of medicines on the floor, where I could not see it and it could not see me. ‘Thank you,’ I said, unwrapping the chocolate and putting it in my mouth.
‘What happened to your hand?’ he said, and I held it up so we could both examine the trail of dry blood that disappeared under my sleeve. I looked on the floor, expecting to see the kitchen towel Dave had given me to soak up the blood where broken glass had cut the skin. But it was gone – discarded somewhere between here and home.
Richard didn’t wait for a reply and took my hand in his, holding tight where there were other cuts I hadn’t yet noticed. I flinched, because it stung and because …
It had been so easy to hold hands when Dave and I only had each other. We held hands all the time when we’d first met because we wanted to touch each other all the time, intoxicated by the newness of it all. Then, when the miscarriages happened and the IVF started and the miscarriages continued, we held hands all the time because we’d been scared we might lose each other if we ever let go. But I couldn’t remember a time, not since diagnosis, when we’d really wanted to hold each other’s hands again. Perhaps because we’d had to let go when our burden got harder and heavier, our grips taken up with what we held on our shoulders – wrist tendons stretching with its awkward shape, back aching with its terrific weight.
Perhaps it hadn’t been practical to hold hands as we once did.
Richard let go and leaned against the wall, like he was resting.
‘Sorry, I’m keeping you from your family dinner,’ I said. ‘You should get back.’
‘Please, it’s fine. Honestly? Rachel’s in a bit of a sulk. I’d booked tickets for us to see Tiger Love at the O2. Most teenagers wouldn’t be seen dead with their dads at a rock concert …’
He looked out into the distance somewhere far beyond my eyeline, like what he’d said had triggered a vision or a memory in him.
‘Then what happened?’ I said, bringing him back into the room.
He smiled brightly. ‘I was asked to drinks with some MPs and it’s a rare opportunity to collar them on the subject of those new medications I was telling you about. The Americans have found ways of fixing CF at the source instead of treating symptoms but the catch is that the treatments cost hundreds of thousands of dollars per patient, per year. This drinks is about communicating the human story to MPs so when it comes to lobbying our government they really understand the difference these drugs could make to people’s lives. If Rachel gets this new medication it will change her life … But try telling that to a teenager whose greatest love is rock music. You know?’
I nodded. ‘It sounds like you do so much to help. Rachel must be very proud.’
He smiled. ‘She’s proud most of the time. Between the moods and the worrying about boys and parties.’ He adjusted the carpet at the door with his foot. ‘I know her. I know why she’s upset. It’s for the same reason I’m upset. Those concerts are when we get to spend our best time together. To gossip without her mum being there. She had a crap winter and the spring was, well … Fun times together are important.’
‘Hard for everyone, trying to meet all those needs.’
‘It’s OK, her band will be back in town soon. Meantime I’ll try and get her excited about learning to ski with me this winter.’
‘Sounds fun.’ I brushed hair away from my eyes. ‘I thought the newborn years were hard.’
‘They are. It’s all hard! You must be having a tough time: all that sleep deprivation alongside dealing with CF.’
We smiled at each other as if we had silently agreed on something. A language, perhaps.
‘All that hard work and anxiety are what make vices all the more important.’ He stood up and slid a cigarette box out from behind a well-thumbed book on the shelf. ‘Smoking. My one and only vice and, therefore, extremely important to me. No one knows. Or at least, if they do, they’re kind enough not to say anything.’
He held out the packet.
I hadn’t smoked for over ten years. Dave and I used to smoke incessantly, with coffee and pints and wine, in parks and pubs and restaurants. It seemed to go hand in hand with talking about films and our friends and our weekend plans.
And now, with Mia’s lungs so compromised, the idea of destroying my own repulsed me. ‘No. Thanks. That’s fine. I’m fine.’
‘Suit yourself.’
Then there was nothing but the spark of a lighter, a party popper in the background and his deep inhalation. I felt far from the sound of plastic cracking under my heels and from Dave’s blaming, appalled cries. Far from the floorboards and the noise of traffic and the pressure in my head.
‘I didn’t leave Mia’s medicines out in the sun,’ I said. ‘I poured them down the sink.’
He looked up, and moved his cigarette to the side like it had been blocking his view.
‘I’d seen my mum,’ I said. ‘And I missed my dad. And so I don’t know why, I broke the syringes and I threw the medicines down the sink. I didn’t want CF in my house any more.’
Richard nodded slowly, looking at me with lidded eyes, squinting against the smoke and my confession.
‘After Rachel was diagnosed,’ he said, ‘a whole seven years and twelve lung infections later, I didn’t break medicine bottles but I did do some damage to the lives of people I’d just met. I made huge redundancies in the name of re-shaping my company and increasing profit. My career and business took off but I could only do what I did because the thought of losing Rachel early knocked me sideways. That pain, that imagining, it blunted my feelings towards everything but my family. But we got through it and here we are now,’ he smiled. ‘Having weekly parties. We manage it. We get by. We more than get by.’
His fingers tremored where they bent round the cigarette. He made me want to join him.
I reached out my hand instinctively towards his words. ‘I should go,’ I said suddenly, letting it fall by my side.
‘How are you getting on with that speech?’ he said brightly, stubbing out the cigarette and cradling his hand, twisting the ring on his finger, round and round.
I looked away quickly. ‘I’m not. It’s not my thing,’ I said to the door.
‘I think you should do it. And going to the conference might dilute some of the despair. There’s no greater high than hearing a medical professional announce he’s months away from a cure.’ I smiled. ‘And it’s all quite fun, despite the subject matter.’
I motioned to the cigarette packet. ‘Can I? I won’t smoke it. I just want to be close to the smell.’
He opened the packet. ‘Here, take two. Then they won’t be lonely.’ He caught my eye and I caught my breath.
I smiled. ‘Thank you. For everything. For your help.’
‘Any time.’
When I got back in the car, I wound down the window and used the car’s lighter to singe the edge of one of the cigarettes he had given me. The smell of it was everything I knew it
