State We're In by Adele Parks

his chin, his chest, across his belly, down lower, the big brown eyes staring at him all the while. No, the fantasy didn’t fly. Even though this woman was wearing a uniform and kept flashing him big, careless grins, he couldn’t get anything started. He wasn’t really in the mood. He watched passively as she whizzed around the bed, tapping tubes and checking readings.
    â€˜Keep trying to drink your fluids,’ she said to Eddie. For a moment she allowed her hand to rest on his shoulder. It was a tender gesture. Dean saw his father move his head a fraction towards her. He couldn’t lay his cheek on her hand as he might once have done – he didn’t have the flexibility; besides which, it would have been inappropriate – but there was something in the movement, however slight, that suggested that he hankered after human contact. Dean wished he hadn’t noticed.
    â€˜When will he be getting some breakfast?’ he asked the nurse. He checked his watch. He had little idea what time it was here in England. Despite being a frequent flier, he always suffered with jet lag; it played havoc with his reality at the best of times, and this clearly wasn’t that. ‘Or lunch? It’s past lunchtime, right? Where has the morning gone?’ He wondered whether it was worthwhile trying to adjust to UK time or whether he should stay in the US zone; he’d be going back soon. When this was all over. The thought made him feel grateful and sick at the same time.
    The nurse sidestepped the question. ‘If you’re hungry, there’s a shop on the third floor that sells chocolate and crisps and there’s a café in the lobby. They do sandwiches and jacket potatoes, that sort of thing. The BLT wrap is decent. I’ll be back in a few minutes with the painkillers.’
    It took a moment for Dean to understand. Eddie Taylor was no longer taking solids. The two men avoided one another’s gaze and stayed silent until the nurse came back with the medication.
    â€˜Still happy with the syringe?’ she asked brightly.
    Eddie nodded, then wheezed, ‘If happy is the right word.’
    â€˜Content, then? Not too drowsy? Doesn’t make you feel sick?’
    Eddie nodded again. This time the nod was sharper, curt. Dean thought the gesture was somehow the physical equivalent of saying ‘What the fuck do you think?’ Eddie was probably just desperate for some relief. How much pain was he in? Dean suddenly felt overwhelmed with emotions that he only sparingly dispensed and had never felt for his father: pity and sympathy. Then he remembered that it was
his father
dying in front of him and he slammed the lid on that swell of emotions. His father didn’t deserve his sympathy; he didn’t even deserve his pity.
    â€˜What is that exactly?’ he asked the nurse. Concentrating on the practicalities of the situation was the best thing to do, he assured himself. He could be good in a crisis. If he remained detached, he’d be fine.
    â€˜This is a syringe driver. It’s the best way to manage your dad’s painkillers. We tried fentanyl as a patch but it irritated his skin. This is so easy to set up. A tiny needle is inserted just under the skin of the arm, there.’ The nurse rubbed a dab of something on Eddie’s arm and inserted a needle. ‘Sorry about my cold hands.’
    â€˜I could warm them up? Put them under the covers,’ chipped in Eddie. His breath came out in puffs.
    â€˜Eddie.’ The nurse pretended to look shocked, but her voice was full of tolerance and warmth, despite his improper suggestion. It was clear that she knew how to handle men like Eddie.
    â€˜Still, they say cold hands, warm heart. Have you?’ mumbled Eddie.
    â€˜You know it.’
    Dean could not believe it. His father was flirting with the nurse. An old, dying man flirting! Life in the old dog yet had never been such an apt phrase. Dean wasn’t sure