Free Ghost Child by Caroline Overington Page A

a person unknown. From her voice, I deduced that she was in an agitated state and I told nursing staff that I would be available to her upon her arrival.
    When Lisa and her partner arrived they were directed to the office put aside for me. I gave them time to compose themselves before entering the room. I took my chair out from behind the desk so there would be nobarrier between us. We sat in a semi-circle, facing each other. It’s difficult to recall every detail but I would have been wearing a surgical apron and had mesh socks over my shoes, and this would have been a matter not of haste but of choice. I believe that a parent whose child is going to die not only deserves but wants to see a proper surgeon, somebody with some seniority, and the message that I’m that person can most quickly be conveyed by my wearing the surgeon’s costume. For much the same reason I take care with my appearance. I have barely any hair at all any more, only a ring of white that my wife, perhaps cynically, describes as my halo, but I keep it short and neat, just like my fingernails.
    Lisa had changed her clothes since the press conference. On the television she had appeared to be nearly naked, and I’d wondered what she was wearing, since so much skin was exposed, but she was dressed now in a vinyl suit with shiny iron marks on the fabric. I could tell that sexual allure was important to Lisa: the stocking-socks underneath her suit were fishnets, and she was overly made up.
    Lisa’s partner, Peter, was a young man – essentially, he was a very large boy – and he had a disconcerting way of abruptly raising one shoulder when he talked. He tapped his feet constantly. The back of his neck was pock-marked; here was a man who once suffered terribly from acne. His hair already receded at the forehead; to compensate, he wore it long and curled at the back.
    I began by saying, ‘Let’s start with the nature of the injury to Jacob’s brain.’
    They did not speak so I continued.
    ‘Often, in very young children, when the skull is still soft and the bones have not fused, there can be a blow to the head from one direction – say, if a child falls from a tree – and although the brain can be pushed from one side of the skull to the opposite side of the skull, the softness of the skull provides some cushioning.’
    As I said the words, I knew they were misleading. That circumstance was irrelevant to Jacob. His skull was not soft. The bones had basically fused. In attempting to explain, I had put myself at risk of blurring the message. Lisa’s face was full of confusion.
    I moved to correct myself.
    ‘Jacob is an older child,’ I said. ‘His skull is well-formed. His skull is not soft enough to allow the brain to swell or to move without injury.’
    Lisa said, ‘Will he be okay?’
    I wanted to be as clear as I could.
    ‘There is a great deal of swelling in his brain,’ I said. ‘Jacob’s brain tissue has been pushed up against his skull, and in the process Jacob has suffered a brain injury. I believe he is brain damaged .’
    Lisa said, ‘What can you do?’
    Now came the important part – and the hardest part. I said, ‘I’m sorry, Lisa. Jacob will not recover.’
    I expected at that moment that Peter would reachfor Lisa’s hand. Such a movement between couples in trauma is so common that I’ve come to regard it as a reflex. Where there is a diagnosis of cancer, for example, the partner who is least invested – and that may be the cancer sufferer – will reach for the other partner’s hand, and press down upon it. The idea, I suppose, is to anchor both people to the room, to prevent either of them from fleeing. It did not happen between Lisa and Peter, and I was so used to seeing it that I was momentarily caught short. I rose from my chair and took the leather-bound box of tissues, a gift from my colleagues, off the desk. This, I handed to Lisa. She set it upon her lap, like a child might hold a pet.
    I continued, ‘In a