Cancer ward

‘I’ll be back for lunch,’ I sat on the side of his bed and squeezed his hand—‘someone’s got to make sure you eat something.’

The two policemen wandered away and left me with Etian, but I had to leave too.

He chuckled and wagged a finger, ‘Doesn’t look as if they’re going to arrest you—now.’

I shrugged, pulling the collar of my coat up through habit. ‘Hope not, but we both know…’

‘Yes,’ he whispered and shut his eyes.

The consultant was coming into the room as I was leaving. He held the door open. ‘You his friend?’ he squinted up at me, a boyish and challenging gleam in his eye.

‘Yeh.’

‘You speak his language?’

‘He understands what you’re saying.’ I glanced at him lying in bed, watching and listening. ‘And he speaks English, better than I thought.’

The consultant took me by the elbow and guided me back into the room. ‘Well, if you wouldn’t mind hanging around, there’s a few things I’d like to say.’

‘Sure.’

He patted my arm, before standing by the bed.

‘Mr Shem,’ he said to Etian. ‘I know we’ve had conversations before, but I wasn’t sure you understood fully what I was trying to tell you—and for that I apologise.’

He stood with his head bowed and glanced around at me to see if Etain understood what he’d just told him.

‘S’Ok,’ muttered Etian through parched lips.

He was quick to get the carafe of lukewarm water and pour a little into the bottom of the plastic cup. His white coat road up as he perched on the end of the bed, holding the back of Etian’s head, with the cup up to his lips to allow him to sip the water.’

‘Better?’ he asked, before letting his head drop back onto pillows.

He looked at me and then back at Etain. ‘We had you in to remove your gallbladder, but it was worse than we thought. You’ve got gastric cancer with metastases to your liver.’

‘What does that mean?’ I asked.

‘It means we can’t operate. The liver should be silky smooth and it’s…’

Etian groaned as he sat up a little straighter. ‘How much longer must I suffer?’

The consultant bit down on his lips and shook his head. ‘Not long.’

‘Days, weeks, months?’ I asked him.

‘Not months, probably not weeks…we’ll make him as comfortable as we can.’ He sighed, ‘And I’ve talked to the charge nurse, made her fully aware that Mr Shem can have visitors at any time of the day and night.’

He was talking to me, but including Etian in our conversation ‘You won’t have any problems with that regard any more—and if you do, you ask to speak to me, right away.’

‘Got it,’ I said. ‘At least that’s good news.’

‘Of sorts.’

We shook hands, and as quickly as he’d come, he’d gone.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said to Etian, our conversation reverting to Yiddish. 

‘For what?’

‘For your stomach cancer.’

‘Samuel, you didn’t give it to me. We’ve been through much. So why are you sorry?’

‘Just am.’

‘Go,’ he said, smiling. ‘One of us has a life to live.’

I bowed to the outline of his thin body and grizzled face, propped up in bed by pillows. ‘I’ll be back.’

‘Shalom.’

The howl of the lift creaking in its cage as it passed me on the stairs overshadowed my sobbing. He was so frail. I wasn’t sure he’d still be alive in the afternoon. I turned to go back, but couldn’t. I needed to get out into the clean air and away from the hospital smells of boiled cabbage and disinfectant. I needed to see my wife’s face and hold onto her for a while, rub her stomach and feel new life kicking its way into a world renewed.

I felt better when I returned in the afternoon. My wife had make up a few fresh rolls. Nothing fancy, cheese with pickle. I carried it wrapped in greaseproof paper in my coat pocket. But I hurry up the stairs. Hairs on the back of my neck prickled. And I was sure the dying room would be empty.  

But he was sitting up spryly in bed and the dying room smelt of cheap perfume and booze. A tinny transistor radio blared out Telegram Sam. One of his companions occupied the bucket seat beside his bed. She ran a manicured finger through her sparse black hair, ruby-red lips sucking on a cigarette, sweat glistening on her Glasgow bottled tan. Her dress was so short it, her breasts danced as she stood up.

‘Who’s this old codger?’ she asked, mincing over in heels to meet me and stretching her neck to kiss the side of my cheek, which made me smile.

‘I’m Sharon.’

She nodded towards her companion, Lila.

She stood with her back to us, hand on her hips, legs apart. Blonde shoulder-length hair. Red nails and quick hands rifled through the medical charts on the end of the bed. No slip, the light above made her thin blouse almost transparent. Starched white dress and red bra straps. She wasn’t as big busted as her companion. Thin ankles and her legs flowed into thicker calves and brightly coloured panties, where all the seams and senses met.

‘Hey man,’ she said, turning to show the twinkle of gold in her cleavage and tightly held breasts. A cattish smile. Blue eyes and long thick eyelashes. She was a summer’s day in the dying room.  ‘Oh, aren’t you tall,’ she said.

‘Not really, I’ve always been this height.’ But I took my hat off and stooped down, conscious of the backward creep of hair, as I stepped nearer the bed.

‘How are you?’ I asked Etian in Yiddish. A blush creeping into my face.

He was propped up by the pillows. The remains of fish and chips on the bedside cabinet.    

He replied in English. ‘I am, well enough.’ His laughter made us feel better and more relaxed.

‘The girls are just going,’ he said.   

‘No we’re not,’ said Lila.

I felt the heat of Sharon at my back, her little girlish voice. ‘Unless you’d like us too?’  

Etian waved, beckoned she should come closer. She left a musky smell as she nudged me aside, almost lying on top of his frail body.

‘I need to rest,’ he spoke into her hair, and kissed her head. The palm of his hand rested on the crown of her head and he close his eyes. I leaned forward. His voice murmuring in the old language. But I couldn’t catch what he was saying, but there was an intimacy to it, as if the background buzz of the hospital disappeared, and they were communing in a way I didn’t understand.

And when Sharon got up there were tears brightening her eyes.

 Lila kneeled at the side of the bed, her hands knitted together in prayer. I wanted to cry out at this mockery. Etian’s hand hovered over her head and the rested on her head. But I didn’t think he was performing. Didn’t seem to bother over much, whether I was there or not. He just seemed to be doing what he was doing, whatever it was.

‘Physician heal thyself,’ I found myself muttering.