The Boy Who Made Them Love Again

But now there was something much more important at stake. This wasn’t just about him. He already felt a connection to Abby and Reuben that he could never have imagined. He couldn’t have seen more pain in Abby’s face if he’d ripped her heart out with a spoon. Biological child or not, she was Reuben’s mother. In every way that mattered.

But where did that leave him?

Abby resisted the temptation to run along the path at top speed, get Reuben home and strip his clothes off in a flash. He was very perceptive to her mood and she didn’t want to do anything to alarm him. Anything to let him think he was sick again.

Reuben cuddled into her chest as the wind picked up. Was he tired? Was it another symptom that she’d missed?

He was so light in her arms. Had he lost weight?

As they approached the house his blond head picked up. ‘Let me down, Mommy, I want a shot on the slide.’

He wriggled free from her arms and ran off towards the slide, climbing the steps at a rate of knots and slipping down the slide. ‘Wheeeee …’

He wasn’t tired. He had as much energy as ever. She reached for his hand as he slid down for a second time. ‘Let’s go in and get changed, Reuben.’

He stared down at his jogging trousers and T-shirt. ‘What’s wrong with these?’

She pointed to a few chocolate stains and an earlier smattering of blood. ‘They’re all dirty. Lets get some nice clean clothes on.’

‘I’ll choose, I’ll choose,’ he shouted as he mounted the steps at the front of the house.

Abby turned the lock on the front door. ‘Race you upstairs,’ she said, as she dumped her bag in the corridor and watched him disappear ahead of her. By the time she reached Reuben’s room, he’d already pulled a rainbow’s worth of T-shirts from one of his drawers. ‘Red—no, yellow—no, green,’ he said at the array of clothing at his feet.

Her heart was pounding in her chest. She knelt down before him. ‘Okay, pumpkin, lift your arms.’

Reuben automatically raised his hands above his head as she pulled the T-shirt up. She was holding her breath as her eyes swept over his torso. ‘Turn around, honey,’ she instructed, and he dutifully spun round. Nothing. There was nothing there. No bruises. No blotches. Nothing to worry her. She felt the air leave her lungs.

‘Let’s take these dirty trousers off too.’ She pulled at the elastic waistband on the joggers, sliding them downwards, and drew in her breath sharply.

Three. There were three angry purple bruises that hadn’t been there that morning. Bruises that, if she’d seen them on any other child, she would have thought were a few days old.

Reuben’s eyes followed hers. ‘Wow! Look, Mommy, where did they come from?’ He dropped to the floor, his spread-out legs filling him with wonder. He prodded at the purple bruises. ‘They don’t hurt.’

Abby caught his hand. ‘Don’t do that, honey.’ She pulled him over into her arms for a cuddle. Her hand automatically went to his head and stroked his hair in a soothing motion. ‘Mommy’s going to have to put some magic cream on your arms again.’

Reuben wrinkled his nose. ‘Not blood tests,’ he groaned. His childlike brain was filling in the gaps. He shook his head determinedly. ‘I don’t need any.’

‘I’m sorry, honey. But Mommy has to take some blood to make sure you’re okay.’

‘No.’ He stamped his foot on the floor.

It broke her heart. Reuben had already spent too many of his young hours in hospitals. The last thing she wanted to do was make him go back. But her paediatric head was screaming at her. This could be the first sign he was out of remission. She tried to take a step back and look at him through professional eyes.

He wasn’t breathless. He had a good appetite. He hadn’t complained of any bone or joint pains. She ran her hands over his body, looking for lumps in the neck, underarms or groin. Nothing.

But he was pale. But Reuben was always pale. Was he paler than normal?

‘Let’s get some clean clothes on.’ She picked up one of the T-shirts from the floor. ‘Now, which colour? Red or blue?’

‘Blue,’ he shouted, and she pulled it quickly over his head. Her hands hesitated over the drawer, nearly pulling out a pair of shorts, before stopping and finding another pair of joggers instead. She couldn’t bear the thought of staring at those purple bruises all evening and what they might mean.

‘Mommy needs to make a phone call, honey. Let’s go down to the kitchen and get a snack. Do you want to watch some cartoons?’ Anything to keep him occupied while she phoned the paediatric oncologist. She already knew what he’d say. He’d want blood tests and a bone-marrow aspiration. A procedure that Reuben hated.

Blood tests she could do. The bone-marrow aspiration would have to be done elsewhere. She’d have to arrange a few days off.

Abby continued on autopilot for the rest of the day. It was almost a relief when Luke walked through the door at six o’clock, because it gave her an excuse to focus on something else.

‘Hi, Luke, dinner is just about ready. Go and wash up.’

Luke took in the forced happiness and smile that seemed to be pasted on her face. All he could see was the stress she was putting herself under.

He hung his jacket on the coat stand behind the door and crossed over to the kitchen window next to her. With no attempt to hide his intentions, his arms caught her in a hug as he dropped a kiss on her head. ‘How are you?’

He caught the shiver that ran down her spine. Her voice was tight. ‘Just what you’d expect. I’ve drawn the bloods and spoken to the oncologist. I’ll take him to San Francisco on Thursday for his bone marrow.’

Thursday, two days away. Probably the quickest they could arrange it.

‘Have you told him?’

‘No.’ Her voice cracked. ‘But he’s not stupid. He’s been through all this before. Sometimes he seems so much older than four.’ Her voice drifted off as she gazed out the window. ‘But, then again, he’s been through much more than the average four-year-old.’

Luke moved away from the worktop, sitting down on the comfortable easy chair that faced onto the garden and pulling her onto his lap. ‘And how are you, Abby?’ he asked again.

‘I’ll be fine.’ Her face was still fixed towards the garden. It was apparent to him that she couldn’t look at him.

‘You don’t need to go through this on your own. I’m right here.’ His voice was deep, rich and reassuring.

‘But you’re not here, Luke.’ Her head whipped around towards him, two pink spots appearing on her cheeks. ‘This is just a coincidence. In another two days you’ll be flying off to your jet-set lifestyle in DC. And I’ll be taking my little boy for a test that he absolutely hates.’

She was angry. She was angry that he was trying to comfort her, trying to help. He wasn’t helping. He was confusing things for her. She needed to focus on Reuben. She needed to focus on her son.

Luke took a deep breath. The Abby Tyler he’d known had always coped with everything. Nothing had fazed her. But the Abby Tyler he’d known hadn’t had a child with ALL. A child who could come out of remission at any point.

He took her hand in his. ‘I’m here now, Abby. Why don’t we just focus on that? Stop imagining what could happen, because the doctor in you will always consider the worst-case scenario. These last two days have been the most …’ his eyes lifted upwards as he searched for the word ‘…interesting I’ve had in the last five years.’ His other hand lifted to her face, pushing a wayward blonde lock back behind her ear so he could see the whole of her face. The whole of her.

‘Our timing really sucks. But maybe you’re not the only one who needed to re-evaluate their life. Maybe seeing you here, like this, has been just the kick up the butt that I needed.’

He glanced into the living room, where Reuben was sitting on the bright rug in front of the television, watching cartoons to his heart’s content. ‘He is the luckiest little boy in the world, and that’s because he’s got you.’

‘Bu

t what happens if I’m not enough? What happens if I can’t be strong enough for him?’ Her voice was trembling and one large tear trickled down her cheek and dripped from her chin.

‘You will be, Abby, and you are. You always will be.’

He stood up and walked towards the old range cooker. He could have said something completely different there. But he had to be sure about how he felt. He had to know if he could do this all over again. Maybe in a few days …

‘What this?’ He bent over the large crock-pot, lifting the lid and pulling back at the escaping steam.