‘Cool, thanks Mum. I’ll let her know.’
He hung up and put his phone in his pocket.
‘So?’
‘He’s being transferred to Nambour for more tests. They’re on their way now; Mum reckons you can visit in a couple of hours. So maybe chill out for a bit, yeah?’
I would not be waiting a couple of hours; I would be getting to Nambour Hospital as soon as possible and then waiting to rush to his side the very second I was allowed to see him.
‘You’re welcome!’ Martin called out as I climbed back over the fence, and I gave him the finger for being such a massive prick.
Mum drove me to the hospital without hesitation. She packed me water and snacks and a change of clothes.
‘You must feel so worried. I know how much you two care about each other,’ she said, as we started our slow, winding descent.
‘Martin said he’s fine, he’s going to be fine.’
‘I know, sweetie, but sometimes your feelings still need to have their say.’
Mum pulled into a loading zone and dropped me off before going to park the car. It was like she knew I would not have handled the extra few minutes in the car, despite the fact I would be unlikely to see him for hours. She validated the urgency; she let my feelings have their say. We sat for what could have been minutes or hours or days in the waiting room, until Mrs Bailey came out to greet us. She and Mum held a gentle truce and she hugged me in an uncomfortable kind of way. I was unsure if Martin had told her about my feral behaviour, but she was kind to me regardless.
‘He’s down having an MRI now, but he should be back up soon and then you can come through and say hello,’ she said.
After more waiting, we were finally led through white hallways to room number 123, a calming number if ever I saw one. When I saw Fran’s face, I immediately burst into tears, as was my style. He was wearing a blue gown, with an IV connected to his left arm. Mum and Mrs Bailey took my reaction as a sign to give us a bit of privacy, both of them stepping back into the hall, and I proceeded to sob for many more minutes, eventually curling up at the foot of his hospital bed in the foetal position, because I guess I was an attention-seeking drama queen who had to make this moment about myself. Fran, by this point, looked almost amused.
‘I’m sorry I’m crying so much, I’m not trying to make this about me,’ I sniffed, sitting up and trying to pull myself together.
‘It’s okay, you can cry. My mum did too,’ he replied.
I splashed some cold water on my face at the sink by his bed, and when I sat back down, I was slightly more composed. I felt glad for the empty beds in the rest of the room and the privacy that allowed us.
‘So, what do they think happened?’ I asked, trying to be calm.
‘I had a seizure. Because it’s the first time, they’re trying to figure out what caused it, and if it’s a one-off, or if it could be epilepsy,’ he replied.
‘What does that mean? Can you die from epilepsy?’
‘There’s a risk, I think, but a lot of people have it and live whole normal lives.’
‘Oh.’
‘I’m planning to live for a long time, don’t worry,’ he said.
I cried some more, thinking of Fran and his right to live a whole normal life. He patted the bed beside him, and I crawled up into the space under his arm, where I fitted so well.
18
Much like the Sunshine Plaza, the hospital emergency room on Christmas Eve-eve is not a place I would recommend anyone visiting if they are sensitive to crowds or germs. There is an abundance of both, and not nearly enough places to sit. The fluorescent lights are aggressive in their assault on all senses, and there is always a baby crying. The growing meltdown I am trying to keep under wraps feels like a fuse that cannot be stamped out, or an atom bomb about to hit critical mass. I almost want to let it, to demonstrate to my family and everyone else in here that there is a difference between my experience and simply being an overly sensitive or difficult person. Not everyone is capable of igniting a chain reaction that results in an energetic explosion. It calms me a little to think about. I perhaps spend too much time considering ways in which I can prove people wrong, but it feels like a constructive outlet for my current dysregulation, or at least more constructive than replaying and analysing every single thing I have ever done wrong in the entire course of my life.
Mum is not talking to any of us, Maeve included, because we have all done something to personally offend her in the thirty minutes between getting the phone call, going home to collect some things, and arriving here. She is instead pacing and muttering, alternating between crunching breath mints like ice chips and dousing her hands in sanitiser, emanating an energy so lethal that even strangers are giving her a wide berth, despite the overcrowded space. This does not have a calming effect on any of us. The receptionist has asked us to wait a moment while she figures out exactly where Dad might be, and the waiting room is bursting at the seams. I look around at the children, old people, wheelchairs, bandaged limbs, and so much coughing. It seems like a good time to take a break and find a mask, seeing as the new viruses and their crowds of supporting illnesses seem to spike every year at Christmas, and I am so good at doing poorly.
Olivia and Maeve are busy in the children’s corner, enthusiastically using the equipment that has been touched by every sick child in the vicinity. Luke is plugging coins into the vending machine with the air of someone doing the most important job in the room. Fran is by my side, a place he has not left since Luke’s call came through. He leads me over to two seats that have been freed up after a mother and teenage boy have been called to the desk.
‘Should we get anything for your mum? Water, maybe?’ he asks.
‘I don’t think so. She will be upset by the price of water in the hospital, and the price of parking, and the brand of water . . .’
‘Yep, got it.’
