The Cure

Chapter 45

Nate was sprinting to the sliding doors. He had spent longer than he thought with the triage nurse, and when he had turned back around, Lola was gone, and Mrs. Wells was asleep, and the results of her sputum culture were not as the consultant had hoped; the bacteria from the pneumonia had spread.

He ran into the sudden cool, white shock of new daylight, the river's water winking brightly in his eyes, and he brought his hand up to shield the morning sunlight as he scanned the horizon, the line of tumbledown newsagents and fish and chip shops on the other side of the dual carriageway, the ambulance park, the bridge.

His heart skipped a beat as he found her tiny form in its red duffle coat and the shock of blond hair as she crossed the river, and he ran to catch up with her, looping his hand about her elbow to pull her about.

'Fuck, Nate,' she whelped as she swung around, sucking desperately on a cigarette. He opened and closed his mouth, wishing he knew what was going to come out, his eyes flickering over her tear-stained face.

'Why didn't you tell me?' He said softly, pleadingly, frustrated.

She shook her head, a humourless laugh falling from her lips.

'At what point would I have?' She put her cigarette to her lips, drawing on it deeply; he took it from her mouth with a thumb and forefinger, making her mouth fall open affronted, smoke spilling out in a cloudy rush.

'Are you fucking serious?' Nate muttered, flicking the half-finished cigarette over the bridge, into its racing waters. 'There'll be no more of that.' She looked over the railings in disbelief, then back at him as he gripped her shoulders, the warm material of her coat bunching under his bare hands. 'Why the hell didn't you tell me?'

'Why do you want to know?' He looked at her, incredulous. 'Because we're flatmates, fuck buddies, I don't know.'

Her voice was quaking, and she took a deep, valiant breath, her chin rising into the air. 'Anyway, no one knows. Everyone gets sick. It's not a big deal.'

She was fumbling in her pockets again, and Nate felt panicked sorrow, and irritation, despite himself, rising in his chest as she took out another cigarette.

He snatched it from her again.

'You're not getting sick. You don't fucking touch these any more, you understand?' He held the trembling cigarette before him, before tossing it into the river again.

'You're not my boyfriend,' she repeated, raising her voice now, over the sound of the water rushing below, 'you've got no right to tell me what to do.'

'I don't care. You're not getting sick, not on my watch, not if you can help it, which you can.' He held a trembling hand out, trying to ignore the sharp pain in his chest that had risen at her words. 'Give me the packet.'

He was shaking, the hairs on his bare arms raising against the bitter wind which crept under the thin material of his scrubs.

Lola shook her head.

'Fuck you, Nate. In case you hadn't noticed, this really isn't the time for your condescending lectures—'

'Then talk to me, damn it,' came his desperate entreaty, gripping her upper arms again, ducking his head, trying to find sense in her insolent, numbed gaze, 'talk to me.'

'—I'm fine.'

'How long have you known?'

'She was diagnosed three years ago.'

'And your family?'

'What family?' She gave another furious, humourless howl of laughter as Nate's chest pinched again, the wild thorniness in her eyes unbearable. 'We aren't all born lucky, Nate. Some of us just have to make do.' She shrugged her shoulders, trying to break out of his grip.

'You've been going through this alone?'

She succeeded in freeing her arms and backed away a few paces. 'It's OK.' She started to turn away, but he caught up with her immediately, halting her, blocking her from passing.

'Where are you going?'

'Working at noon.'

'Can I text you?'

Her features softened slightly as she cocked her head. 'What for?'

'Well – your mum.'

She smiled blankly, shaking her head. 'I'll pop in and see her later. It's not like she's dying, Nate.'

He struggled to control his expression, this time, and her eyes flickered to his, then to the Adam's apple that bobbed as he swallowed, with great difficulty; when he couldn't hold her gaze, finding his shoes, instead, she took a shaky step forward.

'Nate.'

He watched the river rushing by beneath the wooden slats of the bridge, long enough to pull himself together, praying for composure, then closing his eyes long until the sudden stab of emotion subsided.

When he dared look up, he saw the same panic on her face as every patient's family member he had ever consoled, the same pale-faced fear as reality hurtled into their psyche, brutal, cold, tearing through the veins and the heart, and she opened her trembling lips.

'She's not going to die, is she?'

He cleared his throat, feeling his own eyes pricking as he argued with himself, but the waiting was worse, and a doctor's decision making couldn't be so hesitant, and he drew a hand across his jaw, pained. The culture results. Her dehydration. The spread of the cancer. Her weak pulse. He made up his mind.

'I'm so sorry, Lola. Perhaps not today. But yes.' He swallowed back the tremble in his voice. 'She's going to die.'

He knew that moment well enough, the moment where the light went out in someone's eyes, as he delivered that foul news; and Lola's eyes were huge, round, and the expression in them withered into nothing, blank circles of blue as automatic tears gathered and spurted unfelt down her cheeks.

But at least he could gather her up into his arms, pressing her lifeless, shivering form into his chest, tucking her head beneath his chin while her tears leaked through his scrubs, and he swallowed his own sadness repeatedly, blinking rapidly.

'Nate.' Somebody was calling him from the hospital, and he looked over his shoulder, automatically, to see Damien approaching at a jog, beckoning. 'Nate, Doctor Harper—' Damien slowed, catching sight of the embrace, and the girl in his arms had lifted her head, struggling until Nate's arms came loose, and turned to run; Nate all but collapsed, his forearms on the railings of the bridge, doubled over as he struggled with his own emotions, the river furious beneath him, blurred beneath his unseeing eyes.

Perhaps he should have lied. But if Mrs. Nicks had passed away as Lola fixed a cocktail, humming, unprepared, unaware, and he could have allayed, even just slightly, the pain of that shock? He could have at least left her this evening, let her finish that shift, let her sleep peacefully, just one more time; but now, at least, she was ready to say goodbye – no, she knew that she would have to say goodbye, ready, or not.

Damien approached, a manly pat, and squeeze at Nate's shoulder, at once understanding, and comprehending nothing.

'Come on, man,' Damien's voice rang sympathetic, tugging at the shoulder of Nate's scrubs. 'They need hands in Majors.'