Weak at the Knees (5 page)

I find the ward and see where Amber’s bed must be because her mother is sitting by it. I walk closer and stop still in my tracks. They’re in the far corner. They haven’t seen me, but I’ve seen her and she looks ashen and frail, a ghost of her former self. She’s lying back with her eyes closed, red hair fanning her face like a peacock. It’s the only colour lighting her pale body, which is loosely tucked up, everything in white. White sheets, white pillows, white gown. I’m yelling inside: “somebody, please brighten up this place. You’re sending out all the wrong messages.”

I’m transfixed, immobile, save for the bunch of blue spray carnations I bought from the florist downstairs, which are swaying in my slightly trembling left hand. She looks so still that I’m praying I’m not too late. I’m afraid to move closer when her mother turns around and sees me. She gets up, comes over and kisses me. What the hell do I say? What can you say to a woman whose only child is lying in a hospital bed awaiting brain surgery which may or may not save her life?

“I’m so sorry, Mrs Slater. This is all so terrible.”

Silent tears start snaking down my cheeks. I choke back the heaving sobs which are wracking my insides, so desperate am I not to wail aloud so that Amber can hear me. Mrs Slater embraces me, consoling me. Consoling
me
? I should be consoling
her.

“It’s going to be okay Danni,” she pats my back. “Thank you for coming. I know it will mean the world to Amber.”

“There was no way I wasn’t going to come. How is she? What’s happening?”

Mrs Slater leads me towards the entrance of Amber’s ward, so that we don’t disturb her.  

“We’re waiting for her to be taken into theatre,” she tells me. “They’re going to operate on her any time now. Amber’s surgeon, Mr White, says she’s fit and young and her chances of pulling through are as good as they can possibly be. But he’s been brutally honest about the fact that the vessel in her brain is in a really tricky place and it is major surgery. So with the best will in the world it’s touch and go and oh Danni, I’m so worried, Amber is getting weaker by the second-

Mrs Slater’s calm, outward composure suddenly collapses. She brushes the tears away from her face with the back of her hand, trying really hard for my sake, for Amber’s sake to keep it together. Thank God she does, because I’m about to crack up again myself, but Amber must have opened her eyes and seen me because she musters up enough energy to call my name. Mrs Slater says she’s going to leave the two of us alone as she wants to get a coffee anyway. I walk over to Amber, determined not to cry. I show her the flowers, then put them down and take her hand in mine, leaning over to kiss her. Her voice is so quiet when she starts speaking that I have to tilt my ear towards her mouth in order to hear.

“Danni, it’s so good to see you. Mum said you were in the South of France.”

I’m resolutely determined to keep my tone light.

“I was, but as soon as I heard the news I got on a plane and came straight back. Come on Ambs, you’re my best friend. We’re there for each other, in sickness and in health. And anyway, I figured somebody had to give you a good kick up the backside to make sure that you think positively enough so that I can carry
on
being there for you, in sickness and in health.”

“I am Danni. It’s just I’ve never felt this tired and weak and my headache is getting worse. It’s this constant pulsating thump all over. I don’t know how much more I can take.”

This isn’t what I want to be hearing and I’ve a lecture prepared. 

“Amber, now listen to me. You
can
take more because you’re not going to give up. It’s all about positive thought. Your Mum was telling me that your surgeon says you have a very good chance, so you’ve just got to believe that and believe him. Do you hear me?”

She pulls a weak smile. Almost imperceptible, but it’s the most she can muster and it’s worth the effort because I know I’m getting through to her and that’s all that matters.

“Danni, they’ve got to shave my hair off. I’m dreading it.”

I cry inwardly, oh noooooooo, not your stunning, trademark long red hair, but that’s not what I say.

“Well Amber, I think that’s great. Both of us have always wondered what on earth we’d look like bald and now you’re going to find out. Tell you what, I promise that once you’re better I’ll join you in being an egghead, so you can have a good giggle at me too. Surely you wouldn’t want to miss that?”

I tug my brown mane which draws another smile from Amber and pulls at my heartstrings.

“Danni, I’m feeling really tired. There are just a couple of things I want to say to you, just in case.”

My eyes fill. Amber is twenty-six years old, she’s got her whole life in front of her and she wants to tell me stuff ‘just in case.’  A solitary tear plops down my right cheek.

“Okay,” I agree, “as long as you realise that it’s only really, really, very precautionary. And only on the condition that I get my say too.”

“Deal,” she says. “Now listen, Dan. You know how much I love you and care about you and want you to be happy?”

I nod in acquiescence.

“Well, I’ve been mulling this over a lot recently,” she continues, “and don’t take it the wrong way. I’m very fond of him, but I’m not sure Hugo’s the ‘one’. I don’t think he’s enough for you, or could ever be or give you what you need. You need somebody who can give you more - more excitement, more impulsiveness, more of a challenge. I just know that for you, Hugo will always be the easy option and long term I don’t think he could ever make you happy. Not as happy as I think you could be.”

I nod, presuming her lecture is over, baffled by her concern in me when she should be thinking of herself, but apparently there’s more.

“Oh, and one last thing, you won’t forget that pact we’ve always had, about neither of us getting involved with or ending up with a married man, will you?”

I shake my head, saying no, of course I haven’t forgotten. I will never, ever break that pact. Then I have my say, trying desperately, all the while, not to cry. I tell her that she’s my best friend. That we’ve done everything together for nearly twenty years, so look you here, Missy, don’t go baling out on me now. Not just for me, but for you. I tell her she and me have got sidetracked. What happened to our plans to travel the world and live abroad? Hey, what say we go to Australia together? So we can both get to be outdoors for a whopping fifty per cent of the time because that’s what life’s like in
Neighbours
! Just imagine, two sexy bald chicks, painting Sydney red, wouldn’t that be brilliant? We haven’t got any commitments (I momentarily forget Hugo) and she’s on the cusp of meeting Mr. Perfect. Hey, what about that Simon Shufflebum? You weren’t disinterested by him?

She’s correcting my intentional mistake, reminding me it’s Shufflebottom, which makes all the difference, and she’s meant to be seeing him in a few days’ time, when the nurse interrupts. She’s come to whisk Amber away to chop off her tresses. Just before the nurse moves the bed, Amber says: “by the way, thanks for the flowers. They’re beautiful and my favourite colour.”

As I watch her bed being wheeled into the distance, I can no longer help myself. I explode uncontrollably into a heaving, convulsing wreck. I put my head into my lap to muffle my wails so the people round the other three beds in the ward are spared my agony and can only see this seated, hunched-over torso. Then Mrs Slater comes back, strokes my hair and comforts me like a baby. “Shush, shush. I’ve got a good feeling Danni. It’ll be alright.” We dry our eyes and pull ourselves together.

*****

Five minutes later the nurse wheels Amber back. Once again, her eyes are closed. I’m not sure if she’s sleeping or not, but just seeing her eyes shut makes me nervous. They’ve wound a white scarf, yes, once again that damned white, around her head, so she’s spared the indignity of anybody else seeing her head hairless. I’m wondering whether Amber has even had a peek in the mirror yet, then overhear the nurse say to Mrs Slater, Mrs Slater with the same red hair as Amber’s, although hers is more a mahogany compared to Amber’s ginger, that they’re going straight down to theatre now. We follow her bed towards the operating room, tracking a yellow line most of the way. It’s a bit like the yellow brick road in the
Wizard of Oz
. Amber even looks a bit like Dorothy. I know it was all a dream, but didn’t that film have a happy ending?

Mrs Slater and I are standing on opposite sides of Amber, holding onto the metal bed frames as we walk along. She’s flanked by the two people who care most about her in the world, although it should be three people. Her goddamn father should really be here and I’m upset for Amber that he isn’t. I’m willing her to open her eyes, because even if I don’t have time to say all the things I want to, she’ll be able to know exactly what I’m thinking if only, only she would look at me. Then they flicker open, just enough, so that her mother and I take our cue. We clasp a hand each and Amber looks nowhere in particular because she hasn’t even got enough energy to turn her head.

“I’m scared,” she whispers. “Make the pain go away.”

Once again, my eyes start to water. I don’t speak because I figure her mother should have the final say, but I squeeze her hand tightly, make little stroking movements with my thumb.

“You’ll be fine darling,” Mrs Slater reassures. “I love you so much and will be waiting right here for you when you wake up. I promise you I’m not going anywhere.”

We’ve reached the swing doors, the dreaded double swing doors. The nurse motions that we must stay here, because any further is out of bounds. The doors swing shut, swallowing Amber up behind them. I’m wearing black trainers, not Technicolor red shoes, but it’s the symbolism that counts. I pretend I’m Judy Garland. I close my eyes, tap my feet together three times, and make a wish. “Let Amber live; let Amber live, let Amber live.”

Why is it that whenever people wait around in a hospital they keep volunteering to get the drinks in? Mrs Slater has just gone to get me my fourth cup of coffee. I don’t really want it, but I know she’s only trying to keep occupied and don’t want to offend her. It feels like we’ve been waiting for ages and we have. It’s been four hours. Surely the longer it goes on the better the sign. I’m still reeling from the speed with which everything is happening. Twenty hours ago Hugo and I were guzzling champagne, eating bouillabaisse in Le Souquet, the old town of Cannes. Now I’m sitting in a grim, noisy, institutional corridor waiting expectantly for news, some news, any news, but please God make it good.

I’m desperate for time to slow down so that I can take in what’s happening, but maybe it’s best if I don’t. Maybe it’s better to pretend this isn’t happening to me and definitely isn’t happening to Amber. Perhaps this is all some horrid, hateful nightmare that I’ll wake up from and breathe a huge sigh of relief that it was only a dream. Although I’ll never share this dream with Amber, because she might try to read some significance into it, and it would forever prey on her mind.

Mrs Slater returns, confirming that I am indeed living this hellish nightmare. She hands me a plastic cupful of steaming, murky brown liquid. For the second time today I’m wondering where
Mr
Slater is and feel really sad, for Amber and for her mother. It must be a lonely business waiting by yourself, praying by yourself for your daughter to pull through. I know I’m here for support, but I’m sure she could do with some more. Hell, so could I.

I had known Amber’s father. For the first two years of our friendship the three of them lived quite happily, or so it seemed, in their house down the road. But then when we were about ten years old he suddenly upped and left and went to live in Rio de Janeiro, following some Brazilian goddess who he claimed was the new love of his life and he couldn’t do without. Amber and her mother were distraught and begged him to stay, but he’d made up his mind. I hated this short, dark, stocky man for the misery he’d bestowed on my friend. Quietly I’d thought good riddance, they’re better off without you. But that’s not what Amber thought. She never stopped wanting him to come back, to be a proper family like mine. And whilst before he’d left we would spend an equal amount of time in each others’ homes, afterwards the far greater proportion of time was whiled away at mine.

Amber had never really wanted to talk about it. About the hurt and pain of having your parents split up, with one of them moving to the other side of the world. I kept trying to broach the subject, but she’d feign disinterest, perhaps thinking that once she opened the floodgates the dam would burst. She wasn’t ready yet for such an onslaught of emotion.

One Saturday night, about four years later, we rented this crummy film from Blockbusters. I can’t remember the name, but it was about this young American woman who went to live in Paris where she met and fell in love with a Frenchman. I think they met through work. This French guy was already married with young kids, but he fell in love with the American woman anyway. Bottom line, he’d finally decided to leave his family for the American, but unbeknown to him, the American had spotted them all at some conference or other and thought to herself ‘I can’t do this, I can’t break up a family, however much I love this man’, and decided to up and leave without telling him.

Off she went back to her apartment where she packed her bags, leaving a note for her lover to find later. By this time I’d reached for the tissues because I was miserable that the American woman and the Frenchman appeared to love each other so damn much and that all was not going to end happily ever after. I couldn’t believe it. What a waste of so much love. Anyway, then we saw her going to the airport, checking in and waiting to be called for her flight to New York, but unbeknown to
her,
the Frenchman had already told his wife he was leaving her, had left the conference and gone back to his lover’s flat where he found the note. Cue scene where the American was looking at her watch in the departure lounge whilst her lover was hotly in pursuit, like in the last episode of
Friends
, running up the escalators, two steps at a time, in Charles de Gaulle’s airport. Would he make it in time? Suspense, tension, and yes he did, just in the nick, and by now I was bawling my eyes out because the film had one of those typically glossy Hollywood endings, designed to turn on the taps and play with your emotions. I was crying from relief that the two lovers, so clearly destined to be together, weren’t going to let fate down.

“Oh, that was such a beautiful film,” I said, dabbing the tears away.

Amber switched off the telly and said nothing.

“Didn’t you think it was a lovely film too?” I asked.

Amber looked like she was going to blank my question, then changed her mind. And once she’d started she couldn’t stop.

“No, Danni, I didn’t think there was anything remotely lovely about that film, and neither would you if your Dad had left your Mum and you for a younger, foreign woman and then travelled halfway round the world to be with her. Do you have any remote idea how much I miss him every day? Yes, I might see him once a year, but what about those eleven and a half months that he’s not around? How am I ever going to get that back? He’s missed me get my first period, my boobs growing, he’s missing me turning into a woman, he’s bloody not here to see it. He missed it when I came top in five subjects last year. Five subjects, when the hell am I going to repeat that? Yes, I know I’ve got my Mum and that’s great, but she’s missing him too, because she wants to share all these moments with him also, so than I feel bad for her as
well
as for me and that’s a lot to deal with. It’s exhausting and upsetting. I miss not having a man around in the house, not any old man, but my father. Our family feels incomplete and you don’t know how bloody lucky you are with your happy, smiling, perfect family of three. And you think it’s lovely when that stupid married man in the film chases after his true love in the pursuit of his own happiness? What about his
family’s
happiness? How happy will
they
be, you stupid ignorant fool?”

 WHHHHHHHOOOOAAA! I had never seen Amber like this before. She was usually so quietly happy and in control. I wasn’t sure what to say, so I went over and put my hand on her back. “Amber, I’m so sorry, I just wasn’t thinking.”

You know how it is. You’re on the brink of crying but you could have it under control if only you were left alone? But if somebody shows you the slightest bit of sympathy, that’s it, you’re off. There’s no holding back. That’s how it was for Amber. I’d helped open the floodgates and now that they were open she couldn’t stop wailing. I intermittently circled and patted my palm against her back as she choked on the occasional sob. “It’s okay. Let it out.”

Slowly the gushing subsided. “And what’s worse,” she wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “I’ve had this horrible premonition that one day you’re going to have an affair with a married man.”

“Oh Amber, don’t be daft,” I soothed her, “it was only a film.”

“I don’t care. I’ve just got this sixth sense.”

It was then that we made a promise. That neither of us would ever get involved with nor end up with a married man.

*****

My throat tightens. My heart starts racing every time the double doors swing a gowned doctor in our direction. It’s happened at least fifty times over the last five hours and it’s almost a relief when they walk on by. No news is good news. It’s 8.30pm. Mrs Slater is pacing up and down the corridor, glancing anxiously at her wrist. She sees me watching and stops still just long enough to voice exactly what I’d been thinking.

“I can’t stand this Danni. Surely somebody will come and speak to us soon? What do you think is happening in there?”

“I don’t know,” I whisper. “I just don’t know.”

I lapse back into silence. I know I should be trying to make conversation and take her mind off things, but I can’t. The only thing I can do is pray. With each second that passes I say another silent prayer for Amber, eyes closed, head in my hands.

Dear God, I hope you’re out there listening. No, I’m sure that you are, because that’s the wonderful thing about you – you seem to know instinctively when somebody needs you, and yes, as you probably know already, I need you now. I need you on behalf of my best friend Amber. Now, I know you might be thinking she’s got a damn cheek that Danni Lewis. She doesn’t speak to me for years on end and now she thinks she can just call on me out of the blue and I’ll help her? Huh, not likely. And you’re right. I don’t deserve your help. I realise that it’s unreasonable of me to expect you to be there on tap only when people are in need – it’s got to be a two-way relationship based on trust and commitment. I understand that and please believe me that if you can help me now I will never, ever let you down in the future. I will do my very best to make you proud. It’s just that if you can’t help me, well, I don’t know where else to turn. Please can you help save my best friend Amber? I wouldn’t dare pester you for any other favour ever again, if you could just answer me this prayer.  Please God, let Amber survive. She’s such a beautiful and vibrant person who’s already had too much tragedy in her short life. She’s too young to die. And look at her mother. Think how distraught she would be. You wouldn’t want to put her through that would you? Don’t think I’m trying to blackmail you. I just want you to look at it from all sides. Alright, enough already, I know you’re busy. I’ve taken up too much of your time. Just please, oh please, let Amber be okay. Please don’t let her die. Please. Please. Please. Plea-

The doors swing open, interrupting my flow. I look up to see a gaggle of gowned Doctors swarm through. My thumping heart and constricting throat relax as they walk past. I cast my eyes downwards, about to resume my tête-à-tête with the almighty, when I realise that four identically shod feet are padding back in our direction. I put my hands over my eyes, willing those feet to keep on moving when I hear a male voice. “Mrs Slater, are you Mrs Slater?”

From that moment onwards my glorious Technicolor world turns into a scratchy black and white silent movie. One of the doctors mouths something to Amber’s Mum. He then bows his shaking head, making an empty opening gesture with his two hands. Mrs Slater turns ashen white, puts her hand to her mouth as she gasps for air and then collapses to the floor.