Last Chance Saloon - Marian Keyes [114]
‘Glad to hear it,’ Tara cried. ‘I was just thinking, what if I left him, went off and had my mad fling with someone else, and then I didn’t die? I’d feel like such an eejit!’
41
Just after ten o’clock on Monday morning, while the usual suspects were grouped around Fintan’s bed, Dr Singh strode in. From his faint agitation, it looked as though he had information to impart. The air sparked with tension and everyone’s already over-active nerves went on full alert. Please, God, let it be good news.
‘I have the result of the bone-marrow biopsy,’ he said, looking at Fintan.
Tell us, tell us.
‘Would you prefer to hear it alone?’
‘No,’ Fintan said, trembling with calm. ‘You might as well tell the lot of us. It’ll save me having to repeat it.’
Dr Singh took a breath to speak, then paused. He didn’t find this easy. ‘I’m afraid it’s bad news.’
No one spoke. Eight chalk-white faces beseeched him, willing him to be wrong.
‘The disease is active in the bone-marrow,’ he continued, nervously. I’m only the messenger.
‘How active?’ Katherine croaked.
‘I’m afraid it’s quite advanced.’
Katherine looked at Fintan. His eyes were huge and dark, like those of a terrified child.
‘I also have the result of the CT scan,’ Dr Singh added, apologetically.
Eight agonized faces turned upon him.
‘That also shows activity of the disease in the pancreas. And,’ Dr Singh was mortified, ‘I also have the results of the chest X-rays.’
His face said it all.
‘It’s in his chest too?’ Milo asked.
The doctor nodded. ‘However, there’s no sign of activity in any of the main organs, like the liver, kidneys or lungs,’ he added. ‘That would have been very serious indeed.’
Fintan spoke for the first time. ‘Will I die?’ he asked hoarsely.
‘We’ll start treatment immediately.’ Dr Singh ignored the question. ‘Now that we know what we’re dealing with, we know what to treat you with.’
‘About time,’ Tara said, bitterly, shocking everyone. That wasn’t how you spoke to doctors. ‘He was getting worse and worse each day that passed,’ she charged. ‘And you did nothing. Just left him lying here while your bloody lab was too busy to tell him how sick he was. What if those days make all the difference between life and… and…’ She began to cry, gasping, yelping sobs, which shook her whole body. She turned to Fintan. ‘You must have had symptoms for ages,’ she heaved, tears sluicing down her cheeks. ‘Months.’
‘I did.’
‘Well, why didn’t you go to the doctor about them?’ She was breathless, panting with anger and grief. ‘Why didn’t Sandro make you?’
‘Because we thought we knew what was wrong with me. Night sweats, so bad we sometimes had to change the sheets. Me losing weight steadily. My stomach constantly upset. You see, Sandro had been through it once before.’
A horrible picture of Sandro and Fintan in a conspiracy of silence. Fintan getting sicker and sicker, and nothing being done to help him because they thought nothing could be done.
‘You big pair of eejits.’ Tara shuddered. ‘You pair of thick gobshites.’
JaneAnn took Tara’s arm in a painful grip and quick-marched her away from the bed. ‘Stop that nonsense, Tara Butler,’ she threatened. ‘He’s not dead yet.’
Fintan’s treatment started that morning. He was to remain in hospital and have five days of concentrated chemotherapy. Everyone was told to leave.
‘But I’m his mother.’ JaneAnn’s feisty resistance vanished. ‘I shouldn’t have to go.’
‘Come on, Mam,’ Milo urged, trying to shift her. ‘You can see him tonight.’
They scattered apart – JaneAnn, Milo, Timothy, Liv, Tara, Katherine, and Sandro. They, who’d been inseparable during the waiting period, were blown away from each other by the explosive news.
The mood was one of strange embarrassment, a resentment of themselves and of each other. What good had all their buoyed-up, hopeful vigilance done? Why had they bothered shoring up themselves and Fintan, steadfastly willing the best? They were – and clearly always had been