Oksa Pollock: The Last Hope (37 page)

W
HEN THEY ARRIVED IN
B
IGTOE
S
QUARE ON
S
UNDAY
evening, Abakum and Oksa immediately saw an ambulance’s flashing light intermittently illuminating the façade of the Pollocks’ house. In a panic, Oksa leapt out of the sidecar and rushed into the living room. Not a soul. The kitchen was empty too. Then she spotted some ambulance men on the upstairs landing, carrying her mother on a stretcher.

“MUM!”

Marie’s long hair hung down untidily, revealing her drawn, white face. She was lying there motionless with her arms at her sides. Only her eyes wandered vaguely. The ambulance men stopped for a moment and Oksa dashed over to her mother.

“What’s happening? Dad? Where are you?” she yelled in alarm.

Pavel Pollock appeared suddenly at the door of the bedroom, an anguished expression on his face and a travel bag still open in his hand.

“Oksa, sweetheart! There’s something seriously wrong with your Mum. She has to go straight to the hospital.”

“You don’t look in a fit state to drive, Pavel, I’ll take you,” suggested Abakum, looking at Oksa’s father in concern. “You can explain what happened on the way. Where’s Dragomira?”

“I’m coming!”

Baba Pollock came out of the bedroom too and rushed over to hug Oksa. She looked worried and her hands were shaking so uncontrollably
that she was finding it hard to do anything efficiently, which was highly unusual for her. She walked over to Abakum and whispered something in his ear which made the blood drain from the old man’s face in an alarming manner.

All four of them climbed into the Pollocks’ car. Abakum quickly moved off and followed the ambulance through the traffic, which immediately gave way on hearing the siren. Sitting stiffly in the front seat, Pavel finally explained in a dull voice what had happened.

“She didn’t say anything to you but she’s not been feeling herself for a few days now. It started with painful joints as if she were suffering from rheumatism. I even teased her about her age, as usual,” he admitted with a choked sob. “And then on Friday, she began feeling terribly giddy. We thought it was due to the parent-teacher meeting and particularly because of the interview with Orthon-McGraw. She was a bit tense, I could sense how apprehensive she was all day… I was fairly anxious myself and I didn’t look for any other explanation. On Saturday, her dizziness worsened and her eyes began to hurt. She couldn’t tolerate the light any more and she could barely see anything, even in the half-light. We thought it was a really bad migraine. Dragomira prepared a powerful decoction to try and relieve the pain, but it was no good. Marie was too dizzy to stand up. She dozed off and slept until mid afternoon. Dragomira and I took turns to watch over her; we were both very worried. When she woke up, she was paralysed—she couldn’t move the left side of her body! All she could say was that she was hurting all over. I called an ambulance and you got here just after.”

Pavel put his face in his hands, looking worn-out with worry. Oksa, sitting just behind him, threw her arms around his neck to comfort him. But tears were rolling down her face, and she felt totally helpless in the face of this tragedy.

“Here’s the hospital,” said Abakum, breaking the silence. “They’ll look after her here and this will all just be a bad memory in no time, you’ll see.”

There was a hint of pessimism in his voice, though, which he couldn’t voice openly. Gripping the steering wheel with his hands, he met Dragomira’s anxious eyes in the rear-view mirror, which only served to confirm his worst fears.

The next morning Oksa had to go back to school with a heavy heart and her mind light years away from her everyday student concerns. This wasn’t a normal Monday. She was relieved to learn that McGraw had called in sick. She was in no mood to put up with him, or his sarcasm. Merlin and Zelda, whom Gus had told about Marie Pollock’s illness, rallied around their friend as warmly as they could, but Oksa seemed miles away, cut off from everyone. Words rolled off her like water off a duck’s back. Nothing and no one could give her any comfort. During Dr Bento’s lesson she couldn’t help thinking dark thoughts, which plunged her into suffocating despair. She’d thought about death before, of course. She’d known people who had died in her family but, when she thought carefully, it had never been anyone she was close to. She’d never lost anyone she loved. Never. Death had always been an abstract idea, a pain which she imagined was deep and lasting. A feeling of terrible emptiness. But today, things were very different. And very
real
. It was not so much pain she felt, as a silent, uncontrollable terror which was invading every inch of her heart. At break she ran to take refuge in the Statues’ Den, where she cried heavy, racking sobs. When she emerged, her eyes red and swimming with tears, her friends were waiting for her, looking concerned and helpless. Just before lunch Mr Bontempi came to the prep room to find her and took her to his office.

“Oksa, I’m aware that your mother has been taken into hospital. I know how hard this is for you, because I had to cope with the same thing when I was your age. I think it would be better for her, and for you, if you spent a few days with her. You won’t find it hard to catch up
on the lessons you’ll miss. You have friends you can count on, which is one of the benefits of being so popular, isn’t it?” he added with a smile that was meant to be comforting. “Your gran is coming to get you. Oh, there she is now!”

Seeing Dragomira come in, Oksa jumped up, toppling her chair over, and rushed over to her.

“Baba! Have you seen Mum? How is she?”

“She’s had a lot of tests,” replied Dragomira, after greeting Mr Bontempi. “We know a little more today. She is suffering from some sort of hemiplegia, which has paralysed the left side of her body. But there’s another neurological problem which the doctors are looking into. It’s a bit too soon yet for them to know exactly what’s going on. But your Mum is feeling better, Oksa, she’s in much less pain and she’d like to see you.”

“Then don’t keep her waiting, Mrs Pollock,” said Mr Bontempi encouragingly. “Go quickly. And be strong, Oksa—your mother needs you.”

The next few days were nerve-racking for the Pollocks. Taking Mr Bontempi’s sound advice, Oksa tried very hard to build a shell around herself and to deal with the constant aching sadness that ate away at her. Every day she spent hours at the hospital with her mother, along with her father. Hiding her anguish as best she could, she’d lay out all the gifts she and her father had bought in town that morning on the bed: nightgowns, each prettier than the last, eau de toilette, flowers and gizmos to brighten up the room, crystallized fruit—Marie’s guilty pleasure—CDs of relaxing music, etc. She’d read aloud from celebrity magazines to take her mum’s mind off things and tell her whatever came into her head, from the morning news to the latest funny stories she’d heard. In the evening she’d come back from the hospital, wrung out by the effort of not crying. She’d throw herself on her bed, often in tears, her heart in pieces. Her father would come and do his best to comfort
her, although he was also bitterly upset. As for Dragomira, she’d sit up with her in a chair next to her bed. But a gran, however caring she is, isn’t a mother. Overwhelmed by sadness, Oksa would eventually sink into a fitful sleep, plagued by her worries about a dismal future.

When she’d been admitted to the hospital, Marie Pollock had been in a critical condition. Her family was shocked at the contrast between Marie’s appearance before the illness and the gaunt, ashen face of the woman lying in her hospital bed. As Dragomira had said, she wasn’t in so much pain now; but it was so hard to see her looking so weak and sapped by this disease, not to mention the bouts of nausea caused by the strong drugs they were giving her. At the same time, the medical diagnoses had confirmed that she was seriously ill and that it was proving hard to find a suitable cure. Everyone was distressed by the mood of unspoken pessimism which hung over Oksa’s mother. Yet, a few days later, to the doctors’ great surprise, her condition altered drastically.

T
HE FOLLOWING WEEK
O
KSA WENT BACK TO SCHOOL.
Gus, who was waiting to see her, made no attempt to hide his impatience or his joy.

“Hi there! I’m so glad you’re back!” he exclaimed.

And he rushed over and kissed her on the cheeks. Two sincere, clumsy and totally spontaneous kisses. What a first! Oksa couldn’t remember Gus ever kissing her, not since they’d known each other—in other words, not since they were toddlers. Taken aback, she looked down and flushed. She didn’t go as red as Gus, though, who had turned so scarlet that he seemed about to go up in flames.

“Hiya, Gus,” she said. “My mother’s home, I’m so happy! The doctors weren’t keen, they thought it was too early, but Dad insisted on having her discharged so that he could bring her home. I really thought they were going to come to blows.”

“Yes, I know,” said Gus, his cheeks and forehead still bright red. “My parents called your father yesterday evening, they’ve just told me. How is she? She looked as if she was in so much pain when we came to see her the other day.”

Oksa’s face darkened.

“She can move her left arm a bit now. She can’t walk, but she can stand up; she’s gradually regaining her balance, she’s got her sight back,
and she doesn’t get dizzy any more. I hope it continues… I was so afraid Gus, you have no idea!”

“What about the doctors? What are they saying?”

“They think it’s multiple sclerosis. I did some research: it’s a serious disease which attacks the nervous system by forming lesions which alter the neurological functions. It mainly affects women. Abakum is staying with us for a few days and he and Baba make a pretty formidable team, I can tell you. I was aware they were clued up on alternative medicine, but I had no idea how much they knew. Believe it or not, Baba injected my mother with some Vermicula!”

“Er… what are Vermicula?” asked Gus.

“It’s top-secret information,” murmured Oksa, looking around cagily. “Vermicula are a widely used remedy in Edefia, particularly in microsurgery. I don’t have to tell you that the doctors here aren’t in the know. Abakum explained to me that, instead of operating on people, they inject them with a substance which contains worms the size of human cells. They make their way to where the illness has taken hold and treat it—No kidding! It does sound a little disgusting, I agree, but I think it’s worked well on my mother. In her case, it seems that lesions have formed on her nerve centre and, according to the doctors, we don’t know what the long-term effects are. From what I’ve read, the damage is usually irreversible, since it’s a degenerative disease: the affected cells don’t regenerate, you never get back what you’ve lost. That’s why the doctors have described the results of the last tests they did on my mother as a miracle. They can’t get over how much she’s improved in just a few days; this is the first time they’ve seen a case like this. We can’t say anything to them, but I’m telling you in the utmost secrecy that Abakum and Baba’s Vermicula went straight to the root of the problem: they’re the reason my mother is feeling better. Admittedly she’s not cured, far from it; but, given the extent of the damage, she should be far worse, according to the doctors. I just hope she continues to get better…”

“That’s so typical of the Pollocks—microscopic worms the size of cells! If you didn’t exist, someone would have had to invent you. What about you? How are you?” asked Gus, moving closer and stealing a glance at Oksa.

“Oh Gus, you’ve got a blackhead on your nose!” said Oksa, trying to change the subject. “Only joking… things are better now my mother’s back, even though she’s far from well. You know Dad, he won’t leave her side by so much as an inch. Otherwise, you would get a look at the Lunatrixes! Dragomira has given them permission to come downstairs in view of the special circumstances, and they’re as busy as… as…”

“As Lunatrixes?” said Gus helpfully.

Oksa laughed heartily for the first time in days.

“Exactly. They’re more bonkers than ever, their vocabulary is all over the place. But it’s lucky they’re there because my mother loves them and so do I. They give us a good laugh and they make themselves very useful.”

She paused for a second, then asked:

“What about… McGraw?”

“McGraw? Well… he asked where you were, believe it or not, you’d almost think he missed you! Apart from that, nothing special, he’s just the same as usual. Despicable, like your father said. Other than that, someone else has really missed you—”

He was interrupted by the arrival of Merlin Poicassé, who gave a loud shout of joy when he saw that Oksa had come back. He also came over to kiss her clumsily, but boldly, on the cheeks. Blushing furiously again at more hugging and kissing, Oksa wondered: “
What on earth is going on with those two? Did they make a bet or something?
” But if she’d seen Gus’s crestfallen expression, she’d have realized immediately that a bet was well wide of the mark—that the “someone else” who’d missed her was perhaps not who she thought it was.

As Mr Bontempi had anticipated, her week away from school didn’t have any effect on Oksa’s work. Gus had emailed her the homework she had to do along with the lessons she had to learn every day and she soon caught up. All the teachers were very kind and asked after her mother. Unfortunately McGraw hadn’t changed and was just as mocking and contemptuous as ever.

“Oh, Miss Pollock is back, just when we’d given up
our last hope
,” he said, with heavy emphasis on these words. “A week away from school for a hospitalized parent! How long would you have been off if it had been
you
taken sick? A year-long sabbatical, at least…”

A shocked murmur ran through the classroom. Oksa was literally speechless. Sitting on her own at her desk, since Gus had been relegated to the back of the class, she felt the Curbita-Flatulo firmly squeeze her wrist. She was
SO
angry. She put her hand on her small shoulder bag and felt for her Granok-Shooter. She wanted to use it so badly. A good Muddler or Dermenburn would teach that arrogant McGraw to be sarcastic! The pressure from the Curbita-Flatulo increased and the rage which was burning Oksa up inside was quickly extinguished, as though quenched by a cool breeze—helped by the fact that she had a small act of revenge up her sleeve, just in case… a doubly satisfying act of revenge, since there was nothing magical about it at all. And McGraw had just unwittingly given her a great opportunity. As he was writing on the board, she raised her hand and called out:

“Please, sir?”

McGraw turned round in astonishment, looking tense.

“Yes?”

“Sir, there’s something odd in the last exercise you gave us,” she explained innocently. “You seem to have reversed the abscissa and the ordinate. The way it is now, the problem can’t be solved.”

An ominous silence followed this remark which was, after all, totally justified. At the back, Gus decided there was absolutely no point trying to make his friend see reason. In expectation of the catastrophe that was
bound to befall the class in the next few minutes, some of the students were gnawing their bottom lips, while others wisely lowered their eyes. Oksa kept hers firmly fixed on McGraw. It was hard, but she was determined not to be the first to look away. All kinds of thoughts helped her to keep her resolve. Specific images, like Gracious Malorane endangering herself for Dragomira, the man with the decomposing arm writhing in pain, flames emerging from the Glass Column in Edefia, her mother lying on the stretcher. Even if this last mental image had nothing to do with him, it gave her more courage than all the rest combined. McGraw had belittled her mother’s illness and she wasn’t going to put up with that! The teacher rummaged through his papers and took out the exercise in question. He reread it quickly, but Oksa was confident she was right, so she didn’t take her eyes off him. Finally he looked up and fixed his dark gaze on her:

“Fortunately the brilliant Miss Pollock is here to point out her teachers’ mistakes! Perhaps I should let you take my place?” he said stiffly, his thin lips pursed in rage.

“But Dr McGraw, I’m not a teacher, I’m only thirteen!” she retorted, a hint of irony in her voice. “I just wanted to make sure it was a mistake because, otherwise, we might have found it confusing.”

“Your classmates have probably already corrected it. I’m sure everyone picked up on such a glaring mistake well before you mentioned it,” said McGraw icily, putting an end to the conversation.

Oksa smiled mockingly at him, noticing that a few of the students in the class had grabbed their pencil cases and notebooks to correct the faulty logic of the exercise and were hurriedly trying to come up with a coherent answer. Their hasty diligence and Oksa’s provocative smile didn’t escape McGraw and he spent the whole hour looking daggers at her.

Needless to say, she was given an ovation at break. The students in Year 8 Hydrogen were gloating: once more, Oksa had managed to stand up
to the hateful McGraw. She slipped away just in time to avoid being carried shoulder-high in triumph, because her victory, far from going to her head, didn’t dispel her worries.

“I must phone home to find out how my mother is, I didn’t see her before I left. I’m going to get my mobile, I left it in my locker.”

“Do you want me to come with you?” Gus asked hurriedly.

“No, don’t bother. I won’t be a minute.”

The corridor was deserted, since everyone was outside in the courtyard enjoying the winter sun. Oksa fetched her phone and called home. Dragomira picked up immediately and reassured her granddaughter: Marie was fine this morning, she’d even managed to take a few steps leaning on Pavel’s arm. The Vermicula seemed to be working miracles. Her mind put at ease, Oksa hung up. But when she turned round, her relieved smile quickly vanished: she found herself face to face with the Year 9 Neanderthal, no more than a couple of feet away.

“Well, well. If it isn’t my favourite loser! You don’t seem so full of yourself without your pathetic little band of brats following you around,” he said provocatively.

“Not so full of myself as who?” retorted Oksa belligerently, massaging her wrist to relieve the pressure of the Curbita-Flatulo, which found itself in demand for the second time that morning.

“You think you’re so clever, don’t you, Miss I-can-do-everything-better-than-anyone-else! Do you really believe I don’t know who you are? You’re living in cloud cuckoo land. You’re nowhere near as strong as you think you are, my father is head and shoulders above you. He could flatten you and your whole family to a pulp if he wanted!”

“Oh yeah?” said Oksa, determined not to be overawed. “Is your father a bulldozer then?”

“You pathetic moron, you still haven’t realized, have you? MY FATHER IS MCGRAW!” yelled the Neanderthal.