Page 31 of Maybe (Mis-shapes #1)

ISAAC

Eighth bloody shift in a row. It should have been seven, but someone in an office somewhere who’d never worked a night shift in their life ballsed up the rota and put me down for an evening shift finishing at one a.m., instead of five straight days off.

Though I was dead on my feet, agreeing was easier than not.

Alaric skidded over to the desk. “There’s a young guy in the paeds majors bay asking for you. His kid’s been brought in, and he’s getting a bit aggy.”

“Aggy young men sound much more your domain, Al. I’ve got a lovely old bird in cubicle three with acute coronary syndrome I’m trying to tee up for the medics before they change shifts.

She’s got fifteen grandchildren. Do you want their names and shoe sizes?

Because I’m pretty certain I’ve nailed them all. ”

“No, really, Isaac. I’m serious. I’ve already fast bleeped paeds to get their arses down here because the kid’s sick as a dog. But the guy’s asking for you by name. He says he’s your brother.”

I didn’t need to see the colour drain from my face; I felt it.

For once, my fight-or-flight response acted appropriately.

I pelted along the corridor to the emergency bay in time to catch a glimpse of a skinny little boy in Superman pyjamas lolling forward on a trolley.

And Ezra too—he was also on the trolley, wrapped around the little boy from behind, his face buried in Jonty’s hair and squeezing him tightly in his arms as the poor mite fought for breath.

Then the paeds team swamped them. “Sir, we need you to get down. We have to sit Jonty back a little to examine him properly. My colleague here needs access to the oxygen at the head end.”

“No. Not until Isaac gets here. I want Dr Fitz-Henry here.”

“Someone’s gone to find him. Please. Sir. Ezra, isn’t it? Please, Ezra. This isn’t helping Jonty. We need to…”

“Ez, I’m here, I’m here.”

Barging through a crowd of medical professionals vastly more capable than me, I reached my brother and nephew.

Jonty’s chin flopped on his slumped body.

An exhausted little boy, oblivious to folks attaching monitoring to him, uncomplaining of the sharp cannula and of a nurse poking ECG electrodes down his pyjama top around the impedance of his dad. Never good signs in a sick child.

“Thank fuck. He’s not breathing right, Isaac.

It’s got worse, and I didn’t know what to do.

I phoned Carly, and her mum said to ring for an ambulance.

It didn’t fucking arrive for, like, forty minutes, and he got worse.

He couldn’t talk—he stopped doing the big gasping breaths and it was like he couldn’t breathe at all. ”

My heart clenched at the wild, unfocused terror in Ezra’s eyes.

And it was not misplaced. A noisy wheeze meant air was getting through; a silent chest spelled his asthmatic airways were too tight.

Ezra gabbled to the nurse next to him about the inhalers and the damp patches in Jonty’s bedroom and the long draughty staircase.

An incoherent jumbled mess, and he clung to his boy like he was everything he had left in the world.

But he wasn’t, not anymore. He had me, too. They both did. On some level, by screaming for me, he must have realised that. But right now, my priority was getting the stubborn fucker to stand back so they could work on his boy.

“Listen to me, Ez. You need to get off the trolley, give the team some room, let them do their job.”

“I’m not leaving him. I need to be here. He’s scared. Do something, Isaac.”

“I know he’s scared. And no one’s asking you to leave. Come and stand here with me. These are the paediatric doctors. They do this every day. Much better than me. Please, stand here, out of their way. You can hold Jonty’s hand and talk to him.”

Never had I been so desperate for a relative to trust my words more. And never had I met one who trusted them, or me, or any of us, less. Ezra’s life experiences with the medical profession up to this point hadn’t been entirely positive, to say the least. No wonder he wouldn’t let go.

Something in my eyes and pleading tone must have worked, though, because he climbed off the trolley.

Instantly, one of the doctors appeared at the head end, lowering Jonty back, exchanging the flimsy oxygen mask for a sturdy nebuliser.

Speaking soothing words, he stroked the frightened little boy’s cheek.

Someone else pushed an infusion of meds through the cannula.

I tried to ignore the depressing tone and the flashing red light of the sats monitor, dipping well below normal.

White-lipped and fuelled by fear, Ezra’s whole body trembled.

He pushed his hands through his mass of wild hair.

“God, Isaac, I left it too long. I should have sent for the ambulance at teatime and not waited. But then he was a bit better, and I thought if he could just sleep a bit as he was so tired, because he hadn’t slept much last night—and then… ”

I laid my arm around his bony shoulders. They were shaking too. “Hey, it’s not your fault. He probably was feeling better then. And now he isn’t. Asthma attacks can fluctuate like that. But you got him here in time. You did the right thing.”

The paeds team worked calmly, efficiently. Summoned by her registrar, the intensive care consultant arrived. Fear spiralled in my chest as the two huddled over blood gases.

“Why aren’t they doing anything? She’s in charge, isn’t she?”

I tried to imagine how it looked in the eyes of an outsider. “They are , Ez. They’re looking at his blood results and discussing how best to treat Jonty.”

“Well, someone needs to tell them to fucking hurry up.”

His voice rose again. I hushed him, though I really wanted to crush him against me and promise him everything would be all right.

I managed to get him to briefly let go of Jonty’s hand under the pretext of texting Jonty’s mum, giving the team more room.

“They are hurrying, Ez. They’re working at pace. ”

“What pace? Fucking snail pace?”

I didn’t know the paeds ITU consultant. Ours was a big hospital, and I was a minnow. Nodding at her colleague, she came over to us.

“This is Ezra, Jonty’s dad,” I said. “My brother.”

Efficiently and unemotionally, she launched into a summary.

“He’s obviously having a bad attack, probably brought on by a viral infection, as he’s not systemically unwell.

He’s responded to the nebs and the aminophylline—that’s the one going through the drip.

For the moment, we’re going to transfer him to a bed up on the ITU and keep on doing what we’re doing.

Hopefully, if we can get him over this acute crisis, we’ll avoid intubating him. ”

Ezra was hovering on a precipice of panic. “That means he doesn’t need to go on a breathing machine. Well, not yet,” I added after a narrowed look from the consultant. “And hopefully not at all.”

“Can I come up with him?”

She softened then, slightly. “Of course.”

I tried to think of the correct questions to ask, seeing as Ezra was incapable.

His eyes were dazed and heavy. Weaving, he clutched my arm, drunk on adrenaline, paralysed by terror.

“He’s supposed to be a Viking in a fortnight.

He’s the main Viking. He was really looking forward to it. What if… what if…”

“They know what they’re doing, I promise,” I said as another cannula slid into the boy’s arm, adding intravenous salbutamol to the mix. Jonty barely flinched. “And everyone knows Vikings are strong warriors. He’ll be fine.”

“Don’t leave me,” Ezra whispered, trembling.

Everyone’s anxiety levels dropped a peg when we reached the intensive care ward.

For a start, Jonty was in an individual room.

The team wasn’t battling to be heard against the clamour of a busy emergency department.

Perhaps the calm helped Jonty, too. His oxygen saturations steadied; his carbon dioxide levels plateaued.

Chained to banks of monitors by drips and wires and infusions, he slid from semi-conscious to drowsy.

In a tumult of fresh panic, a very pregnant Carly appeared, with an attractive older woman in tow.

Both women were attractive, even white-faced and scared.

As Ezra hugged them tight, I wondered whether I was intruding and should slip away and come back tomorrow.

But one look from Ezra over Carly’s shoulder cut off that idea as swiftly as it had presented itself.

“My shift finishes in an hour.” Now was not the time to get to know Carly and explain my exact role in Ezra’s life.

I still wasn’t entirely sure I understood it myself.

“Let me go back down to the department and sort stuff out. Explain where I am and hand over a couple of patients. Then I’ll come back and stay with you. ”

I returned to find Ezra sagged against the wall. “He’s still asleep.”

He rubbed at his face, staring at his boy as if something awful would happen if he dared look away.

“He’s hard to wake up properly, but the doctor said that’s normal because it’s the middle of the night and he’s so exhausted.

She came in whilst you were out. They took another one of those blood oxygen tests.

She said he’s hopefully turning the corner.

He’s hopefully going to be all right.” His voice shook.

“Carly’s gone home—the baby’s due in about a fortnight, and her blood pressure’s up.

I said I’d call if anything happened. The doctor said she’d check in on Jonty again in two hours and keep that infusion going for another day or two, and that they will keep going with the nebs every two hours until morning.

I’m glad he’s asleep, Isaac. I don’t want him to see me so scared, but I’m frightened he’s…

he’s—and she said that he was so b-b-brave.

” Swearing under his breath, he covered his eyes with a shaky hand.

Of course Jonty was brave. He had Ezra’s fine blood coursing through his veins. “Good news.”