Cool! (3 page)

I
t’s weird, but I think that maybe I’ve got a sort of mind-mail communication going with Tracey. Telepathy, I think it’s called. Anyway, whatever it’s called, it works. I’ve done it a few times now and I think it’s really working. One moment I’m thinking something, and the next she’s talking about it. It’s like I can almost make her think things. Is that cool or what?

This morning I had definite proof of it. After Dr Smellybreath had examined me – again – he said something to Tracey over by the door, where he thought I couldn’t hear, something I can’t put out of my
mind. He said: “Robbie’s not looking good this morning, Tracey, not good at all. I’m beginning to think we may lose him.” Lose me?
Lose
me? I was thinking…Who does old Smellybreath think he is? I’m not going to die. I’ll show him. Like Zola said, I’ll show him. I’ll show all of them. The doctor was feeling my forehead. “How long is it exactly?” he said. “How long’s he been with us?”

“Six weeks tomorrow,” said Tracey. “But he’s still fighting, Doctor. I know he is. He wants to come out of it so badly. And he will. I know he will. It’s funny, doctor – of course he’s never spoken a word to me – but sometimes I feel I really
know
Robbie, know what he’s thinking. And I just know he’s determined to live.”

“Well, I’ll be back to see him later,” said
Dr Smellybreath as he went out, leaving the door squeaking and clunking behind him.

“Bed bath for you, Robbie,” said Tracey.

I was almost sure this mind-mail communication thing was really real, that I wasn’t inventing it, but I decided I’d put it to the test. I lay there forcing myself to think about one thing and one thing only. I focused my mind entirely on Zola’s shirt. Inside my head I said to her: “Tracey, I want you to put it on me. I want to wear it. Ever since Zola came to see me and gave me his number 25 shirt I’ve wanted to wear it. It’ll bring me luck. I know it will. Put it on me, Tracey. I want to feel its magic.” And that’s all I thought of as Tracey was giving me my bedbath. “Put the shirt on me, Tracey. Please.
Please.
” I tried not to listen to anything she was
saying, tried to close my ears, to shut out her voice. Zola’s shirt. Zola’s shirt. Number 25. Chelsea Blue. Chelsea 1, Arsenal 1. It’s the shirt he wore against West Ham. I pictured me in it. I pictured Zola in it, and those were the pictures I kept trying to send into Tracey’s mind.

At first it didn’t seem to work. No matter how hard I tried I just could not make her understand. So in the end I gave up trying altogether. I’d been kidding myself all along. Of course I couldn’t make contact. Vegetables can’t communicate, and I’m a vegetable, nothing but a lousy vegetable. I was feeling very angry with myself for ever believing that such a thing was even possible.

She was brushing my hair and arranging my pillows when she suddenly said it.
“I know what you want, Robbie. You want your Zola shirt on, don’t you? You want to wear it. I’ve hung it up on the back of the door so it would be the very first thing you see when you wake up. But I think you’re trying to tell me you want to wear it. All right, if that’s what you want, Robbie. It’s your shirt. It’ll be a bit big, mind, but who cares?”

It took her a while to wriggle me out of my hospital gown and into my Chelsea shirt. She was right. It was big for me, big and loose and lovely. I lay there basking in my bed in Zola’s Number 25 shirt. And then Tracey said: “Hey Robbie, you look cool, really cool. And you look happy too.” And I was. I am. Not only because I’m wearing his shirt, my shirt, but because I told her what I wanted her to hear, and
she heard it. I had passed a mind-mail message from me to her and she had received it! I don’t feel alone any more, and it’s the greatest feeling in the world.

Dad’s just come in. “Hello Robbie. You all right, then?” Same old Dad. But when he kisses me, I know it isn’t the same old Dad at all. It’s someone else, someone softer who smells a lot like Mum. It is Mum! It’s her! They’ve come. Mum, Dad, they’re both here, together! I wonder if Ellie is there too, but she isn’t. There’s no one leaping on the bed, no wet licky kiss in my ear. I miss that. I like her being here. She makes me laugh inside. But this is cool. I’ve got Mum and Dad together again. Maybe it took me being knocked down and Lucky being killed to bring them together, but between us we did it.

The funny thing is that no one’s saying a word. Not me, not them. Then Dad’s whispering to Mum, “You first. You tell him.”

“No, you.” And suddenly I have this horrible thought in my head. Maybe they’ve come here to tell me the worst news, that they’ve decided it’s not worth keeping me alive any longer. They’re going to unplug me from my life support system, and let me drift away and die. I’ve seen it on TV, when someone’s been in a coma for ages and ages, and they just make up their minds that there’s no point in going on any more. They just flick the switch and that’s that.

“Robbie?” It’s Mum, and she’s sounding so solemn, and serious, and sad. Don’t say it, Mum. Please, I’m fine inside here.
I’m going to wake up. Just give me time. Don’t do it, Mum.

“Robbie, your Dad and me have been talking.”

Oh God! Please, Mum. Can’t you be like Tracey? Can’t you read my thoughts?
I want to live, Mum. I want to stay with you. Please.

“Well, it’s like this, Robbie. Your Dad and me, we’ve decided…we’ve decided to try again – you know, being together like we were. Only not like we were. Better. Happier. We’ve made a mess of things, we know that, and we know how much that’s upset you, upset Ellie. It upset us, too. But that’s all over now.”

They’re not going to switch me off! They’re not going to give up on me! I feel as if I’m swimming in deep warm water up towards the light, up towards the air.
But I can’t reach the light. I can’t breathe the air. Dad’s holding one of my hands, Mum’s got the other. They’re trying to pull me up and out, trying to save me from drowning, willing me to break free. But something’s still holding me back.

“Robbie, are you hearing this?” Dad this time. “It’s you that’s done this, Robbie, you and Lucky and all that’s happened to you. You made us stop and think. When I’ve been in here with you sometimes, I could really feel you wanting us all to be together again. And Mum says she’s felt just the same. So we’re going to try – for us, for you, for Ellie. We’re going to do our very best to make it work, Robbie. Only we want you with us. We want you to be here with us, Robbie, to come home.”

Me too, Dad, me too.

“Your Dad moved back home yesterday, Robbie,” Mum’s saying. “So far so good.” And they were both laughing like they used to do when Lucky did his party tricks, and I can hear they’re easy together again, and happy.

So I should be happy too, shouldn’t I? Gianfranco Zola has been in to see me and he’s given me the shirt off his back – sort of. And Mum and Dad are back together. What more could I possibly want? I have this picture in my head of all of us out in the garden together, and Lucky’s rolling over and over and bowing to the queen, and standing up on his little hind legs and they’re all laughing and Ellie’s giggling her head off.

But then I’m suddenly sad because I know Lucky is gone and will never come
back. It was Lucky that always made us all laugh. I remember how I was laughing myself silly when he went skittering off after that cat, before I noticed the front gate was open, before he went under the car.

He had two black eyes like a panda, and a stubby little tail that never stopped wagging, and I loved him. We all did. He was our clown, our joker, and he was our best friend. Marty and everyone thought he was the coolest dog around, even when he came to the park and spoilt our football game, chasing after the ball, biting it, snarling at it. And when we shouted at him, he’d go running off all smiley and panting and tongue-hanging-happy. I should have put the lead on him. I should have remembered. He was dead and it was my fault.

The house would be so quiet without Lucky. Who would bite the post when it came through the door? Who would go mad and chase his tail when the telephone rang? Who would dig up Mum’s flowers and send her potty? Even if I did wake up, things would never be the same without Lucky. I’m lying here with so many of my dreams come true, and yet so sad inside, as sad as I’ve ever been.

“That shirt suits you,” says Dad. “Like Zola said, it really suits you. Wasn’t he the best, coming to see you like that? It’s been in all the papers, you know. Picture of him. Picture of you. I’ll keep them for you, for when you come home, all right?” They’re whispering together again. I can hear Mum crying and Dad’s holding her, trying to comfort her. I know he is.
They’re going out and I wish they wouldn’t. I’m trying to call out to them to come back. But no sound comes out. The door’s squeaking and clunking. They’ve gone. And I’m alone. I hate being left alone. I hate it.

Tracey comes in. She’s singing again. It’s her other song –
Imagine.
John Lennon. She’s a big John Lennon fan. So’s Dad.
“Imagine all the people…”
And she sings it all the way through really well. She could be a popstar, but I’m glad she’s not, otherwise she wouldn’t be here and I wouldn’t be able to send her my mind-mail messages. I’m telling her now about Mum and Dad.

“Nice to see your mum and dad together,” she says. She’s hearing me, she’s really hearing me! She’s closing the
curtains now. “Nasty out there. Raining.” And then she comes and sits on my bed. “You hang in there for me, Robbie. You can do it. I know you can. I’m going off duty now. I’ve got a date with Trevor, and tomorrow we’re going to look for a flat. He makes me really happy, you know –
and
he likes John Lennon. I’ll see you the day after, right? Stay cool. See you.”

And I’m thinking: Will you, Tracey? Will you? I’m not so sure. Maybe I’ll be dead by then. I am so tired, Tracey. I’m tired of living like this, half alive, half dead. Maybe dying won’t be so bad. Maybe I’ll get to see Lucky again. I really hope so.

I
t’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.