Patience was so pale, it appeared as if she was actually part of the white sheet which the nurses had draped over her and tucked in neatly at the corners. And if it hadn’t been for the reassuring beeping of the heart monitor and the gentle sigh of the ventilator, he’d have believed she was already dead.
Pete knew all about sepsis. He and Lou had witnessed Serena go through that particular hell with Patrick a few years previously, so he knew what was coming. He drew closer to the bed, leaned over and kissed her cheek, feeling its warmth on his lips. Then he stroked her face with his right hand, tracing its contours: her mother’s nose, her father’s eyes, a mouth of her very own. Pete looked down and saw that her hands, usually clenched together in an irresistible embrace, were now lying singly either side of her torso. He held the hand nearest to him, noting how cold it was, how limp. She was not awake, and she was not aware. They had sedated her, and it was clear she was not feeling any pain. He was grateful for that.
‘Mr Willow?’ Pete turned round to see a female doctor in her forties, hair in a tight brown bun, standing next to him.
‘Yes.’
‘We have some test results. Would you like me to wait for your wife to come back?’
‘Yes, definitely. Let me go out and call her; she just went for a walk.’
Pete strode out into the corridor, took his phone out from his pocket and dialled Louise’s number.
‘Lou. It’s me. They’ve got results.’
‘See you in a minute.’
He had arrived about forty-five minutes ago, having exceeded every speed limit on the roads between Birmingham and Oxford. He readily anticipated the speeding fines he’d be getting, and he absolutely did not care. Louise had met him in the corridor outside, her face puffy and red, her hair unbrushed and greasy, her pyjamas – a pair he’d bought her for Christmas about five years ago – askew. He had taken one look at her and swept her up into his arms and she had cried then, long and hard, against his chest. They had stood there like that for several minutes, neither of them in the least bit awkward. The bonds of a lifetime were, it seemed, automatic, and hard to break.
While she was there, right there in his arms, she’d told him, in rushed, hushed tones, that Eliza had split up from Ed. That made two life-changing pieces of news in one morning and Pete could barely take even one of them in.
His poor, lovely Eliza. When this was over, he decided he was going to try to talk to her about it. He knew he had often avoided talking about feelings, but now was perhaps the time to try, he thought. The poor thing must be heartbroken.
They had gone in to see Patience then. Eliza had been there, talking to her, holding her hand. They had all made ridiculous small talk and pretended, within her earshot, that the sky was not about to fall in. And then he’d looked over at his wife and seen how utterly exhausted she was, how broken, and he’d suggested that she should go for a walk and leave them there, on duty.
And now she was walking up the corridor carrying a white paper bag. When she reached him, she opened up the bag and revealed a giant bar of chocolate and a large bottle of mineral water. ‘For us,’ she said. ‘I think we need it. Serena has told me that I’m not allowed gin, so…’
Pete appreciated her attempt at humour, and her choice of chocolate, which was his favourite. ‘Thank you,’ he said, ‘for thinking of me.’
Louise put her hand on his arm, and squeezed it gently. ‘And I wanted to ask you. Would you mind if we called the hospital chaplain? I know how you feel about church – but I – I would definitely feel happier if we had them here. For me, I suppose. Call it familiarity.’
‘Of course. It makes no difference to me,’ he had replied. His mum had not brought him up with any faith, and he had found Louise’s father’s vocation baffling, but if anything, he had missed the ritual of church after the big family falling out. It was at least a decade since he’d last said a prayer. He didn’t know whether his thoughts went to a higher being or whether they went no further than his own brain, but in any case, he had discovered praying had helped him arrange his myriad fears and hopes in some order. Lou had often looked across at him during services and assumed that his uncomfortable expression related to his feelings about her father and his faith, but they had more often related to his own dissatisfaction with himself. He was a shit provider, a shit father, a shit husband. If she was still alive, his mother, who had single-handedly raised two kids by herself in post-war slum housing in Birmingham, would think he had failed, he was convinced of that.
‘Let’s go in,’ he said, brushing his thoughts aside. Nothing ever came of self-pity. That had done him enough harm already.
The doctor was waiting by Patience’s bed. Eliza was sitting nearby and stood up as she saw her parents approach. ‘There you are,’ she said. ‘Mrs Willow, I thought you’d all like to hear the results of some of the early tests. We think at this point that Patience’s infection may have started in her bladder. Her urine tests certainly show that there’s a very bad infection there now. And there’s scarring, so she may have had several of these before. Has she ever had one diagnosed?’
‘No,’ Louise answered. ‘No one has ever suggested it.’
‘Well, it can be very difficult to diagnose in people who are not able to articulate their own pain,’ replied the doctor.
‘So you think all of this started as a bladder infection? Cystitis?’ Louise said, unable to take on board that something so apparently minor could bring about something so catastrophic. ‘Nothing to do with the gene therapy trial?’
‘We can’t be absolutely certain, of course,’ the doctor replied, ‘but we think it unlikely. I’ve just spoken to Professor Larssen and he is devastated to hear about Patience’s condition. But he reaffirmed that this is not a likely side effect of the treatment she’s had. It might be just a very unfortunate coincidence, or it could be related to the catheter they inserted in the hospital during treatment.’
‘Right,’ said Pete. ‘How long would she have had to have it, to make it get so bad? Have the carers been missing signs?’
‘It might have started very recently, Mr Willow. It’s impossible to say. These things can take hold very quickly, particularly if someone’s had them before. And as for the sepsis – maybe the bacteria is particularly virulent, causing her immune system to go into overdrive? We’re not sure.’
All four of them looked at Patience then, her mask-like face belying the epic battle going on inside her body. It didn’t matter how she’d got it, Pete realised now. All the blame in the world couldn’t make her better.
‘Is she going to die?’ Pete asked, suddenly remembering with crystal clarity the moment when Louise had put the same question to the consultant neurologist, all those years ago. He had been wrong, hadn’t he? So, doctors could be wrong.
‘It’s impossible to say, Mr Willow. We have only just started the antibiotics. The next twenty-four hours will be crucial. We will simply have to wait and see.’ She had moved on then, to see other critically ill patients, and left the three of them standing around the bed, like pallbearers.
It was Serena, coming through the door, who had broken the unbearable silence they were all sharing. ‘I’ve brought you some things, Lou,’ she’d said in the instant before she had fully taken in the tableau that lay on the other side of the room. When she had seen it, she put down the bag she’d packed and walked swiftly over to Patience’s bedside, collapsing into the chair next to it. Louise had followed her, knowing that she would sink further when she heard which particular foe Patience was having to fight.
*
Pete and Eliza decided to leave them for a while. Serena had always been so private about her grief, so outwardly strong, that it was a shock to see her dissolve so quickly. Louise had whispered her thanks to them when they announced that they were going to go in search of a hospital chaplain.
‘I think I saw a sign to the chapel this way,’ said Eliza, her voice lightening and her face brightening the further away they walked from ICU. Pete knew exactly how she felt. It was like being on an alien spaceship in there, entirely separate from the rest of the world, surrounded by technology you didn’t understand, people saying things you didn’t understand. Seeing ordinary people walking around the hospital, visiting relatives, buying newspapers, delivering flowers, gave him comfort.
They found the chapel on the ground floor, tucked away behind the mortuary. Which was logical enough, he supposed. The relatives of those needing the latter would probably seek help from the former, if they had any faith at all. The chapel turned out to be a small room, no bigger than a living room, simply decorated with free-standing cushioned upright chairs and a small altar adorned with a simple wooden cross. There were windows along one side of the room looking out onto a well-tended garden full of wildflowers. There was no sign of the chaplain, but there was a contact number on a poster on the wall, so Pete texted it, asking them to come to visit Patience in ICU. Then he turned around, and saw his daughter kneeling in front of the altar, deep in thought. Or prayer. He hadn’t raised her to pray, but these were certainly desperate times. He’d take anything that worked, frankly. He sat down on the front row of seats while he waited for her to finish.
‘Sorry, Dad. I just thought… this might be a good time to ask for help.’
She had turned around and walked over to where he was sitting, and pulled out a chair. ‘That’s fine, love. Pray away. If it helps.’
‘Grandpa taught me how to do it. You know, when we used to visit him.’
‘Yes, I suppose he did.’
‘You didn’t like Grandpa, did you?’
‘No, not very much. He never thought I was good enough for your mum. And… well, he wasn’t a nice man, really.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, he said something horrible once. Something your mum and I have never forgiven him for.’
‘Was it something about Patience?’
‘Oh no. He was very nice about her. Although neither he nor your gran were very helpful, in practical ways. But they said nice things, at least.’
‘Then who was it about?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ He swung his head around to look directly at her. ‘Love, your mum told me about your news.’
Pete registered a look of panic in her eyes.
‘About Ed leaving,’ he carried on. ‘Well, as your mum said, we had our doubts about him. As did you, I think? And you definitely don’t want to marry someone if you have doubts.’
‘But what about the money you’ve lost?’
‘We’ll get some of it back. And of course Great-Auntie Maud will be grumpy that she won’t be able to debut her peach fascinator, but she’ll just have to cope, won’t she?’
Eliza laughed, and then looked at her dad in wonder.
‘Don’t look at me like that,’ he said. ‘You’re human. Humans make mistakes. Why did you expect us to be so disappointed in you?’ For heaven’s sake, he thought, I’ve made enough mistakes for all of us.
‘I just thought that you wanted me to do things properly,’ she said. ‘You’ve always wanted me to do things properly. Uni, proper career, good salary, pick a man with prospects, get married, have babies…’
‘When did I ever say those things?’
He could see her thinking about it.
‘Well, not exactly those words. But you did push me into going to uni. And wanted me to get a good job.’
‘That wasn’t for me, sweetheart, it was for you. I wanted you to be happy. And not make the mistakes that I did.’ Pete looked down at his shoes, which were splattered with paint and dust.
‘But you’re a globetrotter, Dad. You work all over the world, see all sorts of stuff, meet all sorts of people. You have an exciting job.’
‘Do you really think that? Love, I hate it.’
Eliza looked at her father in silence. Pete realised that he’d never really spoken to her about his own feelings, about anything. Their conversations had always been loving and caring, but practical, never emotional. He could tell that this shift had been noted.
‘If you hate it, you should stop doing it.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because we need the money.’
‘But Mum’s working now.’
Pete visibly sank, his shoulders and chin dropping. Then he gripped the bridge of his nose with his finger and thumb, cast his eyes down, and sighed. ‘Oh, it doesn’t matter now, does it,’ he mumbled.
‘Sorry, Dad? What doesn’t matter? I don’t understand.’
Pete looked around and made for a row of chairs to their right.
‘Sit down, pet. Sit down and listen.’
Eliza did as he asked.
‘So. Money,’ he said, facing the altar, looking away from her. ‘You’ll be wondering why we’re still hard up, given the work I’ve been doing abroad. The thing is, we did have a nice nest egg saved up. I’d worked hard on lots of foreign contracts and I had it squirrelled away. We were all set up for a nice retirement. And then, I met Chris.’
‘Chris?’ Eliza turned towards her father and he shifted slightly, meeting her gaze.
‘She was another expat in Doha, a Brit.’
‘Chris was a woman?’
‘Yes, short for Christina, I think. I met her at the rugby club one night. She was friendly. Very friendly.’ He remembered, with shame, that he’d allowed her to flirt with him. He’d even enjoyed the attention. ‘We got on, you know? And she got me and my mates tickets for the golf via her firm. And we’d always wanted to go.’
‘Oh?’ Eliza’s eyes had widened.
‘It’s not what you’re thinking, pet, I promise. I’d never do that to your mum.’
Pete was worried enough about how this revelation would affect his daughter’s view of him; good heavens, he didn’t want her thinking he would cheat on Louise, too. He’d had offers over the years – it happened, when you were away from home – but he’d never acted on it.
‘Anyway. When we were there, she told me about this amazing investment opportunity she was working on, a new hotel they were building out there. Luxury development, beach-side property, all the bells and whistles. She said that if I invested in it, I could double my money. So I did, didn’t I? I invested all of our life savings, all fifty thousand bloody pounds of them, in a hotel which never got built. Chris disappeared a few months later and I haven’t been able to track her down. I have no idea if I even know her real name.’
Pete’s eyes were brimming with tears. He had worked so hard over the years, not just to provide for his family, but also to present a strong, confident figure for them all. He had tried never to show any weakness, never to reveal how he was feeling inside. But now they knew the truth, he thought.
‘Oh, Dad!’
‘You know that saying? A fool is easily parted from his money? I am that fool.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Dad. You thought you were investing. You were trying to do your best for Mum.’
‘That’s all I’ve ever wanted to do,’ he said. ‘And just look at the mess I’ve made of that.’
They sat in silence for a few more seconds, before Pete sprang up and began to walk towards the door. The less said about all of this, the better.
‘We’d better get back, don’t you think?’ he said, beckoning for her to follow, and she was about to do so when a woman walked in.
‘Can I help you?’ she asked, with a gentle smile.
‘We’re looking for the priest, love,’ he answered. ‘My daughter is in ICU.’
‘That’s me,’ said the woman, who Pete assessed to be in her early forties. She was wearing low heels, a knee-length patterned skirt, a white shirt – which he now noticed had a white clerical collar – and dangly silver earrings. Her highlighted hair was sleek and well-brushed. She did not look like any priest Pete had ever met before. ‘I’m one of the hospital chaplaincy team,’ she said. ‘I’m a Church of England priest. What flavour of priest were you looking for?’
Pete’s mouth twitched. ‘We aren’t regular churchgoers, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘But my wife – her father was a vicar. He was C of E too.’
‘OK, great. It doesn’t much matter, to be honest, as long as you are comfortable,’ the woman replied, her voice warm. ‘I’m Theresa, by the way.’
‘Nice to meet you,Theresa,’ said Eliza, who had now joined them by the door. She held out her hand. ‘I’m Eliza. Patience, my sister, is in ICU. She’s really poorly. Could we go there now, do you think? Right now?’