If I’m going to say anything, now’s the time. But I don’t know if I want to share the news about Dennis Derwent’s illness with my father. It’s not like I’ve signed a patient-nurse confidentiality agreement or anything, but Harris told me about it in all privacy. I practically had to drag it out of him with forceps. Passing it on to Dad would be a breach of trust.
And if Dad went in to see Harris and let word slip… I honestly don’t think Harris would ever let his walls down again, not for anybody.
I have to phrase my words carefully. ‘Dad, there’s stuff going on… Harris has told me there’s problems with him and Dennis at the moment.’
‘So Harris is talking to you?’
‘Sometimes.’ I contemplate my tea. ‘That’s why I’ve been trying to help him out. I mean, I know it’s not really my business but when he came back to hospital the second time he was really struggling. He needs some space to recover, or he’s going to end up returning again.’
Maybe to die.I flash on when I went into Harris’s room on Saturday and found him lying there with his lips dry and his eyes unfocused… I don’t want to remember how he looked at that moment, but the memory won’t leave. I wonder if Harris remembers the look in my eyes when I told him my story about the coloured sand. I asked him for something true, something real, but I’m starting to realise that sharing truth with someone is like osmosis: a dual exchange.
‘I think what you’re doing is good, love,’ Dad says quietly. ‘And fixing up Harris with a place to go… I hope it helps. I really do.’
I nod, relieved to have my father’s approval. This will be so much easier if I know Dad’s on my side.
But he’s not finished.
‘Just be careful, okay? Harris is an each-way bet. I don’t want to see you disappointed, but some folks…’ His expression is very serious, and a little sad, and makes a dreadful hollow in my stomach like a tiny black hole. ‘Sometimes things just don’t work out for the best, no matter how hard you try.’
