Page 76 of Duplicity

‘We’re at A&E,’ she says in a shaky voice.

‘Oh God. Oh God.’ I squeeze my eyes closed and press my lips together, clapping a hand over my mouth. I’m not sure if I’m trying to stay quiet or squeeze away the pain through sheer force of will.

‘We took her for a little walk in the park. It was such a nice day, but we kept it very slow. We just wanted her to get some fresh air.’

‘I know. It’s okay.’ My parents treat Tabby with kid gloves, even more than I do. They’re so devoted and so conscientious, and I won’t have them beating themselves up over something that could have happened on my watch. ‘What happened?’

‘Her fingers and mouth turned blue, and her eyes went glassy. It was so terrifying. We didn’t know what to do, so your dad carried her out to the street and flagged down a cab. We’re at Denmark Hill.’

‘What have they said? What are her other symptoms? Have they triaged her? They need to take her sats. Have you shown them the form?’

The questions are pouring out of me now in a deluge of panic. I trust my parents implicitly. I know they’d run into traffic for my daughter, just as I know Mum has an oximeter in her handbag and a copy of Tabby’s medical information form on her phone. But nobody knows her condition as well as I do. No one has more experience than me of managing her A&E trips, producing all the information and educating every single medic who has contact with her.

In short, no one can advocate for Tabby like me when it’s crunch time.

‘We gave them the list,’ Mum tells me, her voice still quavery. ‘Um, a nurse said she’d be triaged within the next few minutes.’ She’s a level-headed woman, but the pair of them are getting on in years, and an emergency like this is discombobulating for anyone. They’ve been with me and Tabs to A&E a couple of times, but they’ve never taken her by themselves.

‘Have you taken her sats?’ I ask in a rush. ‘Do you have her knees to her chest? You need to. It prioritises the blood flow to her lungs.’ My tears are falling freely now. I can’t help it. We’re so close. We’re so fucking close to this operation, to getting Tabby a solution that will last her until she’s in her early teens, at least.

When your child is oxygen deficient, time is everything. Any dithering around or failure to take Tabby’s condition seriously could lead to all sorts of horrific outcomes. I can’t even think about it. I feel so fucking helpless as I listen to my parents fannying about. ‘Robert, she needs to tuck her knees up higher. That’s it, Tabs. Good girl.’

‘Sats, Mum,’ I prompt her. God, I feel so fucking helpless, standing here in this marble bathroom as my daughter fights for every breath in a crowded A&E.

‘We have the oximeter on,’ Mum says. ‘Hang on, darling. Let’s see. Eighty-one.’

I blow out a breath. This is hopeless. ‘Mum. Listen to me. You need to do whatever it takes to get her seen, okay? She needs oxygennow.I don’t care how busy it is or how big of a bitch you need to be. You need to track down whoever you can and shout as loudly as you can until she gets treated. She needs you to be her voice. Don’t let her down.’ My mum is usually a strident woman, but I can tell this is knocking her for six. I feel bad as soon as I say that last part, but now is not the time to be meek and polite. Not for me. Not for my parents. If I can’t get there, then I damn well need them to forget about their natural inclination to bow to medical authorities and behave nicely. I need them to shout and scream their way to getting Tabs the help she requires.

‘Okay, darling,’ Mum says, and I wish, I really wish that I could hear less fear and more steeliness in her voice right now. I glance at my watch. Just after five.

‘I’ll be there as soon as I can, alright? I’ll try to sneak out of work early. Keep me posted. Can you put me on with Tabs?’

‘She’s struggling to breathe,’ Mum says. ‘She won’t be able to talk.’

‘I don’t care. Just put me on, please. And go flag down a doctor over there.’

There’s some feedback and the mutter of voices as Mum gives Dad the phone and instructs him to hold it to Tabby’s ear.

‘Tabs? You there, sweetie?’

I hear some ragged breathing and a choked whimper, and I swear it makes me want to rip my heart out of my lungs and giveher my own bloody pulmonary valve. I sniff hard and make my voice sound as calm as possible.

‘Listen to me, darling. I’m so sorry I’m not there, but Granny and Grandpa are going to keep you safe while you wait for a doctor, okay?’

The door to the loos flies open and Elaine comes in, concern written all over her kind face. She stops dead at the sight of me in such a state but doesn’t leave. Fuck. Right now, having Elaine rumble me is the least of my worries. I force myself to keep talking to Tabs as if I’m alone.

‘We’ve done this before. Remember what an old hand you are at this. It’s horrible and scary, but you’ll get some oxygen soon, and until then I know your tricks will help you. Are you hugging your knees?’

She whimpers, and I take it as an affirmation.

‘Good girl. Breathe nice and slowly. As slowly as you can. Nice deep breaths. It’ll all be over soon. Once you have this operation, these scary trips will be a thing of the past, okay? Remember that, my love. Remember what a strong, brave girl you are. I love you so, so much, and I’m going to be there as soon as I can, okay?’

‘Okay,’ she manages, sounding as wheezy as a mini Darth Vader.

‘I love you. Bye.’ My voice fails me on that last word. As I go to end the call, I can barely see the red button through my tears.

When I dare to look up, Elaine is still staring at me. I put my phone on the vanity and wipe both hands under my eyes.

‘I’d ask you if everything’s okay, but it’s clearly not,’ she says, and then she’s closing in and wrapping me up in a huge hug. Even as she squeezes me, I hold back. If I let myself collapse on her, I’m not sure I’ll be able to pull myself back together enough to get myself to Denmark Hill Hospital.

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