Page 50 of Maybe
Like a small sun, for all his hair was dark and he was out of puff, Jonty still managed one of his heart-stopping gappy smiles. Flooring me all over again. When Ezra planted a raspberry on the side of his head and then tucked him under his arm, I blamed lack of sleep for the lump in my throat.
“Yes, Isaac’s been telling me what all the numbers mean. Can I be a doctor when I grow up?”
“You can be anything you want, mate.” Kissing Jonty in his mussed hair, Ezra’s dark, unreadable eyes stared into mine. “But last week, you insisted you were going to be the school-crossing bloke—make your mind up.”
Not long after, a nurse arrived with Jonty’s morning meds. The consultant would be starting her rounds soon. Ezra persuaded Jonty to eat a little bit of toast; then he phoned Carly and put her on loudspeaker so they could have a three-way conversation.
My cue to go. I was falling asleep in the chair.
CHAPTER 19
EZRA
Two days later and Jonty was much better. Isaac said that was often the way with kids. One minute, Jonty was pushing away his favourite red M&M’s like I was trying to poison him; the next he was seeking Isaac’s learned medical opinion as to why we had two eyes but could only see one thing at a time. And why we had two arms instead of three, which would have been so useful. You know, the important stuff that never got covered at med school.
Despite Carly’s mum giving me a breather, I felt like a construction crew were jackhammering away at my skull, determined to split my brain open. After two nights slumped in a chair on a busy ward, snapping alert if my boy so much as turned over, every part of me was taut and ready to bite. I couldn’t bear to recount the last forty-eight hours; dwelling on how close I’d come to losing Jonty hurt almost as fully as if I had.
“I’m driving you and Jonty home,” Isaac announced, with a hell of a lot more confidence than he should have.
He’d been back home too. I think he felt awkward thrown into family stuff without a proper introduction. Nonetheless, I didn’t look kindly on anyone coming along and deciding whatwas right for Jonty. Even Isaac. My facial expression must have conveyed that message, though Isaac persisted.
“Jonty’s still tired,” he added. “And his peak flows are down. He shouldn’t be on a packed Tube surrounded by strangers and their germs.”
“Obviously.” I didn’t need a medical degree to know that. “I was going to call an Uber.”
“You don’t need to. Save your money. Take advantage of a free ride in a mid-range electric car, instead.”
“You should be paying me to sit in that thing.” Even tired and stressed and in love, I was still a dick sometimes.
“Let me do it anyhow. For Jonty. You know it makes sense.”
As Isaac patiently navigated the stop-start London traffic, Jonty dozed off, and I sulked.
“You said the flat had some mould,” Isaac commented as he followed my short cut through the Bexleyheath back streets. “Is Jonty going to be all right staying there, with his chest?”
“He doesn’tstaythere,” I snipped. “Helivesthere. It’s his home.”
Home. A sweeping, loose adjective. Ours was constructed of flammable cladded breeze blocks, which shook whenever the number 401 bus trundled past, holding up ceilings boasting more cracks than plaster. We walked on cheap nylon carpets patterned with the indelible residue of a hundred spilled drinks. The white goods in the kitchen predated decimalisation.
“You can drop us off here,” I suggested, as he swung the Golf into our road. I pointed to a narrow gap between two parked cars. We were a maximum of ten yards from the flat. I could carry Jonty that far if he was too tired to walk. I prayed the lift was working. “Thanks for the ride.”
“I’m going to help carry stuff up.” Switching off the electric whine, Isaac unclicked his seatbelt. “It’s no bother.”
“Nah, we’re all right from here.”
I was being a dick again but couldn’t help myself. I didn’t want Isaac to see our place. Not because I was ashamed—Jonty and me were tickety-boo most of the time, thank you very much. Jonty loved his home; he knew no different, and it was no better or worse than his friends'. But Isaac would judge and find it lacking, like he was doing now, squinting up at the dilapidated row of buildings with a little frown.
“Don’t be silly,” Isaac protested. “Jonty’s exhausted. And you are, too. Give me one of the bags to carry while you manage him.”
“I said no!”
“Why are you being so difficult?”
Because for so many years the only person who looked out for me was me?“Because… because… I dunno. I’m not very good at accepting help. Comes of not being offered it when I needed it the most. You should have realised that by now.”
“I have, but I wish it didn’t pertain to me as well.”
Carly once told me accepting help was a sign of maturity. Which makes it sound like we were sat across the kitchen table at the time, having an adult discussion. In reality, it was a three-a.m. slanging match, triggered by a nosy neighbour telling Carly she’d spotted me having a crafty joint on the front steps.Thanks a bunch, Barbara.
