Into My Arms (33 page)

37

‘Hamish, can I have a word?’ Dr Madigan hovered at the entrance to Skye’s room, clutching some files.

‘Sure,’ said Hamish uneasily. It wasn’t like her to ask—normally she just breezed in and started chatting as she stood by the bed, flicking through Skye’s chart. Today she closed the door behind her and pulled up a chair.

‘I was hoping I’d get to talk to you before I left. Skye too. How long’s she been asleep?’

Hamish glanced over at his wife. Though her eyes were closed she was frowning slightly, as if supremely irritated by the whole business of being stuck in bed but too polite to say so. ‘As long as I’ve been here. Fifteen minutes, maybe? She sleeps a lot,’ he added.

‘I know,’ Dr Madigan said. ‘That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.’ She opened one of the files and began to riffle through it, eventually pulling out two sheets covered with numbers.
Renal function tests
, Hamish read upside down. Dr Madigan looked up and seemed to sigh a little. ‘Skye’s latest results weren’t great, I’m afraid.’ She paused and raised a tired hand to push back her dark hair, which was shot through with grey. ‘Actually, they were awful.’

Hamish looked around the room before he replied. Cheap curtains, scuffed walls, a murky watercolour hanging in one corner. Skye had been here a week now, and the decor never failed to depress him. It was standard hospital issue, he imagined, but how could anyone get well in such a place? He had thought she would be home by now. ‘Awful?’ he said finally. ‘How awful?’

‘The kidney that was injured doesn’t seem to be recovering. It was damaged pretty badly, as you know, but she’s young, and her surgeon was fairly confident that everything would be OK.’ Dr Madigan’s eyes darted to the page in front of her, and she pushed her glasses up her nose. ‘That’s not what the figures are saying though. I can show you, if you like.’ She looked up, but Hamish shook his head, and she closed the folder again. ‘We think the problem is the preeclampsia Skye suffered during pregnancy. I had her records sent over from the Royal Women’s. She was pretty sick, wasn’t she? I see that her kidneys failed after your daughter was born; she was in the ICU.’

‘But she got better,’ Hamish said. ‘The doctors said she did. They wouldn’t have discharged her otherwise.’

‘She did,’ Dr Madigan agreed, ‘but we suspect that that episode compromised her kidneys, weakened them. Her test results never quite went back to normal, and usually that wouldn’t matter, but when something like this happens . . .’

Skye stirred, and Hamish reached across and stroked her forehead. ‘Hey, Skye, can you wake up?’ he said. ‘Dr Madigan needs to talk to you.’ Her eyelids fluttered, then sank down again.

Dr Madigan waited a moment before continuing. ‘Pre-existing renal abnormality complicates both injury and recovery. The blow to Skye’s kidney caused more damage than it normally would have because the kidney had already been impaired. It’s not healing well for the same reason.’

Hamish barely heard her. He was concentrating on Skye, searching her inert face for any sign that she could hear him. ‘How much longer do you think it will take?’ he asked.

‘That’s what I’m trying to tell you,’ Dr Madigan said, her voice weary. ‘We don’t know if the kidney
will
recover. It’s not looking like it at this stage. Generally if you lose a kidney it’s not a problem—lots of people live healthy lives with only one—but Skye’s remaining kidney was also affected by the preeclampsia. It’s too much of a risk. If something goes wrong with that one she could get sick very quickly. She might even die.’

Hamish was listening now. ‘So what will you do?’ he asked, turning to her.

‘There’s always dialysis if we have to, but at her stage of life, with a young child, that’s not ideal—she’d have to spend too much time in hospital, at least three sessions a week. I’ve talked about it with the consultant, and he thinks that in the long term her best bet would be a kidney transplant. They’re usually very successful these days—if it goes well, it would be as if all this had never happened.’

But it had happened, thought Hamish. It had not only happened, it had been his fault, and he had hated himself for it every day since. How the hell had they ended up here? He thought of how Skye had looked at him when they’d first met, how she’d pulled him into the storage room or across his desk; he remembered the smile on her face when she came round from the C-section and he’d handed her Molly. She
had
loved him, he was sure of it, she’d loved him and wanted him every bit as much as he’d loved her, and then suddenly she had gone cold, she had moved out, she’d goaded him, and he’d reacted so terribly because he was already heartsick with the ache of losing her. What was the word Dr Madigan had used? Compromised. He had been compromised by loss, but it wasn’t an excuse and it couldn’t change what he had done.

Dr Madigan misinterpreted his silence. ‘I know it’s a shock, but you shouldn’t be too worried. Kidney transplants are really quite straightforward these days.’ She leaned forward as if wanting to comfort him, but Hamish’s gaze had returned to Skye.

‘Is she in pain?’ he asked.

‘Not much,’ Dr Madigan said. ‘Mostly she’s just tired. Her body’s working hard. It’s exhausted. There’s no quality of life for her, and dialysis wouldn’t be much better. We’ll wait another week to be sure, but if that kidney does continue to fail it will have to come out, and I don’t intend to discharge her with the other one not being one hundred per cent.’

‘Could I give her one of mine?’ Hamish asked.

‘Possibly. It would depend on your blood type and some other factors, but it’s not hard to check. The usual protocol is to consider a few donors, and have you all tested at once—which we could do this week, while we wait. Would that be OK? And maybe I could give you some information for Skye’s family, in case they want to consider it?’

Hamish nodded.

‘Good,’ said Dr Madigan. ‘I’ll go and get that now, before I leave.’

Hamish waited until she had left the room, then stood up and moved to the head of Skye’s bed. Bending down, he kissed her gently on the forehead and whispered, ‘I’m sorry.’ She didn’t stir.

Hamish pushed open the front gate and walked down the path. He needed to see Molly—to bury his nose in her hair, feel her arms around his neck. It wasn’t his normal night to visit, but he didn’t think Nell would mind. Nothing about their lives was normal right now. Besides, he had to tell Nell what Dr Madigan had said about Skye’s results and the need for a donation; thank God he could still talk to her, that she hadn’t shut him out. It had taken him a few days, but when he’d finally screwed up the courage and explained what had happened in the studio Nell had cried, but she hadn’t turned on him, as he’d expected; she’d looked at him with sorrow, not hate. Thank God for Nell, he thought again, as he waited on the doorstep . . . and Ria too. Ria, who rang every day to fill him in on what was happening at work, who asked how he was, how Skye was, with concern in her voice, who seemed to know that one day he’d be ready to tell her what had happened, just not yet. Ria, who’d caused that strange bubble of delight when she’d mentioned during their conversation that morning that she’d ended things with Darren.

‘Hamish,’ Nell said as she opened the door. ‘Come in. Have you been at the hospital? I was just about to ring you and see if there was any news.’

‘Hi, Nell,’ he said, bending to kiss her cheek.

‘Daddy!’ Molly yelled, careening down the hallway. He scooped her up and held her tightly, her small heart thudding against his. She smelled of crayons and milk and for a moment he felt he could never bear to let her go.

‘Have you eaten dinner?’ Nell asked. ‘Arran’s here, with John. There’s plenty left.’

Hamish swung Molly up onto his shoulders and followed Nell back along the hall to the kitchen, jouncing Molly up and down so that she giggled. ‘I’m not hungry, thanks,’ he said, raising a hand in greeting to Arran and John. ‘A beer would be good though.’

Nell went to the fridge and he sat down at the table, Molly tumbling into his lap.

‘Nanna got me a new bear, Daddy,’ she said.

‘Did she? Why don’t you get him to show me?’

Molly carefully lowered herself to the floor, then toddled off towards her bedroom.

‘I was just trying to make her smile,’ Nell said. ‘I took her into the hospital this morning, the poor little thing’s missing her mum so much, but Skye was so drowsy she could barely talk to her.’

‘When’s she getting out?’ John asked. ‘Perhaps we could have Molly to stay over one night, give you all a break.’ Hamish expected Arran to scoff at the idea, but he merely nodded and took another sip from his glass.

‘Not yet,’ Hamish said. His mouth was dry, and he took a grateful swig from his beer. He concentrated on speaking calmly. ‘Skye’s doctor thinks that she needs a new kidney. The one that got damaged probably isn’t going to come good, and the other one isn’t working properly because of how sick she was when she had Molly.’

‘A new kidney?’ asked Nell, staring at him in horror.

‘I’ve offered mine, but apparently I need to be tested first, to see if it’s compatible. Dr Madigan was wondering if any of you wanted to be tested as well.’

‘I will,’ said Arran, leaning across the table. ‘What have I got to do?’

Hamish reached for the papers tucked inside his jacket, but before he could pull them out John put a hand on Arran’s arm and said, ‘Babe, they probably won’t let you.’

Arran stared at him. ‘Why not?’

‘The hep B. You know. You’re not allowed to give blood, so I doubt anyone’s going to let you donate a kidney. Same with me.’

‘Fuck,’ Arran said, slumping back in his seat. For once Nell didn’t admonish him.

‘Can
I
do it?’ she asked, voice tremulous. In the harsh light of the single bulb above the table Hamish noticed that she looked old. There was a sag to her cheeks that he hadn’t seen before.

‘I don’t see why not,’ he replied. ‘Dr Madigan didn’t exclude anyone, just told me to talk to Skye’s family.’

‘What happens if she doesn’t get one?’ Arran said. John reached for his hand.

‘She can always go on a waiting list, and there’s dialysis, of course.’ Hamish didn’t mention the other thing Dr Madigan had told him, that dialysis was best to avoid, if possible, because it seemed to shorten the life of any subsequently transplanted kidney. Arran would be feeling bad enough without hearing that.

‘So how does it work?’ Nell asked. ‘Should I make an appointment with Skye’s doctor?’

‘No, it’s just a blood test to begin with,’ Hamish said, pulling out the forms. ‘I’ve got the referral. Any pathology centre can do it. But as soon as possible, Dr Madigan said. Can you go in tomorrow?’

Molly reappeared in the doorway, a large golden teddy bear stuffed under one arm.

‘Bottle, Nanny!’ she demanded, looking at Nell. ‘I want a bottle! Hurry!’

‘Say please,’ Hamish said automatically.

Nell sighed. ‘She’s too old, I know, but it’s been helping her settle without Skye here.’ She got to her feet, allowing Molly to drag her towards the fridge. ‘I should be able to go in the morning, after I take Molly to creche and before I visit Skye. Can you give me one of those slips?’

Hamish handed it to her, watched as she tucked it into her pocket. ‘You’re not getting much of a break at the moment, are you?’

‘No,’ she said, and looked searchingly back at him. ‘And I’m guessing neither of us is getting much sleep.’

‘Thanks for coming, Hamish,’ said Dr Madigan. ‘Please have a seat.’

Hamish did as he was told, glancing around. He didn’t have a good feeling about this meeting. It all seemed too formal, too serious. For a start, there was another doctor present, a middle-aged man in a spotless white coat, and they were gathered in an office rather than around Skye’s bed. Not that that really mattered, he supposed—Skye had barely been conscious for the past week, and wouldn’t have been able to follow what they were saying.

‘Hamish, this is Dr Gow, our renal transplant physician,’ Dr Madigan said. ‘Dr Gow, this is Hamish, Skye’s husband, and her mother, Nell.’

Dr Gow held out his hand. Nell shook it, struggling to contain the child on her lap, and added, ‘And this is Molly, Skye’s daughter.’ Molly reached across the desk for a silver letter opener, almost grasping it before Nell hauled her back. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘She’s got a cold. I couldn’t take her to daycare.’