An Impossible Dilemma: A Psychological Thriller Novel (3 page)

“Say hi to her from me.”

“Will do. So when do you want me?”

“The problem is I won't be able to pay you much. Not right away, anyway."

"Do you have wine?"

"Some. I'll get more."

"Fab. When do you want me?"

"Yesterday."

"Oh," she giggled. "Okay, give me till tomorrow and you're on."

"Thanks, Steph. You're a diamond."

So it was settled. Stephanie and Alex would both be joining us. The farmhouse had plenty of bedrooms, and I made one up for Steph. We’d always classed her as family anyway.

Jon offered Alex the self-contained studio above the garage, and he was thrilled to have his own front door. He didn’t mind the fact it hadn’t been lived in for years and needed a lick of paint. At least he could come and go as he pleased without disturbing anyone.

I warmed to Alex immediately. He had a mass of tight brown curls, green eyes and lean, wiry body, and seemed too young to be travelling the world alone. I figured his parents must be beside themselves.

I felt the familiar protectiveness that always gripped me when presented with a stray or sick and injured animal. Not that I thought of Alex as an animal, but I did think he needed someone to care for him—if only to give another mother, living thousands of miles away, some peace of mind.

In Manchester, we’d had a house full of strays. But we’d had to re-home them when we moved here. Frank didn’t agree with house pets. Animals had to have a purpose in his eyes. The semi-wild cats in the barn and the two farm dogs that were kept in kennels, all earned their keep.

***

The following day, Steph bustled in as I was about to dish out the dinner.

She gave a little scream when she saw me, and I almost dropped the dish I’d just taken out of the oven.

She was always the same, like a tornado wherever she went. Her bubbly personality filled any room, which made up for her teeny five-foot-two stature. Her normally wild, bleached blonde hair had been scraped back into an elastic band, and her trademark black makeup surrounded her lovely pale blue eyes.

"Sorry, I'm so late, Vic. I tried to get away, but Mum had hundreds of extra jobs that just couldn't wait. I think she's worried I won't be going back." She laughed.

"Oh, don't be silly. You’re not late." I placed the dish on top of the stove and threw the oven gloves down beside it.

I hugged her tightly, inhaling the familiar perfume she always wore.

"Where's Em?" She dropped two canvas holdalls onto the tiled floor and looked around the room.

I released her and took a step backwards. "Upstairs in bed. She doesn't want anything to eat, although she did have a bit of soup earlier," I said.

Stephanie dropped to the floor and began rummaging around in one of her bags.

"Can I pop up and say hi? I have something for her," she said, pulling a pair of maracas and a colourful Spanish fan from the huge holdall. She danced a little jig—the maracas in one hand and the fan in the other—and finished it off with, ‘Ole’,” and a double stamp of her heels.

I laughed. "Oh Steph, I’m so glad you’re here. Of course you can go up—she'll be so excited. I didn't tell her you were coming; I wanted to surprise her."

Steph ran up the stairs in search of her god-daughter.

I continued dishing up the food, adding an extra plate to the already laid table.

Steph walked down the stairs much more subdued than when she'd bounced up a few moment's ago. "Gosh, Vic, she's really sick, isn’t she?"

I nodded. "Yeah. I'm really worried. She’s got no energy at all and absolutely no appetite." I shook my head and placed one hand over my mouth, taking a deep breath, trying hard not to break down.

"I couldn't understand her. I had to make her repeat herself over and over," Steph said.

"I'm sorry, I should have warned you. She sounds like she's drunk, doesn't she?"

Stephanie nodded. "I didn’t want to say, but yes, she does, and she's so frail. She was never a big girl, but there's nothing left of her now."

Tears filled my eyes, and I buried my face in the tea towel, unable to hold them back any longer.

"I'm sorry, Vic. I didn't mean to upset you.”

"No. It's not you. Tears are never very far from the surface lately.”

Stephanie hugged me and stroked my hair as uncontrollable sobs escaped me.

"What did the doctor say?"

"We go for the results on Monday." I hiccupped.

Steph nodded. "Okay."

"Come on, the food'll be cold. I made your favourite, lasagne," I said, wiping my eyes on the towel once more.

"Yum. Come on then, what are we waiting for?" The mood suddenly lifted again.

I was so pleased to have her here. Not just for the extra help around the place, but because of the emotional support she would provide. And for the laughs that followed her around everywhere—God knows we needed more laughs around the place.

Monday loomed. I needed to know what was wrong with my baby, but I knew from the bottom of my heart that it wasn't going to be good news.

Chapter 3

Doctor Wilson shuffled the papers on the desk in front of him. He seemed to be avoiding our gaze.

Jonathan’s jaw clenched and unclenched over and over, he had dark smudges under his eyes. Neither of us had slept properly in weeks.

He gave me a tight, half smile and reached for my hand, pulling it onto his lap. He stroked along the top of my knuckles with his thumb.

Emily sat on the floor to the side of us, leafing through a book we’d found in reception.

Unable to sit still, my legs twitched uncontrollably to match my erratic heartbeat. My breath struggled to reach my lungs.

I scanned the room in an attempt to calm myself.

A bookcase held lots of clues to the private Doctor Wilson. The numerous dead fish he’d held up to be photographed over the years indicated he was a keen fisherman. I could tell they spanned a period of time, simply due to the varying degrees of grey in his hair.

A large hunk of driftwood commanded one whole shelf, and I couldn’t figure out why it was important—it didn’t look like anything in particular. Several photo frames showed a pretty dark-haired woman and two teenage boys—his wife and sons?

“Okay then, as you know, the reason you’re here today is for the results of the tests,” the doctor said.

I almost leapt out of my skin as his booming voice broke the silence of the room. “I’m sorry, I was miles away.”

He took a deep breath before continuing. “We have all the results back, but I’m afraid I don't have good news.” He paused, as if waiting for his words to sink in.

Neither of us said a word. Jonathan gripped my hand tighter. I held my breath.

“The scan shows Emily’s cerebellum is shrinking. The cerebellum is also known as ‘the little brain’ an area of the hindbrain that controls motor movement, coordination, balance, equilibrium and muscle tone. It contains hundreds of millions of neurons for processing data, and relays information between body muscles and areas of the cerebral cortex that are involved in motor control.”

“Why is it shrinking?” I shrieked, unable to comprehend his words.

Emily snapped her head around to look at me.

“There could be a number of reasons. Nine times out of ten we never know the cause, but in this instance we do—Emily is not producing an essential hormone called Proteum that's normally produced in a tiny gland at the base of the skull.”

“Can she be treated?” Jonathan whispered.

The room was spinning. How could this be happening to our gorgeous girl?

Emily, no longer interested in the book, glanced from me to her dad and back to the doctor. I realized she was listening to everything, and although I didn't think she'd understand, I didn’t want her to ask questions.

“Is there any chance Emily can go and play in reception? She doesn’t want to listen to all this boring grown-up talk do you, Em?” My voice sounded much brighter than I felt.

“Of course. I’ll get Diane to watch her.” He stood up and walked into the reception, returning with a middle-aged woman with spiky grey hair, laughing blue eyes and a smile to match.

“How about I show you where we hide the best toys, sweetie?” she said to Emily, who had climbed onto Jon’s knee.

She turned her face into his chest.

“Come on, Em, we won’t be long. We need to talk to the doctor for a few minutes, and then we’ll go home to see Steph,” I whispered.

“I’ve got a pretty dolly out here and her name’s Steph. She has lots of different dresses. Shall I show you?” Diane urged.

Emily lifted her head.

“Come on, sweetie.”

Emily took Diane’s hand and followed her outside.

“Thanks, Doctor. I don’t want her to hear what’s coming next.”

“I understand.”

I gripped Jonathan’s hand and braced myself.

“Now, where were we?” Doctor Wilson said.

“Can she be treated, Doctor?” Jonathan asked again.

He shook his head. “This hormone is essential for her development. Without it, she’ll continue to deteriorate. I’m so sorry.”

“I don’t understand. There’s nothing at all you can do?” I asked, my mind in a whirl. This was much worse than anything I’d imagined over the past weeks. My whole body shook. I couldn’t absorb what he was telling us.

“No. It’s incredibly rare. There were a number of trials conducted a few years ago. Attempts were made to transplant from a living donor, a similar procedure to a bone-marrow transplant, but on each occasion the donor died within twenty-four hours. The trials were stopped.”

“What if I donated mine?” I said, grasping at any possibility, my mind racing.

“Even if you could donate yours, it wouldn’t work because, although you do still produce Proteum, you no longer produce the quantities needed for the development of a young girl. Anybody over the age of twenty-five won’t produce nearly enough.”

“Do the donors have to be a match, like with a bone marrow transplant?”

“No—but we’re getting way off track here, Mrs Lyons. The trials were stopped.”

“What about someone who’s already dead, or dying?”

“No. The Proteum needs to come from a living brain to be viable. I’m being purely hypothetical now as I know you’re trying to understand. If a potential donor is brain-dead, the Proteum won't be viable either.”

“So in other words, my daughter is going to die,” Jonathan said, in a flat, matter-of-fact voice.

“I’m afraid so, Mr Lyons—and I’m sorry.”

Hearing the words spoken out loud made my head spin. “How long?” I asked, my teeth chattered, I was shaking so much.

“I’m sorry?”

“How long until she dies? How long do we have?”

“It’s hard to say, as the symptoms vary from person to person. I suggest we do some more tests in two months. It will enable us to see how quickly she’s deteriorating and give us some idea of what to expect.”

I wanted to scream at him—for his pompous, no-nonsense answers—for his calm manner—for his rotten lying mouth. But instead I felt my shoulders sag. An empty hole in the very centre of my being grew larger and more painful by the second. This couldn’t be happening.

The posters on the wall were jumping out at me. One was entitled “Brain Jokes”. I didn’t read any further. Some fucking joke this was.

I looked at Jonathan and noticed he hadn’t moved a muscle, except huge tears ran down his face and dripped off his chin.

“Jon. Jon? Are you okay?” I pulled him to me and held his head to my chest as loud sobs escaped him.

I couldn’t cry. I was numb. My mind raced—there must be a way. We couldn’t just allow our beautiful precious girl to die. There must be something we could do.

“I need a second opinion, Doctor,” I said.

“Of course you do, and all the test results will go to my colleague for a second opinion automatically. However, I can assure you, the diagnosis will remain the same.”

“It’s not that I don’t trust you,” I gulped, “but this is our baby—we’ve got to try everything. We can’t allow her to die without a fight.”

“I understand.”

“So what do we do now? Does she need medication to help with the symptoms?” I said.

“Not at the moment, but once her symptoms progress we can suggest a number of treatments that might help. A speech or language therapist will probably be needed, as she’s already showing signs of this being a problem. She may have swallowing difficulties, but it’s hard to say what Emily’s symptoms will be. No two cases are identical.”

I shook my head in confusion. How could this be true? My insides were churning, and I thought I might unload the contents of my stomach all over the pristine oak desk.

“What causes it?” Jonathan said.

“It’s not clear, but studies show that it’s probably caused by a defective gene passed down from both parents. It often turns out that siblings will also have the same condition.”

“So we gave it to her?” I asked, horrified.

“We think so.”

“If we have more children, they could be the same?” I asked, the room spinning wildly.

“If you have more children together, then yes, they will certainly have this condition.” He shrugged.

“So what now?” My voice sounded flat and alien to my ears.

“There is nothing else, I’m afraid. Diana will give you some leaflets on your way out. If you have any questions, please contact me or my team, and we’ll assist you in any way we can.”

We all got to our feet.

“One last thing, doctor.”

He nodded, “Of course.”

“In the trials—how did the patients react to the treatment?”

“The results were immediate and it was around six months before the symptoms returned. Obviously the trials had ended by then, and no more treatment was available.”

I couldn’t believe what he was telling me. There was a possible chance to cure my daughter but instead they’d stopped all the tests. And although six months wasn’t a long time in the grand scheme of things, I’d gladly give her my Proteum if it would help to buy her more time.

After all, a lot can happen in six months.