Page 4 of The Wish

T he floodlights of the car park disguise the setting sun. There are more vacant spaces to park in than earlier in the day.

In one car, Dean Morgan sits hunched, looking through the windscreen at the doors opening into the hospital.

Dean is tall and rugged, his face lined with a worry that turns quickly to anger, making him look older than his forty years.

His tanned skin, light brown hair and brown eyes have no doubt contributed to his stellar rise in the most prestigious law firm in the city.

But he’s not doing so well right now. The change in his confident, personal approach to colleagues, clients and friends has generally been excused by his daughter’s illness – people are sympathetic – but they need to trust their lawyers and Dean is failing to meet expectations.

He knows he should try harder but feels powerless to control the anger and pain that surge up in him almost constantly.

His hands grip the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles are white, his expression tight with rage.

He watches a couple with two young children leave the building, a boy and a girl holding their parents’ hands, all smiles and giggles.

Dean hits the steering wheel hard, emitting a primal grunt.

Slowly, he gets his breathing under control before getting out of the car.

With one more gesture of anger, he slams the door.

Inside the hospital, Dean glances at the bank of lifts, any one of which would take him to his daughter.

Instead, he walks down a busy corridor, past the cafeteria where patients well enough to leave their room have gathered with their visitors.

Further on, he sees the sign indicating his destination – a place he has been many times before.

A place he’d rather avoid. The Social Work Department.

A staff member greets him and accompanies him to a private office.

Knocking and opening the door, she ushers Dean in, closing it gently behind him.

Looking up from behind the desk where she’s seated, Kelly greets him. ‘Dean, thank you for coming, I’m sorry to ask you and Mandy to meet me after hours but there is something we need to talk about.’

Kelly Vincent is in her late twenties. She has large round eyes of a piercing blue, which is usually the first thing people notice about her.

Her hair is twisted into a messy bun at the back of her head, held in place with a large claw hairclip.

It always comes loose as she talks – she’s an expressive speaker, waving her hands for added emphasis.

She dresses simply, privileging comfort above all else, and wears minimal makeup.

Dean likes Kelly and admires the work she does and has often told her how he could never do it.

But he also would be happy if he never saw her again.

She represents their last two years of living hell.

Dean kisses Mandy quickly on the cheek and collapses into the vacant chair beside his wife.

‘We’re here now, Kelly, what’s this about?’ he asks impatiently.

Kelly clears her throat and settles her clear blue eyes on Dean and Mandy. Dean dreads what he’s about to hear, and he tries to prepare himself as much as he can, balling his fist up so that his fingernails dig into his palm.

‘When you got Jesse’s blood results showing her leukaemia had returned, Jesse got in touch with me—’

‘What do you mean Jesse got in touch with you? Mandy, did you know about this?’

‘No, Dean, Jesse hasn’t mentioned anything to me about contacting Kelly.’ Mandy’s voice is calm and she speaks slowly.

This placatory tone infuriates Dean further. He shifts in his seat, unable to get comfortable.

‘Why don’t we listen to what Kelly has to say?’ Mandy whispers, reaching out to take Dean’s hand, a simple gesture she has always used to calm him. He allows her a fleeting touch before pulling his hand away.

‘OK, fine, but for the record, Kelly, I’m not happy about this. So, what did Jesse want kept from us?’

‘Jesse asked me to contact Inspire a Wish—’

‘What?’ Dean yells, jumping to his feet.

‘This was her idea, Dean. Please sit down and let’s talk about it. What did she ask for, Kelly?’ Mandy asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

‘What the hell does it matter what she asked for! We’re not there yet!’ Dean says, his hands clenched into fists.

‘We are,’ Mandy whispers to him. She attempts to take his hand again, but he pulls away. Dejected, she puts her hands in her lap, looking down.

‘No. No, we’re not, we can’t be,’ Dean says quietly, seeing the tears slowly rolling down his wife’s cheeks.

Fire and water – they used to joke about it.

He’d be all blazing thunder when upset, she’d be quieter, weeping, turning inward.

But since Jesse was diagnosed, their differing responses to their daughter’s illness have driven a wedge between them, Dean’s anger getting so out of control to the point where Mandy told him that she could no longer live with him and his fury.

He takes his seat again and sighs. Raising his eyes to Kelly’s, he says, ‘Can we forget all this?’

‘I’m sorry, Dean, I can’t. Jesse asked for it.

It’s my job to make sure she gets her wish.

Last time she was in, Jesse confided in me what she wanted, which gave me the time to research where I could get the help she needs.

I got in touch with Inspire a Wish then and they have already contacted a company who can help. ’

Kelly sees on the Morgans’ faces the shock she was expecting to see, what she’s seen so many times before.

The parents have not yet come to the place of acceptance that their child – her patient – has already arrived at.

She sits with the silence, knowing that the next words will come from either Dean or Mandy, expecting it to be Dean.

Dean looks between the two women. All his anger, his impotence at failing to protect his family, spikes into rage. He glares at Mandy. ‘You’ve always been too ready to give up. You’ve got no fight in you, Mandy, you haven’t had for a long time.’

Mandy stares down her husband and says with a calm authority that shines through her tears, ‘I’ve fought this for two years, but .

. . it’s over. We lost, Dean, we lost. I know you don’t want to believe it.

But all we can do now is let Jesse tell us what she wants and do everything we can to give it to her.

This round of treatment is only going to delay the inevitable. ’

Kelly knows just how hard it is for Mandy to say the words out loud. She fights to hold back tears – if the parents can hold it together, she must manage also.

‘You just want it over with. Is that it? So, you can, what do you call it, move on?’

Devastated at the attack from the man she loves, the father of her children, rage flares up in Mandy. She stands, hovering over Dean.

‘How dare you,’ she says slowly.

‘Mandy, Dean, please,’ Kelly says, standing up from behind her desk. ‘I know this is hard for both of you but just think how much harder it is for Jesse. It will help her enormously if you can be there for her, support her, get through this together as a family.’

‘We haven’t been a family in a long time,’ Dean hisses, walking out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

The two women sit back down in shocked silence.

Kelly has seen this sort of behaviour before, usually in people who are used to being able to fix things, to make things right.

Dean is exactly that sort of person, and she recognizes that need in herself.

It’s what drew her to social work, and she knows how it feels when nothing you do is going to change the outcome.

Still, she’s surprised by just how angry Dean is.

‘I’m sorry, Kelly,’ Mandy finally says, ‘I’m so sorry. He’s just so angry.’

‘He’s hurting, just like you’re hurting, and he doesn’t know what to do with that pain other than lash out. Would you like me to go after him? I presume he’s going to see Jesse.’

‘No, let him be. Sam is with Jesse; he won’t make a scene in front of the kids. I’m sure I can talk to him later. Thank you, Kelly, this can’t have been easy for you.’

‘I’m here for Jesse. I’m also here for you, Dean and Sam, you know that.’

Mandy smiles weakly. ‘I don’t know how we’d have got through the past two years without you. Let’s talk tomorrow?’

Mandy and Kelly hug each other tightly before Mandy leaves Kelly’s office. Sitting at her desk, Kelly allows a single tear to escape before wiping her eyes.

For what feels like the hundredth time, she asks herself, why do I keep doing this, putting myself through such painful situations?

Her answer comes quickly, almost reflexively: I can make a difference.

I can help. With each patient, I become a better person, a better worker, even if the change is small .

She scans her office, noticing the stark emptiness.

When she first came to the city she lodged with an elderly woman, exchanging free board for a carer role.

Her income came from dog walking and pet sitting other elderly neighbours’ animals.

She thrifted clothes, giving her a lifetime desire for quality over fashion.

When it became obvious her arts degree would not guarantee employment, she added a social work degree in her third year and had her placement at the same hospital where she has now worked full-time for the past three years.

Her life is small, but it’s hers, and she loves it.

She lets out a deep breath and decides to get on with work.

There are no family or pet photos on the walls, no childish drawings scattered on her desk, nothing that hints at a life outside the hospital.

When the day finally ends, long after her colleagues have left, she’ll drive to her modest apartment in an old car, eat a ready meal from a fridge that barely keeps things cold, and sit on a sagging couch, a gift from the elderly woman she lived with during her studies.

She knows just which channel will offer the black-and-white movies she’s grown to depend on as her only comfort, preferring the steady, measured pace of older films to the frenzied energy of modern ones.

It’s easier to lose herself in the happy endings of old movies than reflect on her days.

And she’ll sit there alone, her face illuminated by the flickering light of a screen.