Charlotte Castle - Simons Choice: How can a father ever let go?

ISBN 1453681795

EAN 9781453681794

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Simons Choice was first published by Night Publishing, a trading name of Valley Strategies Ltd., a UK-registered private limited-liability company, registration number 5796186. Night Publishing can be contacted at: http://www.nightpublishing.com.

Simons Choice is the copyright of the author, Charlotte Castle, 2010. All rights are reserved.

All characters are fictional, and any resemblance to anyone living or dead is accidental.

Chapter 1

Sarah! Hurry up!

Sarah thundered down the stairs. Porridge, the yellow Labrador, bounded behind her. The little girl stopped in front of her mother, chin lifted defiantly. Im not wearing it, Mum,

Melissa studied her daughter. Slight for seven years of age, and pale. But Sarah was unmistakably beautiful. Are you sure?

Yup.

Alright, then. Oh Christ, Sarah you can't wear that top, its got a stain. You'll have to go and change it. An insistent car horn sounded from the driveway. Quickly, please. Porridge, kitchen. She turned toward the door. Were coming.

* * *

Simon glared at the open front door of the house and bashed the heel of his hand on the car horn again. He flicked a switch, lowering the Jaguars passenger side window. Guys! Did I mention were late?

Still, the doorway remained infuriatingly empty. His wifes disembodied voice floated toward him from somewhere inside. Somewhere, Simon noted with weary irritation, that was not nearly close enough to the car.

Im just feeding Porridge, Sime. The voice yelled. Ive sent Sarah up to change her top.

Brilliant, Simon muttered. He turned on the radio, resigned to a long wait, and caught his reflection in the rear-view mirror. Was that more grey in his hair? It was certainly still thick. He wasnt doing badly for forty-two, he supposed.

And youre really sure? His wifes voice through the open window interrupted his thoughts. He glanced up, confused, until he realized she wasn't speaking to him.

Yeah, dont worry about it, Mum.

The rear car door opened, then slammed shut.

Come on then, lets go. Melissa slid into the passenger seat. I swear that dog of yours is unfillable. Next time, we get a goldfish, yeah? You strapped in, Sarah?

Yup.

Simon glanced up again at the rear-view mirror. His daughter beamed back at him and he immediately shot a quizzical look at Melissa. A slight frown and shake of the head warned him not to mention it.

Shrugging, he nosed the car out of the drive. Do you think the Bailey family will ever be on time for church?

Probably not, Melissa said, smoothing a blonde hair back into her chignon. Well just sneak into a back pew. Are you warm enough, Sarah?

Uh huh.

Simon allowed himself another quick look at his daughter. So. Shed decided not to wear it. Shed complained about it itching before. It wasnt that he was uncomfortable seeing Sarah like that, it was just she looked so different from other kids. So vulnerable.

So bald.

He turned left down their road, heading towards St Matthews. Now that they were finally in the car, he gleaned a simple enjoyment from the normality of it all. He particularly relished Sundays these days. Family day. Those words meant so much more when their continuity had been threatened. How very different it had all been a year ago.

Sarah was five when she was first diagnosed with acute lymphocytic leukemia. They say General Practitioners, or GPs as they are commonly called, are the most unsympathetic parents. It was true that at first Simon didnt find Sarahs tiredness concerning. She was at a whiny age and really, who did want to get up and go to school or work? Simon was strict. She wasnt ill, so she went to school.

Then things began to change. Little signs that dropped in unannounced. Teachers began to report back that her grades had dropped. She wasnt playing with friends. She wasnt taking part anymore.

They decided to move her bedtime to half an hour earlier. She asked to go to bed even earlier. She lost weight. She flinched as if in pain when hugged. She was constantly covered in bruises.

Simon, the GP, finally sent her to her GP. Her GP sent her for tests. The results came back. Leukemia.

So they had their answer. An answer as to why the sink was full of blood after she brushed her teeth; why their formerly vibrant little girl missed the cartoons and stayed in bed until 10 a.m. on a Saturday. Their daughter wasnt lazy, she wasnt stupid. She was tired. She was tired because she was ill. Very ill.

The trips to hospital began. Back and forth, sometimes three times a day. Tests, radio, chemo, more tests, more radio. Unlike Melissa, it wasnt the smell that bothered him. That hospital tang: chemicals, latex, cabbage, sick. As a medical student twelve years ago, he had become immune to the institutionalized odor of the wards and corridors. What bothered Simon was the noise. The beeping, the murmuring. The hushed tones of the other parents desperately trying to pretend that everything was alright , or the abrasive, too-loud chatter of the nurses. The beeps and bongs, coughs and retches each sound redolent of private miseries. Miseries that the parents, passing each other in the hallways, sharing the family room, making endless cups of tea, never really discussed never allowed to crack their carefully crafted veneer of optimism. There was no need of course - everything was alright.

Staring at Sarahs tiny little body, pitifully small on a strange, hard bed, it was hard to pretend things would be okay. Cold bed-frames surrounded her. Her only lullaby was the interminable beeping of machines. Usually she had the same bed in a corner of the childrens cancer ward. Once, during a particularly harrowing time, it was hers for three long months. On shorter visits the nurses tried to make sure she got her bed . It was rather like being the best customer of a smart restaurant - Your usual bed, Madame? - only the food wasnt as good, and you got your drinks through a tube.

The family made friends with the nurses, got to know shift patterns. They knew which coffee machines worked best, which canteen sandwiches were most palatable. Security greeted them by name on arrival. Confused visitors in the foyer would instinctively ask them for directions. They recognized Simon and Melissa as people-in-the-know. As people who belonged .

The prognosis remained the same: thirty percent chance of survival. Simon had mulled this terrifying, all-important figure through his mind for nearly two years. He knew every permutation, every manipulation of those numbers so that they sounded best. Three in ten chance. Fifteen in fifty. He massaged the statistic, he summed up. He pushed it further to forty. And hey, eighty seven percent of all statistics are made up, arent they?

And then came the breakthrough three months ago. The cancer was in remission. The blood cells were regrouping. Following the trauma of chemotherapy the granulocytes and monocytes were re-armed, the rebel lymphocytes were retreating and the battle had turned in their favor. Macrophages joined on the Allied side. The consultants reported from the front line with renewed energy the tide was turning. The numbers changed sixty percent chance of survival.

And Sarah came home. His beautiful, clever, precious daughter came back. Twice a week she returned to the ward for chemo, but every night he tucked her into her own bed. Not the second home the nurses so wrongly called her bed, but her proper bed. It was wooden and traditional with hearts cut out of the headboard. Not wipeable, nor wheelable. It didnt have bars and it didnt raise or lower. It was homely, traditional normal.