Chapter Text
"Hello?"
"Nick?"
"David?"
My heart sinks. It has been a long time since I've heard from my older brother. After years of reluctantly putting up with each other for the sake of our mum, David took up a recruitment job at some executive company in Dubai five years ago doing something incredibly flash which pays him a lot of money. This suited me fine. A marriage such as mine isn't welcome there, and so it was the perfect excuse to not have to see him again. If it wasn't for my husband Charlie diligently sending Christmas and birthday cards I probably wouldn't have anything to do with him.
I didn't even know David still had my phone number.
"Dad's sick."
"Oh."
Of course. That's the only reason David would call. Something to do with dad.
"He's in a&e at Medway waiting for some scans." David sounds serious, and it sounds like he's calling from somewhere noisy.
I'm confused. Medway is my local hospital in Kent. But dad is, as far as I know, currently in Paris. "He's in the UK?"
"He's been working on some big development for like the last five months." David doesn't bother to ask why I don't know that. To be completely honest with myself, I'm disappointed but not surprised dad didn't let me know he was in the country. He hasn't exactly been what you'd call a hands-on father. He's barely even a hands-off father.
I think the last time I heard from him was when Charlie and I began to foster Maggie just over a year ago. He sent a newborn-sized sleepsuit for her, despite the fact she was already eight months old when she came to live with us.
"What's wrong with him?" I eventually ask, after I realise David is waiting for me to say something.
"It's something to do with his stomach," he replies. I hear a tinny announcement in the background of David's call. "Listen Nick," he says, suddenly sounding worried, "Dad sounds in a lot of pain and I think it's pretty serious. I'm at the airport, and my flight leaves in an hour, but I won't get there until the early hours of tomorrow. Can you go?"
"To the hospital?" My voice comes out much louder than I mean it to.
"No, to the fucking circus Nicholas," David snaps. There's then a short pause, before he adds in a tiny voice, "Please Nick. Please."
So I agree. David, sounding relieved, thanks me and hangs up.
"What's up?" A soft voice from behind me says.
I turn to see Charlie, with a sleepy looking Maggie on his hip. It's nearly bedtime for her, and she's snuggled into Charlie’s shoulder, her curly hair still wet from having been in the bath.
"Dad's in the hospital. I've got to go."
"To Paris?" Charlie says sharply.
"No. He's in Medway. He's like half an hour away." I scoff, before continuing. "Turns out he's been in the UK for ages and hasn't contacted us. Can you believe it?"
Charlie doesn't reply. I know what he's thinking. He's thinking that he absolutely can believe dad hasn't contacted. While Charlie has made the effort to keep a small link to David, he has not done the same with my dad. Both of us are of the opinion that it shouldn't be up to the children to force parents to want to be with them.
I walk to the hallway, and pull my coat from the cupboard. "I don't know how long I'll be," I say to Charlie, who's followed me, as I shrug it on and zip it up. "I'll keep you updated."
I lean in and kiss Maggie on her head. "Goodnight beautiful. Promise to be good for daddy and go to sleep."
Charlie reaches out and places a hand on my upper arm. "Be careful," he says, his large blue eyes looking at me full of concern.
"I'm going to sit in the hospital, babe. It's hardly dangerous." Although I know he's not talking about my physical safety. My dad has a way of making my thirty-five year old self feel like a nervous teenager again.
Charlie kisses me on the cheek. "Love you."
"Love you too."
*
Medway hospital is like a maze. I take three wrong turns trying to find a&e's reception.
Eventually though I find myself in the right place and join a queue of people waiting to see the fed-up looking receptionist.
The man in front of me has managed to cut his hand pretty badly. There's blood dripping all over the floor, which makes the receptionist tut with annoyance.
"Take a seat on one of the orange chairs," she says in a bored voice, then passes a bowl to them. "Please try and catch the blood in there. Saves on the cleaning."
She turns back to her computer screen, dismissing the whimpering man who shuffles towards a seat, and I approach the desk.
"Hi, I'm looking for my dad. He came in earlier today."
"Name?" The receptionist says, without looking up from her screen.
"Stéphane Fournier."
"Stephen with a 'ph' or a 'v'?"
"No. Stéphane. It's French."
She looks up at this. "Oh, the charming French fella." She smiles a little, and blushes slightly. Fucks sake, nice to know that even when sick, my dad is a shameless flirt. "What's his date of birth please?"
I have to think about this, but eventually remember it. She taps it into the computer and tells me to go to the green zone of triage.
As I push open the door to enter, a wall of sound hits me. It is manic. Machines are beeping, patients are moaning, and various members of hospital staff in different coloured scrubs shout across to each other.
I approach a desk and politely ask the busy redheaded nurse behind it if she knew where my father was.
"Trolley five," she says pointing to the right without looking up from her work. "Go through that door and he's halfway down the room."
I take a deep breath before walking towards the door she indicated. I haven't physically seen my father in over two years.
This room is just as chaotic as the previous. There are nurses rushing back and forth, someone shouting for pain relief, three curtained off bays behind which I can hear groans of pain. There is also a line of hospital trolley beds down the centre of the room, all clearly people waiting to be dealt with, all in various levels of pain and discomfort.
A porter wizzes past me with a lady in a wheelchair. "Deano," he shouts to a member of staff sitting at a computer, "patient flow has sent this lady through to you. Said you had room."
The man, Deano, looks up from his screen with an annoyed look on his face. "Right. Of course they said that," he says bitterly, before looking around the room, then says, "there's a place there. trolly six."
As the porter wheels the woman over to trolley six, my eyes focus on the patient in the bed next to them.
It's my dad.
He looks awful, but it's definitely him.
Dad was always handsome. Looking at photos from when they were younger, I can see why mum fell head over heels for the charming Frenchman when they met in a London nightclub. Dad had been visiting the UK with his rugby team for some amateur tournament, and he had David's good looks, combined with my height and build. A knockout combination.
As a young child, I can remember thinking how cool my dad dressed, and that he always looked trendy. Even when I reached my twenties, and our relationship had soured, I would still acknowledge that my dad had a handsome silver-fox thing going on that women of a certain age seemed to like.
Today however. Well, the Stéphane Fournier laid in Medway hospital is a far cry from the one of his youth. As I approach the bed where he is lying asleep, curled over onto his side, I take in his appearance. Dad's hair is longer than the last time I saw him, and what once were stylish flecks of grey in his hair, have now spread. His usually tanned skin is ghostly pale, and has a five o'clock shadow of grey hairs spreading across his chin. Dad only ever grows a beard when he's on holiday. I remember from my youth that he would shave every morning before work. "A cleanly shaved face shows you mean business Nicholas. A beard is just a lack of discipline", he had told me one morning as i sat on the toilet seat watching him shave in the bathroom mirror. In my own subtle act of defiance I grew a beard when I was a student, and have refused to be clean shaven since.
There's a cannula sticking out of his right hand, and a tube leads from it to a bag of something hooked on a metal pole above his head. Some sort of pain relief perhaps? From how David had sounded on the phone earlier I had expected Dad to be writhing around in pain, certainly not as peaceful and still as he looks now.
I hover by his bedside for a moment, unsure if I should wake him to tell him I'm here. I decide against it, and instead fetch a plastic chair from the far end of the room and carry it back to dad's bed. I sit down and pull out my phone to check the time. Nine o'clock. A full two hours since I spoke to David.
I message Charlie to let him know I got here ok, and then decide I'll message David too, even though he won't get the message mid-flight.
Nick: Hi David. Got to hospital. Dad asleep. Haven't had chance to check latest with nurses, but will do as soon as I can. Safe flight. N.
To my surprise I get a reply within seconds.
David: Thanks for the update. Flight due to land at Heathrow at 3am UK time. I have a car booked. Will head straight to hospital unless you tell me otherwise.
Nick: how are you texting on a plane?
David: WiFi.
Nick: planes have WiFi??
David: you're such an old man little brother.
I roll my eyes at David's message. To the uninitiated that would look like normal friendly sibling banter. But not with me and David.
Dad whimpers in his sleep, and shifts position slightly, grabbing my attention.
A nurse walks past, and pauses to check something on the machine attached to my dad's cannula. He smiles softly at me. "Are you his son?" The nurse asks
I nod.
"Your flight got in quick."
"Oh," I say, a little embarrassed, "no. That's my brother David. I'm his other son. I live nearby."
The nurse looks a little surprised for a second, then adjusts his expression. "My apologies. He gave David as the next of kin. If I had known there was a relative closer by, I would have contacted you."
I shrug as if it's fine. Even though my dad's continued preference for my older brother will always hurt a bit. "What's wrong with him? David didn't say."
"Its not confirmed yet. We're waiting for tests to come back, but the doctor thinks it's ischaemic bowel." Clearly spotting my clueless expression, he continued. "There's a blockage in his intestines."
"Well that doesn't sound too bad" I say, then immediately realise from the nurse's face that I'm wrong. "I guess not?"
The nurse gives me a sad sort of smile and says, "best to wait till the doctor is back." He then turns to deal with the lady on the bed next to us.
I pull out my phone again to text Charlie, when I hear my dad speak.
"David?"
His voice sounds tired and raspy. Like he hasn't had much sleep, or anything to drink, in hours.
"No dad," I say, leaning in towards him. "It's me, Nick."
"Nicholas?"
"David rang me."
My dad frowns, looking confused. "And you came?"
"Of course."
He tries to sit up a little in the bed, but winces, and flops back down. He looks at me in silence, taking in my appearance.
Eventually he says in French, "You still have a beard."
"Yep."
"It makes you look like you don't have a job."
I shrug, and turn the conversation back to English. "Well I do. So..."
We lapse into silence again.
Two years. Over two years since we've last seen each other and all he can say is a comment about my fucking beard.
I take a breath, and decide to try a new conversation.
"So, dad." I say cautiously, "why are you here?"
I notice his eyes are a little unfocused, and assume that might be in part down to the pain medication.
"I started with stomach pain. I thought I had eaten something, but then the pain kept getting worse and worse. I had my appendix removed as a child, but it felt like that." He yawns, and his eyelids flicker.
"Get some more sleep dad," I tell him. "I’ll be here. I'll wake you if the doctor comes."
Dad closes his eyes.
"When is David arriving?" He asks in French.