Broken Chords (Love in London 2)

“How is he? Did he sleep? I tried calling Alex twice, but there was no answer. I left a message, though.”

It feels as if there's a lead weight at the base of my stomach. Pulling at the lining, and tearing it through. “Maybe they're on the road again,” I croak.

“They finished a gig in Toronto last night,” Amy points out. “They updated their Facebook page. I’ll send them a message, see if they pick it up.”

She doesn't offer to show me and I don't ask to look. There's too much going on. Jealousy isn't something I have room for at the moment, fear has put everything else on mute.

“I'll try him again.” It's around 3:00 a.m. in Toronto, but that doesn't mean anything, post-gig celebrations can stretch out until morning for the band. Without a baby or a steady job to worry about, sleeping it off isn't a problem.

Predictably, the call rings straight through to voicemail again. This time I'm not so laid back about it. Frustrated, I leave a terse message, telling him to call me back right away, suggesting he grow up a bit, reminding Alex that the world doesn't revolve around him. When I hang up, the waiting room is silent. Tina is staring at me with wide eyes, Amy is smirking, and Beth looks sympathetic. David walks over and gives me a big hug.

“He'll call back,” he mutters into my hair. “Max is his kid, of course he'll call back.”

“You're judging him by your standards,” I point out, keeping my voice low. The last thing I need is a row with Tina. “Just because you'd move mountains to be with your kid, doesn't mean that Alex will.”

“He loves you, he loves Max. He'll call you back.”

I don't know why David sounds so much more certain than I feel. Maybe he has some kind of guy-empathy I'm not feeling. The fact we've been calling Alex for five hours with no response doesn't give me much confidence at all.

Do we really mean so little to him?

The door opens and we all look over to see who it is. When I see a man wearing a suit, my heart clenches, thinking it's a doctor—one with bad news. But then I look up and see white-grey hair and a sun-beaten face, and my dad shuffles in uncertainly, as if he's not sure he should be here.

Since my mum died, he's only been to London once. Dad finds it hard to cope with the noise and the bustle, and too overwhelming to sit on a tube train for long. Yet he's here, walking up to me, his lined eyes kind and concerned, and I'm so shocked I don't know what to say.

He clears his throat. “I got your message. How's the baby?” The next moment he's pulling me into his arms, and I'm eight again, crying about an injustice at school, a broken friendship or a skinned knee. While I sob into his suited shoulder, he pats my back, his words soft and quiet as if he's reassuring a child.

“The doctor’s with him now,” I mutter into his jacket. “He's got a virus in his chest.” Finally, I look up at him. Gently, he brushes away the hair that's sticking to my wet cheeks.

“Can they treat it?”

“Not the virus.” I shake my head. “Antibiotics won't work. But he's on a drip with fluids and oxygen and they reckon that should help. The next two days are the most important.”

“Have you seen him?”

“I spent the night with him. They're going to let us back in once the rounds are over.” I give him a watery smile. “He'll be happy to see his granddad.”

Dad's voice is uncharacteristically gruff. “I'll be happy to see him, too.”

Another thing about my father: he's a stoic. Though he cried when my mum died, I don't think he has done since. But either I'm seeing things or there's a tear rolling down his cheek, and that both frightens me and comforts me.

“Is Alex on his way?” Dad asks. Silence greets his question. From the corner of my eye I notice Tina shifting uncomfortably.

“We can't get hold of him,” I admit. Dad's brow furrows as he takes in my words.

“It's the middle of the night over there, he's probably fast asleep,” Tina says. “He'll get the message as soon as he gets up, I bet. Be here by tomorrow morning.”

“I'm sure he will,” Dad replies. I'm not sure who he is trying to convince. Maybe all of us. For a moment I close my eyes, picturing Alex's face, relaxed in sleep, and I pray that dad is ri

ght.

Please, God, let him pick up that message.

* * *

I spend the rest of the morning by Max's side. Though he's still listless, and his breathing remains ragged, the doctor tells me he is stabilising, and that we should see some small improvement by tomorrow. His oxygen levels are up to 90%, but he isn't well enough for the tube to come out.

Visitors trail in and out. Tina comes first, her face crumpling when she sees Max, and her concern touches me. She whispers softly to him, telling him he's loved, that he needs to fight. That his daddy will see him soon.