Page 23 of Out of the Blue
‘Maybe you should try some vegetables or something, Tea,’ I say, picking through the tins in the back of the cupboard. ‘I’d feel pretty bad if we gave the world’s only living Being type 2 diabetes.’
Calum scoffs. ‘Well, I’m not having mushy peas for breakfast. I’ll go to Tesco and get us something, Tea.’
He heads back out, leaving me alone with Teacake and Allie. I know I shouldn’t be, but I’m acutely aware of the tube up her nose. Before I have a chance to say anything, Teacake leans across the table and tugs it out to examine it. Allie laughs and prises it out of her fingers.
‘See, you should be more like her. It’s just an oxygen tube,’ she says as she fits it back into place. ‘Why are people always so terrified of bringing it up? I am aware it’s there. You’d have to be pretty stealthy to get one of these up somebody’s nose without them noticing.’
I realize I’m gawping and close my mouth. ‘Um, can I ask . . . ?’
‘I have cystic fibrosis.’ Seeing my blank expression, she explains. ‘It’s a chronic genetic disease. My lungs and pancreas produce this thick, sticky mucus that clogs my airways, so it’s hard for me to breathe. I had a double lung transplant for it when I was fourteen though, so I’m a lot better now.’
She says this like she just got a tooth pulled out. It takes a moment for the words to sink in. A double lung transplant. The scope of that knocks the words out of me. I have no vocabulary for something that big.
‘Wow. I’m really sorry,’ I say, finally, and it sounds even more inadequate than it felt in my head. ‘Is it still serious?’
As soon as I’ve asked, I realized what a stupid question that is, but my knowledge of cystic fibrosis ends at . . . well, it started about thirty seconds ago. Allie pulls something from her bag: a yellow plastic pillbox, the kind Ammamma has in her bathroom. Behind the cover are dozens of tablets, red and white and green.
‘This is cyclosporine, it’s an anti-rejection drug. Voriconazole, that helps with infections. That’s a painkiller for my spine, these are protein supplement pills – I can’t process food properly, that’s why I have to eat so much. That one’s just a vitamin . . .’
She introduces them like they’re old friends. There are antibiotics, anti-ulcer medications, pills for pancreatic enzyme replacement therapy. Pills for problems that I didn’t know existed. Teacake picks up a small green capsule and holds it to the window, watching the light shine through the plastic.
‘Wow,’ I murmur, prising it out of her hand before she eats it. ‘So, all that’s for one week?’
Allie bursts out laughing. ‘Aweek? That’s for one day. I’m like one of those coin-operated attractions the Victorians used to have. I don’t usually need the oxygen these days – it’s just because I’ve got some crappy infection. But, without all this, I’d just shut down.’ She pretends to collapse, like a robot going into meltdown.
There are dozens of thoughts swirling around my head, but I can’t find any form for them. The image in my head that I have of Sick People doesn’t fit with the loud, opinionated, bossy girl I’ve got to know over the past week.
‘I’m really sorry,’ I say. ‘That must suck.’ I cringe as soon as the words leave my mouth: it sounds so half-assed, so flippant.
Allie just shrugs. ‘It is what it is. I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s not exactly a day out at Disneyland. All the side-effects suck. Missing school sucks. The fact I can never, ever forget about it sucks – I have to do about a billion tests every day.’ She pulls one of her energy bars from her bag, unpeels the wrapper. ‘But my life is so much better than it was before the operation. The main threat now is infections. I’ve got basically no immune system: I need to be really careful around pets, and I can’t even eat sushi. But most days I feel like a superhero compared to what it was like before.’
I rummage around for something to say, something meaningful, but my mind has gone blank. For the first time since I met Allie, there’s an awkward silence, broken only by the rustling of Teacake’s wings and a lively cèilidh tune on the radio. Allie curls up on Shona’s sofa, her hands deep in the pockets of her duffle coat, and gives a world-weary sigh.
‘See, this is exactly why I didn’t want to tell you,’ she says. ‘I’m not ashamed of having CF. I’m not hiding it. But it’s not the most important thing about me. It’s notme.’
‘Of course,’ I say quickly. ‘I totally get that.’
‘Sometimes I just don’t want to think about it, you know? No one ever,everlets me forget about it. Every time I plan to do something, it’s, “Are you sure you’re feeling up to it?” or, “You won’t forget your meds, will you?” If it’s not my mum and dad, it’s Calum, or teachers at school, or even my friends. To everybody else in the world, I’m Allie-the-girl-with-CF.’ She traces the pattern of an elephant on one of Shona’s pillows. ‘It was nice to hang out with someone who just saw me as a regular person, even if it was only for a few days.’
‘I still see you as a regular person,’ I say. Behind her, Teacake shuffles towards us. Her lips open and close quickly and soundlessly, like a muted movie scene. ‘You really don’t need to apologize for not telling me. It’s not my business, anyway. It’s totally fine.’
Allie raises an eyebrow at me. ‘Really? Cos you look like you’re about to overdose on awkward right now.’
‘Do I? Sorry. I’m really sorry.’ I rub the back of my neck. ‘I just – I don’t know how to act around sick people. Not that you seem sick! You seem . . .’
‘What? Normal? Iamnormal,’ Allie says fiercely. ‘It’s not like I’m an invalid, despite what everyone thinks. Mum wouldn’t even let me out today. She thinks I’m having a nap right now. Calum distracted her with some boring story about wildlife photography while I snuck out the back door. Hence the pyjamas; we were in a bit of a hurry.’
‘She’s going to kill me when she realizes you’re gone.’
Calum appears in the doorway, a plastic bag in one hand, and a packet of custard creams in the other. He rips it open and tosses a biscuit to Teacake. She gives a delighted yelp and scoffs it down in two bites.
‘Calm down, Calculus,’ Allie says, holding her hands out for the packet. ‘Mum won’t notice for at least another hour.’
‘You know that’s not true. I give it five minutes before she calls one of us. Me, probably.’
‘Calum, how often do you get to hang out with anangel?’ Allie bites angrily into her biscuit. ‘I’m not going to spend the whole summer sitting in bed. Besides, what’s Mum going to do? Stop your pocket money?’
They start a game of dirty-look ping pong, flinging scowls back and forth. I watch them, torn between laughing and making an excuse to leave.
