be too embarrassing. Not likely anyway. Can you even remember the last time you had sex?
‘No, this just measures the iron in your blood.’ She takes a pinprick of blood from the pad of his finger. ‘Blood is tested later for diseases and STDs.’
‘Must be handy for checking up on boyfriends,’ he jokes, feeling sweat tickle his upper lip. He studies his finger.
She quietens as she carries out the quick test.
Justin lies supine on a cushioned bench and extends his left arm. Sarah wraps a pressure cuff around his upper arm, making the veins more prominent, and she disinfects his inner elbow.
Don’t look at the needle, don’t look at the needle.
He looks at the needle and the ground swirls beneath him. His throat tightens.
‘Is this going to hurt?’ Justin swallows hard as his shirt clings to his saturated back.
‘Just a little sting,’ she smiles, approaching him with a cannula in her hand.
He smells her sweet perfume and it distracts him momentarily. As she leans over, he sees down her V-neck sweater. A black lace bra.
‘I want you to take this in your hand and squeeze it repeatedly.’
‘What?’ he laughs nervously.
‘The ball,’ she smiles.
‘Oh.’ He takes a small soft ball into his hand. ‘What does this do?’ His voice shakes.
‘It’s to help speed up the process.’
He pumps at top speed.
Sarah laughs. ‘Not yet. And not that fast, Justin.’
Sweat rolls down his back. His hair sticks to his sticky forehead. You should have gone for the haircut, Justin. What kind of a stupid idea was this—‘Ouch.’
‘That wasn’t so bad, was it?’ she says softly, as though talking to a child.
Justin’s heart beats loudly in his ears. He pumps the ball in his hand to the rhythm of his heartbeat. He imagines his heart pumping the blood, the blood flowing through his veins. He sees it reach the needle, go through the tube and he waits to feel faint. But the dizziness never comes and so he watches his blood run through the tube and down under the bed into the collection bag she has thoughtfully hidden below the bed on a scale.
‘Do I get a KitKat after this?’
She laughs. ‘Of course.’
‘And then we get to go for drinks or are you just using me for my body?’
‘Drinks are fine, but I must warn you against doing anything strenuous today. Your body needs to recover.’
He catches sight of her lace bra again. Yeah, sure.
Fifteen minutes later, Justin looks at his pint of blood with pride. He doesn’t want it to go to some stranger, he almost wants to bring it to the hospital himself, survey the wards and present it to someone he really cares about, someone special, for it’s the first thing to come straight from his heart in a very long time.
I open my eyes slowly.
White light fills them. Slowly, objects come into focus and the white light fades. Orangey pink now. I move my eyes around. I’m in a hospital. A television high up on the wall. Green fills its screen. I focus more. Horses. Jumping and racing. Dad must be in the room. I lower my eyes and there he is with his back to me in an armchair. He thumps his fists lightly on the chair’s arms, I see his tweed cap appearing and disappearing behind the back of the chair as he bounces up and down. The springs beneath him squeak.
The horse racing is silent. So is he. Like a silent movie being carried out before me, I watch him. I wonder if it’s my ears that aren’t allowing me to hear him. He springs out of his chair now faster than I’ve seen him move in a long time, and he raises his fist at the television, quietly urging his horse on.
The television goes black. His two fists open and he raises his hands up in the air, looks up to the ceiling and beseeches God. He puts his hands in his pockets, feels around and pulls the material out. They’re empty and the pockets of his brown trousers hang inside out for all to see. He pats down his chest, feeling for money. Checks the small pocket of his brown cardigan. Grumbles. So it’s not my ears.
He turns to feel around in his overcoat beside me and I shut my eyes quickly.
I’m not ready yet. Nothing has happened to me until they tell me. Last night will remain a nightmare in my mind until they tell me it was true. The longer I close my eyes, the longer everything remains as it was. The bliss of ignorance.
I hear him rooting around in his overcoat, I hear change rattling and I hear the clunk as the coins fall into the television. I risk opening my eyes again and there he is back in his armchair, cap bouncing up and down, pounding his fists against the air.
My curtain is closed to my right but I can tell I share a room with others. I don’t know how many. It’s quiet. There’s no air in the room; it’s stuffy with stale sweat. The giant windows that take up the entire wall to my left are closed. The light is so bright I can’t see out. I allow my eyes to adjust and finally I see. A bus stop across the road. A woman waits by the stop, shopping bags by her feet and on her hip sits a baby, bare chubby legs bouncing in the Indian summer sun. I look away immediately. Dad is watching me. He is leaning out over the side of the armchair, twisting his head around, like a child from his cot.
‘Hi, love.’
‘Hi.’ I feel I haven’t spoken for such a long time, and I expect to croak. But I don’t. My voice is pure, pours out like honey. Like nothing’s happened. But nothing has happened. Not yet. Not until they tell me.
With both hands on the arms of the chair he slowly pulls himself up. Like a seesaw, he makes his way over to the side of the bed. Up and down, down and up. He was born with a leg length discrepancy, his left leg longer than his right. Despite the special shoes he was given in later years, he still sways, the motion instilled in him since he learned to walk. He hates wearing those shoes and, despite our warnings and his back pains, he goes back to what he knows. I’m so used to the sight of his body going up and down, down and up. I recall as a child holding his hand and going for walks. How my arm would move in perfect rhythm with him. Being pulled up as he stepped down on his right leg, being pushed down as he stepped on his left.
He was always so strong. Always so capable. Always fixing things. Lifting things, mending things. Always with a screwdriver in his hand, taking things apart and putting them back together – remote controls, radios, alarm clocks, plugs. A handiman for the entire street. His legs were uneven, but his hands, always and for ever, steady as a rock.
He takes his cap off as he nears me, clutches it with both hands, moves it around in circles like a steering wheel as he watches me with concern. He steps onto his right leg and down he goes. Bends his left leg. His position of rest.
