tests to try and find out the cause.
Raj had been terrified, scared and lonely after his nanny left that evening. He had wanted his mother, had begged her to stay with him in that strange room with its whirring machines and wailing children. But his mother had abandoned him to the blue-smocked nurses with their well-meaning smiles that did not quite reach their tired eyes. Even then, especially then, she had chosen her work over him, not willing to give it up for a few hours to stay at her sick son’s side.
That night the boy in the next bed had convulsed, and all the nurses and doctors in the hospital had converged on him, it seemed to Raj. He can still recall the strident panic in the air, the rasping sounds of curtains being drawn to shield the other children, the staccato clip of feet urgently slapping against the tiles, the frantic beep, beep of the machines, and the boy’s face, pale and lifeless, as he was wheeled away. . .
Raj had sat up most of the night, terrified, shivering, and afraid to call out for the nurses. A nurse had found him rocking, and whispering, ‘Mum, Dad,’ over and over, as his sobs shuddered through his fevered body, the tears making slippery, wet tracks on his face, and his eyelashes crusted in salty clumps.
He has hated hospitals with a passion ever since. He looks at his mother now, and sees the memory of that hospital, of him begging her to stay, reflected in her eyes.
He had launched himself at her, his hot body trembling with relief and disbelief, when she visited the next morning, unable to trust the evidence of his sickly eyes, having convinced himself that this was it, that he would be wheeled away like that other boy, that he would never see his mum or his dad again. He had breathed her in—she smelled as always of a dewy, sun sprinkled, spring morning—had revelled in the unfamiliar luxury of her arms for all of a minute before she’d untangled him, gently backing away, patting her hair in place, smoothing her skirt, perching delicately at the edge of his bed, keeping him, as always, at arms’ length.
‘I’ve promised my sister,’ she says now, her voice low, hesitant.
‘You haven’t spoken to her, or of her, that I know of. And now she calls and you pack up your life, your work, which you’ve always maintained is so very important and will fall to pieces if you’re not around, to embark on this trip to India . . . ’
Why is this unknown sister so important and I am not? Why don’t I matter? Why have I never mattered?
She sighs, fiddles with a thread on the carpet, not meeting his eye. ‘Raj, she wants me there. I said I’d go . . . her daughter . . . Raj, we need to go to India. I’ll book the first flight out.’
‘ We don’t need to go to India. Dad’s invited me there so many times. And I’ve always refused. If I didn’t go for him, what makes you think I’ll go now? For some aunt and cousin I haven’t even heard of up until now. I’m not going. You go if you want to so desperately.’
She sighs again. ‘I’m sorry son, you don’t have a choice. Not this time.’ She is referring to his dad and his pleas for Raj to come visit. Her voice is brisk, all emotion wiped out of it. ‘Good job you only have a week left of school before you break up. I’ll call the school, get special dispensation.’
‘I am not travelling five thousand miles to a country I’ve never wanted to visit, to see a girl I do not know, who is in a hospital at that. I loathe hospitals.’
And whose fault is that?
‘You are coming. You have no choice.’ His mother’s voice has morphed back into that efficient, no-nonsense tone he knows.
‘I can stay here on my own.’ He is so tired; he just wants to sleep. Can’t she just leave him alone?
‘You’re coming with me.’
‘You can’t make me go.’ Why does he behave like a toddler having a tantrum in his dealings with his mother?
‘I can. I’m booking a flight now and I’ll get leave of absence from your
Raj had been terrified, scared and lonely after his nanny left that evening. He had wanted his mother, had begged her to stay with him in that strange room with its whirring machines and wailing children. But his mother had abandoned him to the blue-smocked nurses with their well-meaning smiles that did not quite reach their tired eyes. Even then, especially then, she had chosen her work over him, not willing to give it up for a few hours to stay at her sick son’s side.
That night the boy in the next bed had convulsed, and all the nurses and doctors in the hospital had converged on him, it seemed to Raj. He can still recall the strident panic in the air, the rasping sounds of curtains being drawn to shield the other children, the staccato clip of feet urgently slapping against the tiles, the frantic beep, beep of the machines, and the boy’s face, pale and lifeless, as he was wheeled away. . .
Raj had sat up most of the night, terrified, shivering, and afraid to call out for the nurses. A nurse had found him rocking, and whispering, ‘Mum, Dad,’ over and over, as his sobs shuddered through his fevered body, the tears making slippery, wet tracks on his face, and his eyelashes crusted in salty clumps.
He has hated hospitals with a passion ever since. He looks at his mother now, and sees the memory of that hospital, of him begging her to stay, reflected in her eyes.
He had launched himself at her, his hot body trembling with relief and disbelief, when she visited the next morning, unable to trust the evidence of his sickly eyes, having convinced himself that this was it, that he would be wheeled away like that other boy, that he would never see his mum or his dad again. He had breathed her in—she smelled as always of a dewy, sun sprinkled, spring morning—had revelled in the unfamiliar luxury of her arms for all of a minute before she’d untangled him, gently backing away, patting her hair in place, smoothing her skirt, perching delicately at the edge of his bed, keeping him, as always, at arms’ length.
‘I’ve promised my sister,’ she says now, her voice low, hesitant.
‘You haven’t spoken to her, or of her, that I know of. And now she calls and you pack up your life, your work, which you’ve always maintained is so very important and will fall to pieces if you’re not around, to embark on this trip to India . . . ’
Why is this unknown sister so important and I am not? Why don’t I matter? Why have I never mattered?
She sighs, fiddles with a thread on the carpet, not meeting his eye. ‘Raj, she wants me there. I said I’d go . . . her daughter . . . Raj, we need to go to India. I’ll book the first flight out.’
‘ We don’t need to go to India. Dad’s invited me there so many times. And I’ve always refused. If I didn’t go for him, what makes you think I’ll go now? For some aunt and cousin I haven’t even heard of up until now. I’m not going. You go if you want to so desperately.’
She sighs again. ‘I’m sorry son, you don’t have a choice. Not this time.’ She is referring to his dad and his pleas for Raj to come visit. Her voice is brisk, all emotion wiped out of it. ‘Good job you only have a week left of school before you break up. I’ll call the school, get special dispensation.’
‘I am not travelling five thousand miles to a country I’ve never wanted to visit, to see a girl I do not know, who is in a hospital at that. I loathe hospitals.’
And whose fault is that?
‘You are coming. You have no choice.’ His mother’s voice has morphed back into that efficient, no-nonsense tone he knows.
‘I can stay here on my own.’ He is so tired; he just wants to sleep. Can’t she just leave him alone?
‘You’re coming with me.’
‘You can’t make me go.’ Why does he behave like a toddler having a tantrum in his dealings with his mother?
‘I can. I’m booking a flight now and I’ll get leave of absence from your
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