waiting area was empty, quiet for the night. The plastic tiles had been mopped and a bright yellow V-board planted in the middle. DANGER OF SLIPPING. WET FLOOR.
“I know what people mean,” Cat said, “when they say they can’t stand the smell of hospitals. You don’t notice it when you work inside one all day but when you come in like this, it’s unbearable.”
“Listerine,” Richard said. He was standing, looking at a poster about tuberculosis.
“I wish I didn’t know anything. Right now, I wish I was waiting for a neurologist to come and tell me good news and I wish I was able to hang on to it.”
“You can do that.”
“Can I?”
He went on reading.
“I rang Simon,” said Cat.
“I hope Simon is busy catching people who shoot young women dead.”
“Dad …”
Anyone else would have helped her out, turned, smiled, made some gesture, but her father was not like that. She had something to say so he waited to hear what it was. He was not unkind, not unfeeling, as Si believed, he was rational. “Simon was a bit surprised to meet Judith. But don’t hold it against him. He wasn’t expecting it and he misses Ma more than any of us.”
“How can you be the judge of that?”
“Sorry. But you know.”
“And you? What do you feel?” Now he did turn to look at her.
“I miss Ma, of course I do, I miss her now, I wish she was here now more than anything.”
“I meant what do you feel about Judith?”
Cat looked at her father. I have never understood you, she thought, never known what makes you tick. None of us has—almost certainly Ma never did but she found a way of living with you, and I have always felt that you and I had a good relationship in spite of it. Simon is the only one who does not, cannot and probably will not. Yet at this moment you might as well be a rather unsympathetic stranger.
“I like Judith,” she said. It sounded lame but exhaustion and anxiety hit her like a fist in her gut so that she felt suddenly faint.
Richard did not speak, he simply walked away, out of the waiting area and down the corridor.
Cat thought nothing. She was beyond thought. And perhaps it was easier to be here alone.
He returned with a plastic cup of coffee and handed it to her. “Difficult,” he said. “I know it’s difficult.”
Cat sipped. It was black and sweet.
They had not talked in the car: Richard had driven and Cat had sat in the back with Chris, who had grumbled for a short time that he had no reason to be going to hospital and had then fallen completely silent until they arrived. He had remained silent, not meeting her eye, responding curtly to the immediate questions, nodding agreement to the scan.
“He knows,” she said now. “He knows the score as well as we do.”
“He knows the options but it is always harder to make objective judgements about oneself.”
The door of the scanning suite opened. How could she have sent so many patients here and never had any real idea of what it was like for them to go inside, and for their families to wait out here, wait for the news, wait for someone in a white coat to start talking to them in language they did not know, give them news they could not interpret? Not yet. Not here.
She stood up. The registrar was a young woman.
“Shall we talk here or do you want to come into the office?”
“Is my husband …?”
“He’s going onto the ward. I need to admit him atleast for the rest of tonight and Dr Ling will see him tomorrow, if you’re happy with that?”
Christina Ling. Consultant neurologist.
“May I see the scans?”
“Yes of course. Dr Serrailler?”
“I am not an experienced interpreter of MRI pictures,” Richard said.
“Come with me all the same,” Cat said. She did not need her father for emotional support, she would not ask for his shoulder, she needed to draw on his detachment, his professionalism, his ability to rationalise, even with his own family. It was a sort of strength.
The screen glowed neon blue,
“I know what people mean,” Cat said, “when they say they can’t stand the smell of hospitals. You don’t notice it when you work inside one all day but when you come in like this, it’s unbearable.”
“Listerine,” Richard said. He was standing, looking at a poster about tuberculosis.
“I wish I didn’t know anything. Right now, I wish I was waiting for a neurologist to come and tell me good news and I wish I was able to hang on to it.”
“You can do that.”
“Can I?”
He went on reading.
“I rang Simon,” said Cat.
“I hope Simon is busy catching people who shoot young women dead.”
“Dad …”
Anyone else would have helped her out, turned, smiled, made some gesture, but her father was not like that. She had something to say so he waited to hear what it was. He was not unkind, not unfeeling, as Si believed, he was rational. “Simon was a bit surprised to meet Judith. But don’t hold it against him. He wasn’t expecting it and he misses Ma more than any of us.”
“How can you be the judge of that?”
“Sorry. But you know.”
“And you? What do you feel?” Now he did turn to look at her.
“I miss Ma, of course I do, I miss her now, I wish she was here now more than anything.”
“I meant what do you feel about Judith?”
Cat looked at her father. I have never understood you, she thought, never known what makes you tick. None of us has—almost certainly Ma never did but she found a way of living with you, and I have always felt that you and I had a good relationship in spite of it. Simon is the only one who does not, cannot and probably will not. Yet at this moment you might as well be a rather unsympathetic stranger.
“I like Judith,” she said. It sounded lame but exhaustion and anxiety hit her like a fist in her gut so that she felt suddenly faint.
Richard did not speak, he simply walked away, out of the waiting area and down the corridor.
Cat thought nothing. She was beyond thought. And perhaps it was easier to be here alone.
He returned with a plastic cup of coffee and handed it to her. “Difficult,” he said. “I know it’s difficult.”
Cat sipped. It was black and sweet.
They had not talked in the car: Richard had driven and Cat had sat in the back with Chris, who had grumbled for a short time that he had no reason to be going to hospital and had then fallen completely silent until they arrived. He had remained silent, not meeting her eye, responding curtly to the immediate questions, nodding agreement to the scan.
“He knows,” she said now. “He knows the score as well as we do.”
“He knows the options but it is always harder to make objective judgements about oneself.”
The door of the scanning suite opened. How could she have sent so many patients here and never had any real idea of what it was like for them to go inside, and for their families to wait out here, wait for the news, wait for someone in a white coat to start talking to them in language they did not know, give them news they could not interpret? Not yet. Not here.
She stood up. The registrar was a young woman.
“Shall we talk here or do you want to come into the office?”
“Is my husband …?”
“He’s going onto the ward. I need to admit him atleast for the rest of tonight and Dr Ling will see him tomorrow, if you’re happy with that?”
Christina Ling. Consultant neurologist.
“May I see the scans?”
“Yes of course. Dr Serrailler?”
“I am not an experienced interpreter of MRI pictures,” Richard said.
“Come with me all the same,” Cat said. She did not need her father for emotional support, she would not ask for his shoulder, she needed to draw on his detachment, his professionalism, his ability to rationalise, even with his own family. It was a sort of strength.
The screen glowed neon blue,
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