his head around and smiles. He’s still being very quiet, for Kane, but that’s to be expected.

  He’s experienced breathless episodes before, especially if he’s been particularly active or the pollen count is high outside. But a few puffs of his inhaler and he’s been good as new. I’ll need to take him to our GP to confirm whether the asthma has somehow got even worse without us noticing.

  The whole episode at the play park must have scared him witless, as it did the rest of us.

  As I steer the wheelchair to the right, following the exit signs, a large arrow and signage to the left catches my eye. In bold black letters are the words Urology Dept.

  I take a sharp left turn instead.

  ‘The exit is that way, Mum.’ Kane points up at the sign and then to the right.

  ‘I know, but the urology department is down here. It’s where George Mortimer works, the man who helped you today.’

  ‘But he won’t be here now,’ Kane says patiently. ‘He’s still at the park with his little girl.’

  I know that. I just want to see the place he works, that’s all.

  ‘We can bring him in a thank-you card or something. I just need to see where we’ll come to drop it off.’

  Kane doesn’t reply. I know he’s exhausted, and I will get him home, but a two-minute detour won’t do any harm. He’s too young to realise just how close he came to disaster today. Too young to fully appreciate what George Mortimer did for him.

  But I’m under no such illusions.

  Fifty yards later, we stand in front of double doors bearing a large Urology sign. I push one open and a passing porter kindly assists us through into the entrance area of the ward.

  ‘Can I help you?’ A nurse in her thirties wearing a navy-blue uniform and holding a clipboard turns as we enter.

  I tell her briefly what happened at the park with Dr Mortimer, and her face lights up as she winks at Kane.

  ‘Ah, yes, that sounds just like Mr Mortimer. He’s a consultant surgeon, you see, so we address him as Mister, not Doctor.’

  ‘I see.’ Typical of the man, I think, to understate his status to the paramedics. ‘I wanted to know if it would be OK to drop him in a thank-you card, maybe tomorrow. We’re so grateful.’

  ‘Of course!’ She beams. ‘He’ll love that, I’m sure. I’m on duty tomorrow, so I might see you then.’

  She turns to the secure ward doors and wafts a lanyard in front of the security pad. I manoeuvre the wheelchair back around in the limited space and head towards the exit again.

  ‘Look, Mum, there’s Dr George.’ Kane points to a row of A4-size photographs on the wall, identifying all the urology ward staff from the senior consultant to the cleaner.

  Next to the
senior consultant urologist, a Mr Dharval Ratan, is George. He looks so effortlessly handsome in his photograph. Slightly tousled brown hair, strong jaw, and the same easy smile he bestowed on me this afternoon, when I thanked him so profusely.

  Under my breath, I whisper his title. ‘Mr George Mortimer DM FRCS (Urol.) – Consultant Urologist.’

  Impressive. Just like the man himself.

  Kane turns around in the wheelchair as I start rooting around in my handbag.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he says irritably. ‘Can’t we just go home now?’

  He’s tired and I’ll have him home in no time. It’s just that I have to do something first.

  ‘Yes, in a minute. I just…’ I pull out my phone and take a snap of George’s photograph before slipping it back in the top pocket of my denim jacket. ‘There, all done. Let’s go.’

  As I wrestle the wheelchair back through the double doors, I feel a warm glow inside my chest.

  In a strange way, it feels like I have a little piece of George Mortimer for myself now, right next to my heart.

  Four

  When George had dropped Romy off at her grandparents’ for tea and a sleepover, he didn’t call Dharval Ratan back as his colleague had requested in his answerphone message. Instead, he went straight home and, before he’d even slipped off his shoes, poured himself a gin. Just the one measure, mind.

  Dharval was the senior consultant urologist at the hospital and effectively George’s boss. He was due to retire next summer and George was seriously gunning for the job. Dharval knew his opinion counted for a lot with the board, and he was making George earn his brownie points, asking him to take his place at last-minute out-of-hours meetings and giving him problematic case studies that would swallow up all his non-surgical time and more still.