22Marc
On the day that Silvie has the transplant, Marc chews on his hospital bedsheet. He sits and sweats and chews. It will be hours before she comes out.
After much argument the hospital consented to one parent observing from the glassed-in gallery. Marc and Claude agreed it should be her.
‘You did the first part.’ Claude put her hand on Marc’s. Her nails were ragged, bitten down to the quick. The red polish was almost all gnawed off. ‘Now it’s me.’
Marc kissed her hand, careful not to hurt the raw places where she chewed her nails and cuticles, and for once neither of them could find anything biting to say. They argue, he and Claude, but they’re part of each other too.
Marc shakes at the thought of what’s happening now, Silvie’s tender flesh, the scalpel moving on her unconscious body.
He levers himself out of bed and takes the clunky wooden crutches from where they lean against the wall – his new prosthetic will not be ready for some weeks – and makes his way across the hospital. It takeshim a while to get to Riley’s ward, step by clumsy step. The crutches feel like using roller skates after years of ice skating. But there is something comforting about the solid wood under his arms, the reality of it.
Riley is awake. She blinks slowly, eyes still unfocused from the anaesthesia. She is so thin that she almost blends in with the bed. Marc feels the fall of terror. What if she dies because of what he has asked of her?
Riley catches her breath when she sees Marc. Her smile is awkward, unpractised; he supposes she hasn’t had much call to use it over the years. ‘They’re doing it now,’ she says. ‘For Silvie.’
‘I know,’ he says. ‘I guess I came to see if you were ok.’
‘I’m ok,’ Riley says. ‘So long as you know it’s not two for one.’
Marc snorts quickly, covering his laugh with his hand.
‘Does it hurt?’ he asks.
‘No.’ She winces even as she speaks.
‘Don’t lie to me, Riley,’ Marc says, furious, ‘not now.’ He’s shocked at the sound of his voice which is not his own. It’s the other one he gave up years ago. Marc is scared of letting Oliver back in. It means too much.
‘I don’t know what’s going to happen, Oliver Olive,’ Riley says, ‘but I know you’re doing everything you can and so am I. So is everyone. Ok?’
He nods. The fear is so strong it’s hard to form a thought.
‘Let’s wait together.’ Riley holds out her thin hand and he takes it quickly in his. They sit like that for a time.
‘I miss my children,’ Riley whispers.
‘Why do you keep saying things like that?’ She constantly provokes him with these fantasies, it makes him furious. ‘You understand reality, Riley, I know you do—’
‘So do you, Oliver Olive.’
‘Don’t call me that. I’m going outside for a cigarette.’
A doctor appears in the doorway. The doctor opens his mouth and Marc forgets everything else.
Marc and Claude get balloons and cake. They get pointed party hats and soda and buttons saying ‘You’re the best!’ They make their way up to the ward clutching big plastic bags of these things.
Silvie is asleep. Marc and Claude sit down on the hospital chairs as gently as if they might break them.
Silvie stirs. ‘Hi.’ She sounds so small. ‘I feel sick.’
Marc leans over her anxiously. ‘Are you ok, you want a nurse?’
‘Is that cake?’ Silvie points. ‘Can I have some?’
Claude quickly cuts a piece for her. Silvie nibbles at the frosting, leaning back against her pillow. ‘Mm,’ she says. A moment later she is asleep again.
Claude and Marc sit by her bedside, talking in whispers and moving forkfuls of sheet cake around on paper plates. At their feet plastic bags spill party hats and streamers onto the white linoleum floor.
