Page 104 of The Art of Loving You

‘So what’s happening now?’

I shrugged. Twisting the corner of the sheet round and round my fingers, tighter and tighter.

‘Libby?’ Mum laid her hand on mine to stop me fiddling. ‘Is there something you’re not telling me?’

‘No. I haven’t been told much. The nurse said the doctor will speak to me later and then I suppose I can go home.’

Home. I wondered if Jack was there, why I couldn’t see him here, if I’d ever see him again.

The day stretched. Each time Mum asked the nurse what was going on we were told they were busy, someone would be with me when they could. The menus came round for the following day. ‘Best pick something,’ the nurse said. ‘If you’re not here, whoever gets your bed will need to eat.’

For lunch I had the choice of the lady who’d been here the day before. Fish with new potatoes and overly orange tinned carrots.

‘Mabel would be glad of that,’ Mum said as I pushed it away.

It was late afternoon when a porter came with a wheelchair.

‘I’ve been told to take you to the doctor,’ he said. Mum trot-trot-trotted to keep up with his gait.

The shiny brass plaque on the door said Mr Baxter. Inside a desk and three chairs. Official. Terrifying. Nothing good could come of being taken to a private space in a hospital.

Mum was unusually quiet as we waited. A few minutes later the door opened and, for some reason, we automatically stood. There was a solemnness to the occasion somehow.

‘I’m Mr Baxter.’

Unlike the medical staff I’d encountered so far in their uniforms and scrubs, he wore a shirt and trousers and a brief look of sympathy before his face fell into a neutral mask. I tried to make sense of the hierarchy.Was a ‘Mr’ more qualified than a doctor? I’d never dealt with illness before. I just didn’t know.

He shook hands with me and Mum and gestured for us to sit back down. I held my gown together while I sat on the chair; the plastic squealed as I slid my spine hard against the backrest, trying to put as much space as I could in between me and this man who I already knew would change my life.

Mum reached across for my hand, squeezing it hard.

‘Libby, you were brought in after a seizure—’

‘Oh no!’ Mum released her grip on my fingers. ‘Libby didn’t have a seizure.’ She glanced at me and smiled an ‘it’s okay, they’ve mixed you up with someone else’ smile. ‘Libby did have some sort of episode but you’ve made a mistake. Donald, a customer in my shop, is epileptic. I’ve seen him having a seizure twice over the years. They are nothing like what Libby had.’

Mr Baxter rested his elbows on the table and steepled his fingers together. ‘Mrs Emerson, seizures aren’t always convulsive with loss of consciousness and twitching limbs. There are many different types of seizures. These range from feeling a bit spaced out to—’

‘Don’t you lose your driving licence if you’ve had a seizure?’

‘Yes. It will be suspended though you can reapply after you’ve been seizure-free for a year, but—’

‘Epilepsy.’ Mum was clutching my hand again. ‘It’s not so bad, Libby. There’s medication and—’

‘I’m afraid,’ Mr Baxter cut in, ‘it isn’t quite as simple as that. Libby’s scan showed a mass on the brain.’

‘A … a mass?’ Mum’s words were light, floating away. The room was floating away.

‘I don’t …’ I tugged at the neck of my flimsy hospital gown, the tie choking me.

Mr Baxter pushed forward the cup of water on the desk. I picked it up but I was shaking so much that every time I tried to raise it to my mouth water splashed onto my lap. Mum plucked a tissue from the strategically placed box in front of us. I wondered how many other families Mr Baxter had given bad news to. How many tears had been shed in this bleak room in this bleak building.

‘You must have lots of questions,’ Mr Baxter said.

Mum and I glanced at each other.

We should have lots of questions, we probably did, but there was only one pressing thing Mum needed to know.

‘Are you sure? I’ve heard of test results being mixed up.’

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