State We're In (10 page)

The years of silence extended across the room and their history. A desolate quiet seemed to compound in a solid mass throughout the ward, engulfing the dying man's bed, dense and too heavy to shift. Dean searched his mind for something to say that might nibble at the endless silence, budge it a little, but there were no words big enough to stretch across twenty-nine speechless years. Small talk – which in most social occasions sufficed, covered up and built bridges – seemed to be exposed for what it was, a polite strategy. Conversations about the weather were irrelevant, and an enquiry as to whether his father had any holiday plans this year was clearly ludicrous. Besides, Dean didn't want to be polite; if anything, he wanted to be vile and hateful, and although he was normally a master of strategy, he felt too raw to play any games right now.

‘So you've come,' murmured Eddie. His breath was laboured; it caught in his chest.

‘Yeah, well.'

Dean didn't know what Eddie was hoping for. What he expected. If he was hoping for a tearful reunion, a heartfelt declaration of forgiveness, he was going to be sorely disappointed. Frankly, Dean didn't know what he was hoping for either. Why had he come? What was he hoping to get out of this? Could he get to know his father in this short time? Did he even want to?

He should just go. Part of him had wanted to leave the hospital from the moment he'd arrived, but it was difficult because of the drip that fed his father and the catheter tube that drained him; all that they meant held Dean to his chair. The doctor had explained to him that Eddie had already undergone radiotherapy and chemotherapy to try to curb the cancer and a blood transfusion to combat severe anaemia. He'd had months of treatment. He'd endured that alone. The doctor said that there was nothing left to do now but wait. To die. Dean had discovered that however angry he was, he wasn't angry enough to walk away from a dying man. He couldn't decide if his inability to leave proved he was a hero or a coward.

‘Can I get you anything?' he asked, not through a genuine desire to help but because that was what people asked patients lying in bed in hospital.

‘Like what? A body transplant?' Eddie rasped. He tutted at his son and turned towards the window, leaving Dean to fight a feeling of humiliation.

Dean had been thinking along the lines of a magazine to read or some help reshuffling the pillows, obviously. Eddie had always managed to make him feel inadequate, as though whatever he did or said wasn't quite enough; he wasn't funny enough, clever enough or quick enough. The bottom line was he simply hadn't been enough to make his father stay. Eddie had left and Dean had always – illogically – blamed himself. This belief had developed not because of anything Eddie had ever said to his son, but the opposite; it was Edward Taylor's prolonged silence that had convinced Dean he was inadequate. Many men and some women left their families, Dean knew that, but most sent the odd postcard from time to time at the very least.

He followed his father's gaze and looked out of the window too. They were high up on the sixth floor; there was nothing to see but a grey, disappointing sky. They both stared at it as though it was the most fascinating thing ever.

Oddly, it was the depth and desolation of the silence that clarified for Dean his reasons for coming to England, to the hospital, to this bedside. He had been questioning the sanity of his decision; the one person in the world he hated hurting was Zoe, and he knew he had hurt her by coming here, but weighing against her disapproval and even more compelling than the catheter tubes, Dean was stuck in his seat because there was something he had to know.

Just one thing.

This was his first and last chance to ask it; he could not pass it up. He realised that his burdensome curiosity was why he had allowed Lacey to bully him on to the flight. It was that which had driven him to hop on the tube and then walk through the streets of London this morning to this dreary place.

He wondered whether he had the courage or energy to ask it. He wondered whether his father had either thing in order to answer. This was so mercilessly confusing. Part of Dean felt like an angry teenager again. He knew he had to shun that level of perplexity and uncertainty; he had to cling to the man who prided himself on being in control, being logical. He'd worked so hard to find balance and reason and he couldn't let that slither away. He knew he wasn't perfect; for example, he didn't do ‘deep'. So many women had come and gone from his life, moaning that he was distant or shallow and that he wouldn't let them in. The expression always amused him. Did they think he was some sort of boutique shop that they were entitled to browse round? He assured them that what they saw was all there was: a shiny, affluent, sexy man. He was lying, of course. Deep down he knew it was murkier, but he couldn't afford that part of him to bubble up to the surface.

All he had to do was lean close to the old man's ear and whisper, ‘Why did you leave? Why did you abandon us?' It was as simple as that, but he just couldn't do it. He'd never once said the words aloud. He'd never asked his mother. He hadn't had to; she'd shouted, screamed and smashed out her thoughts on the matter over and over again. In her opinion Eddie had left because he was a coward, because he'd found some whore to run off with, because he was a bastard. Was that all there was to it? His whole childhood massacred and his belief in the good stuff – like trust, fidelity and love – injured beyond repair just because his father hadn't been able to keep it in his trousers? Was that it?

He hadn't once asked Zoe. As the big brother, it was his job to beat off the gloom, deny it if possible, not probe. ‘We don't need him' was the thing he most often said to her.

Of course he'd internally debated, endlessly asking himself why. Why had his dad gone? He'd come up with his own theories on the matter. The one about him not being impressive enough to keep a dad in his right place, at home. And the other one, the fact that you could never trust anyone, not completely, not truly. Dean thought that if a dad could leave, then anyone could. Would. The world was populated by selfish bastards. There was nothing you could do about that, other than protect yourself. Dean didn't get too friendly with colleagues or too close to his mates, so they couldn't hurt him when they stabbed him in the back as he was sure they inevitably would. One thing he was absolutely clear on: he would never fall in love. He wouldn't have children; that way he couldn't screw them up.

Yet here he was, hoping to be contradicted. Could it possibly be the case that, after all these years of hating and festering, the truth was that Dean didn't want to believe something so bleak? Was he here because he hoped his father would offer up something a little more substantial, something healing and comforting? Did he still think Eddie might make it all better? Not exactly kiss his cut knee and apply an Elastoplast – it was too late for all that – but offer an explanation that would make the hurt recede a fraction, allow the trust to bloom a little.

Eddie Taylor's hands trembled, ever so slightly. They were splattered with age spots and covered in swollen blue veins which created the impression that somehow he had dipped his elbow in a tin of paint and then allowed it to drip down his arms and hands. The skin was thin, almost transparent, like crumpled tracing paper. The man was decaying, even before he'd died. Loose skin suggested that until relatively recently he had been packed and fortified with layers of fat; the cancer had leached away that buffering and now his skin hung sloppy and grey. The hollows in his cheeks were cavernous. His eyes were watery; there was a film covering them that somehow seemed to underline the distance between the two men.

One was vital and of this world.

The older man had accepted that he had an imminent exit.

A nurse appeared at the bedside and broke the silence. Dean was grateful. She was a different one from the one he'd spoken with this morning. ‘You're awake, Eddie, that's good.'

Dean thought this was probably what was widely accepted to be an understatement; a dying man waking up must be the high point of a nurse's day. He appraised the nurse with the practised eye of a womaniser. She was probably about his age but she looked significantly more worn in. Worn out. Dean worked out four times a week, he ate organic food and he never smoked or drank alcohol. He cared about his physical appearance. He sometimes thought of himself as a brand; a dynamic, attractive, slick, successful brand. The nurse carried a small tyre around her midriff and looked as though she ate takeaways. Surprisingly, Dean quite liked to see that particular bulge, because it represented contentment, and although he didn't do contentment himself, he accepted that others did and that was a good thing. That said, contented women didn't tend to fall in Dean's way. He dated hard-bodied gym bunnies who had allergies to carbs and were often coldly ambitious.

The nurse had reasonably good legs; there were some benefits to being on your feet all day. He studied her face: big brown eyes and a sloppy, smiley mouth. He briefly imagined that mouth – made up with scarlet lipstick – inching its way from his lips to his chin, his chest, across his belly, down lower, the big brown eyes staring at him all the while. No, the fantasy didn't fly. Even though this woman was wearing a uniform and kept flashing him big, careless grins, he couldn't get anything started. He wasn't really in the mood. He watched passively as she whizzed around the bed, tapping tubes and checking readings.

‘Keep trying to drink your fluids,' she said to Eddie. For a moment she allowed her hand to rest on his shoulder. It was a tender gesture. Dean saw his father move his head a fraction towards her. He couldn't lay his cheek on her hand as he might once have done – he didn't have the flexibility; besides which, it would have been inappropriate – but there was something in the movement, however slight, that suggested that he hankered after human contact. Dean wished he hadn't noticed.

‘When will he be getting some breakfast?' he asked the nurse. He checked his watch. He had little idea what time it was here in England. Despite being a frequent flier, he always suffered with jet lag; it played havoc with his reality at the best of times, and this clearly wasn't that. ‘Or lunch? It's past lunchtime, right? Where has the morning gone?' He wondered whether it was worthwhile trying to adjust to UK time or whether he should stay in the US zone; he'd be going back soon. When this was all over. The thought made him feel grateful and sick at the same time.

The nurse sidestepped the question. ‘If you're hungry, there's a shop on the third floor that sells chocolate and crisps and there's a café in the lobby. They do sandwiches and jacket potatoes, that sort of thing. The BLT wrap is decent. I'll be back in a few minutes with the painkillers.'

It took a moment for Dean to understand. Eddie Taylor was no longer taking solids. The two men avoided one another's gaze and stayed silent until the nurse came back with the medication.

‘Still happy with the syringe?' she asked brightly.

Eddie nodded, then wheezed, ‘If happy is the right word.'

‘Content, then? Not too drowsy? Doesn't make you feel sick?'

Eddie nodded again. This time the nod was sharper, curt. Dean thought the gesture was somehow the physical equivalent of saying ‘What the fuck do you think?' Eddie was probably just desperate for some relief. How much pain was he in? Dean suddenly felt overwhelmed with emotions that he only sparingly dispensed and had never felt for his father: pity and sympathy. Then he remembered that it was
his father
dying in front of him and he slammed the lid on that swell of emotions. His father didn't deserve his sympathy; he didn't even deserve his pity.

‘What is that exactly?' he asked the nurse. Concentrating on the practicalities of the situation was the best thing to do, he assured himself. He could be good in a crisis. If he remained detached, he'd be fine.

‘This is a syringe driver. It's the best way to manage your dad's painkillers. We tried fentanyl as a patch but it irritated his skin. This is so easy to set up. A tiny needle is inserted just under the skin of the arm, there.' The nurse rubbed a dab of something on Eddie's arm and inserted a needle. ‘Sorry about my cold hands.'

‘I could warm them up? Put them under the covers,' chipped in Eddie. His breath came out in puffs.

‘Eddie.' The nurse pretended to look shocked, but her voice was full of tolerance and warmth, despite his improper suggestion. It was clear that she knew how to handle men like Eddie.

‘Still, they say cold hands, warm heart. Have you?' mumbled Eddie.

‘You know it.'

Dean could not believe it. His father was flirting with the nurse. An old, dying man flirting! Life in the old dog yet had never been such an apt phrase. Dean wasn't sure if he was disgusted or impressed.

The nurse turned back to Dean and held up a small portable pump. ‘And this holds enough painkillers for twenty-four hours. It gives a continuous dose. Should I put it on the bedside table or tuck it under your pillow, Eddie?'

‘On the table. Thanks.'

The words were barely out before Eddie closed his eyes. Relief seemed to flood through his entire body. Dean stood up and followed the nurse as she walked away from the bed. When he thought he was out of Eddie's earshot he asked, ‘Did you give him something to make him sleep? Is there a sedative in that?'

‘No. Sleep is natural right now, at this stage. The miracle is that he's awake at all.' The nurse paused, allowing Dean a moment to compute what she was saying. ‘If you have any other questions, the doctor or the palliative care team will be able to answer them.'

Dean did have one more question, the only one he needed an answer to, but the doctors and the palliative care unit couldn't help him.
Why did he leave us?
The question threw itself around his head like a small orb ricocheting around a pinball machine.
Why did he leave us?
The words raked around his head, scratching up pain and distress. He strode back to Eddie's bedside and burst out, ‘Why did you leave us?'