Lifesaving for Beginners

whenever he does ring.
    She says, ‘I’d better go.’
    ‘Me too. I’m supposed to be in bed. Asleep by now.’
    ‘Faith doesn’t know that you’re ringing me?’
    ‘No way. She’d kill me if she knew.’
    She says, ‘I’m sorry,’ again, but I don’t know what for.
    ‘Hopefully Ed will be better soon and you can come over then.’
    ‘Milo?’
    ‘Yeah?’
    But then she just says, ‘Goodbye,’ before she hangs up.

 
    I’ve lost track of time. There’s something about hospitals that makes time drag. Or stop altogether. I went home for a couple of hours during the night. Mum said I should get some sleep. I didn’t sleep. I don’t know what I did. Milo rang while I was there. He talks about Ed like he’s known him for years. Ed has that effect on people. He’s just that sort of man.
    Now it’s the next morning and Ed is having a procedure. That’s what the consultant called it. A procedure. Like it was nothing.
    Thomas says, ‘Hey.’ He is sitting on the chair beside mine. He reaches over and puts his hand on the back of my chair. When he smiles, I think, just for a moment, that everything is going to be OK.
    I stand up. Start the pacing thing again.
    ‘How long has it been now?’
    ‘Not long. Don’t worry, Kat. He’ll be fine.’
    ‘How do you know?’ He sounds so sure.
    ‘He’s in good hands.’ I walk past his chair and he reaches for my hand. Presses it between both of his. Coaxes the warmth back in.
    ‘You’re frozen.’
    ‘I’m always frozen.’
    ‘Do you want some tea?’
    I nod. I don’t want tea. But the getting of it. The drinking of it. The process of it. All that helps pass the time.
    When he comes back with the tea, I say, ‘You don’t have to stay, you know. I’ll ring you. When he’s out of theatre. As soon as he’s out. I’ll give you a ring.’
    Thomas shakes his head. ‘I’m better here.’ I don’t tell him how relieved I am. How grateful.
    We drink the tea.
    My parents are still in the chapel, lighting candles. For all the good that will do. They arrived at the hospital about half an hour after me and Ed. Staff in green and blue scrubs were waiting for us when I skidded to a stop at the door. They had a stretcher, an oxygen mask. Blankets. They looked like a group of people who knew what they were doing. Reliable. That’s the word that comes to mind when you look at such a bunch of people. I felt relief. When they lifted Ed out of the car with their efficient, reliable hands. When they placed him – so gently – onto the stretcher. Covered him in blankets. Put the oxygen mask over his face. Stepped back. Smiled at him. Smiled at me. I thought – just for a minute – that everything was going to be all right. Then someone pulled a lever and someone pushed the stretcher away from me. It went down a corridor and there were double doors at the end and the doors swung open and the trolley was wheeled through, then a nurse put her hand on my arm and said, ‘Don’t worry. Your brother is in good hands.’ And the double doors swung shut and the relief drained away and fear was all that was left.
    Thomas says, ‘Kat? You OK?’
    I shake my head. ‘I should have known something was up with him. I wasn’t paying enough attention.’
    ‘You got him here as quickly as you could.’ When Thomas smiles, his eyes change from grey to green. He is wearing wellingtons and an ancient wax jacket. There’s a bit of hay in his hair. He was mucking out the stable – where he keeps his one goat, two pigs, three hens, the garrulous goose and the lamb-bearing ewe – when I rang him.
    I reach up and pull the hay out of Thomas’s hair. Habit, I suppose. I hand it to him and he takes it and I look around the room, even though there’s nothing much to look at. Just some faded linoleum and three hard-backed armchairs that don’t belong together.
    We wait. My parents return from the chapel.
    Dad says, ‘Any news?’
    I shake my head. Thomas says, ‘Not yet.’
    The consultant said it was a routine procedure but that didn’t stop him getting us to sign forms with lists as long as your arm as to what could go wrong. Transparency. That’s what he called it. Covering your arse, more like.
    Mum says, ‘Tea?’ Everybody nods, and she looks relieved. That she has something to do. Something to fill the space between the start of Ed’s procedure and the end.
    After she’s got the tea, Mum retreats to the corridor to pace it. Dad stands as close as he can to the