Weightless

29) The Timer

Cal is frustrated.

Their appointment was cancelled. Shoved aside. Their GP is crammed; too many illnesses, too many problems, not enough medics to put the pieces together. Cal feels like he has to fight for another one, psyching himself up to give the receptionist a piece of his mind, yet it's ridiculously underwhelming when his phone call is as far from a battle.

"Sorry," the receptionist says coolly, "I'm afraid the earliest we have is next Friday."

"That's not very early at all!"

He's one of the lucky ones, he supposes, with a strong support network behind him - at least Charlie and Connie are helping too. Being text message support or the one who makes plans. Connie has several ideas on treatment centres that are far from Holby, because Cal mentioned there's no way in hell Ethan will be given help by colleagues. Ever.

Cal has fought his hardest. It is wasted, it seems. The receptionist simply apologises and that's it. Cal stares down at the phone and wishes he could launch it at the wall. Nothing is moving fast enough.

Ethan needs a blood test. It'll show nothing medical but it's precautionary; and Cal wants to be careful for once in his life. Then he needs a referral then something needs to happen. Something, at long last.

Cal doesn't have time for this. Not at all. Not when his brother is wasting away.

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Mollie is conflicted.

It would be perfectly easy to just stop off round that same flat - her old home - and drop the news off like a parcel. As though it's easy enough to just roll off her tongue, like it's not a whole life she's announcing the arrival of. Yet whenever she thinks on it, she knows it's wrong.

It could be good, she thinks. Cal might like this baby for a distraction. Then she curses herself for even thinking that.

But it is not a distraction; it is a life. Not a game on a phone to pass the time or music to block everything out with or television show to sink into. A human that requires so much attention and deserves love. One that is already bigger than the size of a kidney bean, with a beating heart. She needs to know he's on board with this. Because she doesn't quite know if she can do it alone.

She doesn't have time for this. Yet she keeps waiting.

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Ethan is broken.

He can feel it, somehow. Right in there. He does his best to ignore it but it's glaring, a reminder that he might never feel fixed again.

Cal keeps trying to convince him to function. It isn't working. He doesn't sleep properly or eat or drink or leave the flat. Even a bottle of water is difficult to stomach. Cold splashes into his empty insides and makes him feel chilly. He's already cold to begin with; shivering in the start of summer.

Every day is spent simply passing the time. He will sit and read or sleep or watch morning television or wait, just wait, until something happens. Which it never does. Mainly he paces, or listens to his brother, who sees to talk listlessly just to fill the silence. Or he feels himself being watched and pretends like he hasn't noticed; because Cal can hardly bear to keep his eyes off of him.

Ethan has an awful feeling that a timer has started. It feels like he's running out of time.

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