It’s strange, but lately people have almost stopped talking to me – except Ellie of course who never stops talking anyway. But they never let her stay for long. Tracey or Gran or someone always takes her outside to play because she’s making too much noise. I wish they wouldn’t, because at least she’s giggly and happy, and I like her noise. It’s normal. No one else is normal, not any more.
Marty tries to talk, tries to be cheerful, but he’s not very good at pretending. He can’t keep it up for long. He’s never got used to seeing me like this, I think. It still upsets him. I try to send him my mind-mail messages, but somehow I can’t reach him. And I reckon he’s lying to me, too. Just lately, almost every time he comes in, he tells me Chelsea have won another match – second in the league now, he says. Well, Chelsea never win all their matches, they’re up and down like yoyos. He’s just trying to make me feel better. He put his hand on mine last time he came and squeezed it and told me to wake up. Then he cried and went out. First time he’s touched me. I miss him. I miss football. I miss school. I miss everything.
Mum and Dad hardly say a word any more. I think they might be giving up on me. They just sit and wait, their silence and their sadness filling the air around me. They talk in occasional whispers to each other, but not so much to me as they did. Still, at least they’re together. That’s something. No, that’s more than something. That’s a whole lot.
Worst of all though, even Tracey seems to be losing heart. She doesn’t sing like she used to, and she was crying when she came in a moment ago. Somehow I know she wasn’t crying because of Trevor. And I’m pleased about that. I’d rather she cried over me than him. Let’s face it, Robbie, if Tracey thinks you’re not going to make it, then things are not looking good, not good at all.
I sleep a lot, almost all the time now. I want to stay awake in my head. I know I must, or else I’ll die. I mean you can’t die if you’re awake, can you? It’s like when you’re drowning – I’ve read about it in books – if you want to keep afloat, if you want to keep alive, you have to stay awake. I sing Tracey’s songs in my head over and over again – Days and Imagine. I know them by heart. Got to keep my mind awake. Got to keep living. But the trouble is that sleep is warm and gentle and inviting, and when it takes me by the hand I just want to go…
What’s beyond sleep, I wonder? A black hole? Or Nothing? Or Heaven? I don’t fancy a black hole. I certainly don’t fancy nothing. I’d prefer heaven, just so long as it’s not like where the Telly Tubbies live, with all those silly rabbits hopping about and that goo-goo grinning baby gurgling out of the sun. But I don’t like thinking about all that. I won’t think about all that. No more black holes, no more bunny-hopping heavens. Because I’m not going anywhere. I’m staying here in this bed and I’m staying alive.
I’m going to think of Chelsea against Man U and me in the Directors’ Box at Stamford Bridge – that’s heaven! And Zola looking up at me and giving me a great big Italian pizza of a grin and a thumbs-up, before he dribbles the ball past the Man U defenders and whacks it in the back of the net. And I’m on my feet and punching the air. Keep punching the air, Robbie. Keep cheering. Keep breathing.
“Live Robbie, live.” It’s not me thinking any more. It’s Mum talking to me and she’s squeezing my hand, trying to make me feel her, trying to make me feel anything. “Live, Robbie darling. Don’t give up. Please.”
I’m not giving up, Mum. It’s you lot that’s giving up, not me. I’m still here. I can feel you. As long as I can feel you, I’m alive. I’m sending you my mind-mail messages all the time, but you’re just not listening. No one’s listening any more, no one’s hearing, not even Tracey.
Then Dad’s getting up. “I won’t be long, Robbie. The sun’s streaming through the window. Bit stuffy in here. I’ve got to get some fresh air.”
When he’s gone, Mum cries quietly and holds my hand. Then she says: “Still, there’s one good thing that’s come out of all this, Robbie. At least you’ve stopped biting your nails.” She’s laughing. That’s better, Mum. I love to hear you laughing. “If you wake up, Robbie, there’s so many things I’ll never tell you off for again. I promise. I’ll never say, stop biting your nails, Robbie. I’ll never say, tidy your room, Robbie. I’ll never say, turn off the TV. And I’ll never say, stop saying ‘cool’. Promise.”
I want so much to go on listening to her because I can hear she’s smiling as she’s talking and I love to hear her smiling. But I can’t stay awake. I’m feeling so heavy inside, so warm. I’m falling away from her into my sleep. I can’t stop myself. I can’t feel her hand any more. I can’t hear her voice. I try to come back to her, but I can’t. I hope she’ll be there when I wake up. I hope I will wake up.
Sometimes it’s so difficult for me to know whether I’m dreaming or whether I’m awake. I seem to slip into sleep, and in and out of my dreams so easily. Right now, though, I know I’m dreaming, and I want this dream to go on and on, because I’m back at home in the garden playing with Lucky. I’ve had this dream before and I love it. I’m lying on my back in the grass, and Lucky’s standing on my chest and licking my face all over. I can’t stop myself giggling and I’m trying to push him off. Now he’s snuffling in my ear and whining and whimpering. His nose is cold. He smells of dog. He smells of Lucky and his breath stinks even worse than Dr Smellybreath’s. I want to stay inside this dream for ever and ever. I don’t want to wake up and be in hospital again. I want to stay here in the garden with Lucky.
I can hear Dad’s voice, and can’t make out if he’s inside my dream or out of it. “Poor old Lucky,” he’s saying. “I’d forgotten to leave the car window open. Panting like crazy he was. Sun blazing down. No air. I was just giving him a little walk…”
Mum’s interrupting. “You can’t bring him up here. What if—”
And Dad says. “Look, I had to try. We’ve tried everything else, haven’t we? I don’t know why we didn’t think of it before. If anything or anyone can wake Robbie up, it’ll be Lucky, won’t it?”
“But what if someone sees? You’re not allowed dogs in hospitals.”
“But no one did see. I smuggled him in under my jacket.”
This is not my dream, not any more. In the garden I was in my dream. But now I’m in hospital, and it’s Dad’s real voice I’m hearing. It’s Lucky’s real nose in my ear-hole. He’s on my bed. He’s licking my face as if he’s cleaning up his dog bowl after a meal. He’s licking every bit of my face, my eyes, my nose, my hair, my chin, my neck, my mouth. It’s Lucky! He’s not dead! He’s here now, in the hospital, on my bed. He’s alive!
But I saw him go under that car. I know I did. So he can’t be alive, can he? Maybe this is still a dream after all. Only one way to find out. Only one way to be really, really certain. He’s licking my eyes. He’s telling me to open them. So I will. Open them, Robbie, open your eyes. Just do it. And I do. I can. I’m seeing, and I’m seeing Lucky. It’s him! It’s really him. I’m not dreaming him. His little eyes are looking right into mine. He’s grinning down at me. His tongue’s all dribbly. His dribble’s real. He’s real. It’s all real.
I lift up my hand to stroke him, and that’s when they go bananas, loopy, mad, both Mum and Dad together. “Look! He’s moved his hand!” Mum’s grabbed Dad by his arm.
“His eyes are open. Robbie? Robbie? Can you hear us?” “Can you see us? Talk to us Robbie. Talk to us.” I’m trying to smile, and it must be working, because now they’re both hugging me at once and they’re both crying.
Lucky’s jumped off the bed and he’s yapping like crazy, and then everyone comes running in – a doctor in a white coat, who I suppose is Dr Smellybreath, and a nurse – Tracey – it has to be Tracey. I got her all wrong. She’s not tall like I thought she was. She’s really little, and she’s blonde, and she hasn’t got a nose ring. Ellie’s come and climbed up on the bed. So I get more wet kisses, more hugs. I’m drowning in tears and wet kisses.
I’m trying to talk. I’ve only got a thin small squeaky voice, but it’s mine and it works, just about. I so want to say something, but I can’t get proper words out. They’re all listening, waiting, and all I can do is gurgle and squeak.
“Don’t try to talk, Robbie,” Tracey is saying. “You’re all right. You’re back with us. You’re fine.”
“Your eyes are open, Robbie,” says Ellie. “You’ve been sleeping for days and days and now you’re awake. Look, I gave you Pongo,” – she’s holding up Pongo by his ears – “but I only really lent him to you till you were better. And now you’re better, I can have him back, can’t I?” That’s my Ellie!
Dr Smellybreath is bending over me, peering at me, looking deep into my eyes with his light, then feeling my forehead. “Wonderful,” he’s saying. “The power of the human body to heal itself. Just amazing. Nice to have you back with us, Robbie. You had us quite worried for a while there.” You were worried! Everyone’s hugging everyone and Lucky’s still going mad. A very angry looking lady in a white coat comes in and says: “What is going on in here? What’s that dog doing on my ward?”
“That’s not a dog,” says Tracey, and she’s laughing through her tears, “that’s Lucky, and he works miracles.” Then everyone’s laughing and crying at the same time. I don’t think I’ve ever made people happier. I don’t think I’ve ever been happier myself.
Dad’s the only one who hasn’t said anything yet. I think, like me, that maybe he’s trying to find his voice. When he does say something, it’s about what I expect. “Hello, Robbie. You all right then, are you?”
“Cool, Dad,” I hear myself say. “Just cool.” Lucky’s back up on the bed and licking himself in embarrassing places, as usual, as if nothing at all has happened.
“That dog is disgusting,” says Mum.
And I say: “That dog is cool.”
And Mum says: “Cool. It’s such a lovely word. It’s the best word in the world, the coolest.”
Maybe Lucky does know what he’s done, because he’s looking at me now as if he’s very pleased with himself, very pleased indeed. And he’s smiling. The whole world’s smiling.