Sorry for the long delay, real life has been taking over rather a lot of late - in an entirely good way. I'll be far better at updating once I'm back at work.
Just call out my name, and you know wherever I am, I'll come running to see you again.
'This is Elsie Tapton, eighty-five years old, found by a neighbour after a fall at home. Query fractured left hip. She says she didn't lose consciousness at any time-'
'-And she can speak perfectly well for herself,' Elsie cut across Iain's words. 'It's my hip that's broken, not my tongue.'
Iain and Ethan shared a grin as the paramedic concluded with, 'We've given ten of morphine on route. Shall we get her across on my count?'
'Hi Elsie, my name's Doctor Hardy. I'm going to be treating you today,' Ethan explained as they lifted her across and the nursing staff began taking vital readings. 'Is there anybody we can contact for you?'
'Oh, no, I don't want to bother anybody.' Elsie shook her head. 'Just patch me up and I'll be on my way.'
Ethan gave her a smile but didn't acknowledge her words. He'd seen this kind of patient before: the ones who had lived through a war and to whom everything else seemed hardly worth bothering with. Easy enough, and certainly not the sort of patient to make a fuss, but he hated to be the one to bring home how much they themselves had changed since those days when their primary concern had been bombs and invasions.
'You've got your daughter down as your next of kin. Would you like us to call her?' Rita asked, glancing down the notes that she'd unearthed.
'Is it really necessary?' Elsie asked, looking for all the world as if they were making a huge deal out of nothing. 'She's at work.'
Rita exchanged a look with Ethan. 'It might be nice for you.'
Resigned, Elsie said, 'Well, if you really think so. But don't worry her, tell her not to rush. I'm fine.'
And Elsie was fine, sort of. Her assertion that she hadn't lost consciousness seemed true, judging by her general alertness and the scans Ethan sent her for. She was sparky and awake and charmed just about everybody in the department. She had also shattered her left hip, a tricky bone at any age, and only worse the older you got. She was eighty-five; Ethan hated cases like this.
So he was less than enamoured when Cal's opening line at lunch was, 'How's the old woman?' Sensitivity never his strong point, it was as if he could read his brother's mind and deny him the chance to escape from his least favourite of cases for even half an hour. Knowing Cal, perhaps that was precisely what he was doing.
'Broken hip,' Ethan said, surveying his sandwich with some disappointment; all his best intentions to eat healthily always ended with him discarding his depressing lunches and heading straight to the canteen.
'Better pack her off to orthopaedics then,' was Cal's response, followed by, 'What?' when Ethan threw him a disgusted look.
'Are you actually capable of sensitivity?'
'I asked how she was, didn't I?' Cal rolled his eyes. 'She's a patient, Ethan.'
'She's also a human. She deserves some of our compassion. She's somebody's mum, Cal, people care about her.'
Cal shrugged. 'So let them care, and we can do our job.'
After thirty-two years, Ethan might have thought he'd seen everything when it came to his older brother. If he was asked for three words to describe Cal, 'tactless' would definitely feature. It was almost an art-form, the way he did it, callous comments said without so much as a flicker of an eyelid. The words themselves were no shock; he'd said worse many a time before. It was the occasion which left Ethan unable to believe that he shared DNA with the man in front of him.
His dismay must have been apparent on his face, as Cal sighed. 'Oh come on, Nibbles, don't get all emotional about it.'
It was the final straw. Ethan hesitated, on the brink of saying something, before choosing to keep his dignity instead, sweeping his sandwich into the bin and heading outside, where at least the sunshine might lift his mood a little. Blaming Cal for his short temper today was unfair; it was always going to be a difficult day. He had just hoped his brother might, for once, prove more of a help than a hindrance.
'So, what's he done now?'
Ethan jumped, just like he always did, because Tiffany came from nowhere in a cloud of nicotine. How she'd done that, he had no idea: immediately nailed what was causing him to frown like this. Her awareness of his relationship with Cal had come as a surprise the first time she'd mentioned it all those weeks ago: a surprise and a shock. Now he was simply bemused as to how she knew so much.
Unwilling to share quite yet, he shook his head, shrugging it off. 'How are you?' It felt like days since he'd last seen the paramedic, their shifts never quite aligning. Now he realised with a start that he'd missed her. That wasn't in the plan.
Nonchalant as ever, she shrugged and blew a plume of smoke in the other direction.
'Good shift?' he prompted. Then, remembering when Elsie had been brought in, 'You're not with Iain?'
The look of horror which passed over her face almost made him laugh. 'I'm with Dixie.'
'Oh dear.' Managing to quell his laughter, he was unable to resist a smile. 'And you're still alive?'
'I'm like a cockroach, indestructible.' She gave him a self-confident wink, but then resumed smoking as if it was something she'd looked forward to all day. If Dixie had been in charge, Ethan thought that was probably true; where Iain dealt with the fact that Tiffany sloped off during the boring bits, Dixie likely kept the Californian on a much tighter leash.
'But hey,' Tiffany said now, pausing for dramatic effect before saying, 'Sun! Actual sun for more than two days in a row. Is this a British record?'
'Sometimes it even happens for a week,' Ethan told her, dead-pan, before grinning as she dramatically reacted and fanned herself. Grinning: that was something he'd forgotten about recently. In amongst work and Fran's dramas and Cal's strops, there hadn't been much room for grinning. This was nice.
'So how's the old lady?' Tiffany clarified as he gave her a quizzical look. 'We listen in on the radio. I know, I know, sue us. So how is she?'
'Broken hip.'
'Bummer.'
'Yeah.' Somehow it didn't sound so awful coming from her.
'If I ever get old, just shoot me. I'm serious!' she insisted. 'I don't ever want to get old. Live fast, die young, right?'
That youth thing again, Ethan thought, looking at her. Ten years ago, he might have said the same thing. Working in emergency medicine, he saw his fair share of old age ailments, enough to make the thought of ageing less than attractive. Trips, falls, illness, dementia – they all painted a pretty bleak picture of the future. He'd likely made flippant comments like this back then. But not now, for one very simple reason, which spilled out of him.
'It's my mum's birthday today. She'd be sixty-seven.' As the smile faded from Tiffany's face, he added, 'Cal's forgotten.'
'Shit.'
He didn't really acknowledge that. Having sold him down the river, now he was trying to rehabilitate Cal. 'He forgets most people's birthdays, to be fair, it's not a personal thing. And it's not as though it's any different from any other day.'
'That's not the point.'
'No. I know.'
'He's a dick.'
Ethan didn't reply. He wasn't sure if he agreed or not, but, for one moment, it was nice for somebody to voice what he could never say.
'What was she like? Your mum,' Tiffany clarified. 'You've never mentioned her.'
He knew that. It had never been especially deliberate; he'd never put a filter on what he did and didn't share with Tiffany. But he rarely talked about his mother to anybody, least of all the people he was closest to. He couldn't remember the last time he and Cal had discussed her, even in passing, and after that brief awkward conversation with Fran last year, they'd glossed over it. Perhaps her new-found role in life would make her easier to talk to about this sort of thing. It seemed a hell of a leap to make.
So Ethan had internalised it all in the past eighteen months, never letting his thoughts escape from his head. It was pretty crowded in there by now. It was just tough to choose what he could entrust to Tiffany. Besides, how could he sum up one woman, his mother in a simple throwaway soundbite? The eulogy he'd delivered at the funeral hadn't been enough, and this wouldn't be either. But maybe that was alright.
'She was reliable,' he said finally, knowing how pathetic that sounded. Of all the aspects of the wonderful woman Diana Hardy had been, he'd picked the one which made her sound most every day, mundane and boring. It was an appalling tribute.
'So, Cal takes after his dad then?' Tiffany put in, and somehow Ethan just knew: she got it. She knew what being reliable meant in a family where people walked out and had rows and left and never stood by their word. Strong male figures were in short supply in Ethan's life growing up: his mother certainly knew how to pick them when it came to men. But she'd been there, always. It was possibly the thing he missed most about her. Nobody else had ever come close to taking her place.
'Do you wanna….' Tiffany tailed off, in a most un-Tiffany-like way, before regaining her usual confidence and finishing with, 'Do you wanna do something tonight? Like… I don't know. We could… do something for your mom?'
Ethan was unable to stop himself from staring at her, taking in her face anew and wondering how this was the same woman who had shouted such hurtful things at him less than five hundred metres away from where they were now sat. Everything else was the same, from her barely-regulation eyeliner to the casual bed-hair. It was just the words that were different.
'Or… not. You know.' Tiffany shrugged when he gave no response, and he saw that momentary flicker of anxiety pass across her face before she put on her usual mask again. 'It's cool, I should be getting back to work anyway, so it doesn't matter-'
'Tiffany.' Ethan cut her off. She stopped immediately, huge eyes looking into his, and making his response the only one it could be: 'That sounds good. I'll… see you later?'
'Sure.' She nodded and that sunny smile erupted across her face again, more cheerful than he'd seen her in ages. 'I'll see you at the end of my shift.'
Ethan nodded as she walked away, knowing the knot of tension in his stomach wasn't necessarily a good feeling, but for once, not really caring. Today was turning out to be a bad day; he deserved a decent evening. He wasn't going to feel guilty for wanting that.
Finding Fran in the middle of general hubbub in the staffroom was more than a small change from the days when Max used to find her stood outside of the circle, doing everything in her power not to be noticed. True, she still didn't look entirely comfortable with the noise around her, but at least she had a way of distracting people: Rosie was just about the best distraction Max had ever come across. Even he was momentarily caught by his daughter's gurgles and what he liked to think were smiles, though Fran, cynical to the last, insisted were just wind.
'I thought we were meeting outside?' he asked now, as Cal and Robyn all but did battle over the right to hold their niece. He wondered if it was time they began rationing people's holding-rights in order to avoid Rosie becoming completely spoiled before she made it to a month old.
Fran shrugged, the smallest smile on her face. 'I tried.'
'And I said there was absolutely no way my only niece was hanging around outside a hospital!' Robyn half-reprimanded the two of them, half-cooed to Rosie.
'She's not your only niece,' Max reminded her. 'Charlotte's daughter?'
Robyn turned her attention back to the baby, saying without words what she thought to that input. Max would have been a little shocked at her complete rejection of her sister's child if it hadn't placed his own daughter higher up the pecking order. He was entitled to some favouritism, after all.
'So, today's the day.' Ethan, pushed out from the baby-adoration team, looked between Max and his sister. He made it sound much more ceremonial than Max suspected it really would be: registering Rosie's name was likely more sleep-fest than the kind of naming ceremony outlined in Sleeping Beauty (and it was strictly between Max and Rosie how much he was already looking forward to watching all those princess films with her; nobody else needed to know. Really, nobody). But Ethan somehow made it sound exciting and special, rather than a chore piling on at the end of what had already been a rather long day.
One glance at Fran, though, and Max suspected his day didn't come close to how long hers had been. He wondered again at what point she was going to take him up on the offer he'd made the day they took Rosie home. Maybe it was time he reminded her of it, because he was pretty sure nobody's skin was supposed to look that pale unless they were properly seriously ill.
'You're sure it's Rosie?' Cal questioned, as he handed baby-holding duties over to Robyn.
'Certain.'
'No middle name?'
'No. Well, not unless…' And there was that moment of indecision which still sat uneasily on her shoulders as her eyes flew to Max's. 'I mean, we haven't talked about…'
'Who needs a middle name?' Max shrugged nonchalantly. 'I've never used mine.'
'Yeah, but you are named after your granddad,' Robyn put in. 'Sebastian isn't usually in the top ten baby names for a reason.'
'Sebastian?' Cal only just stifled his laughter.
'Yeah, alright.' Max rolled his eyes good-naturedly, pleased to see Fran grinning now; she looked less tired when she smiled. 'Like I said, Rosie doesn't need one.'
'But Rosie Hardy.' Cal pulled a face. 'It sounds like an author of those books about small villages in the 1940s where girls get knocked up by American soldiers.'
Max was about to comment on how detailed Cal's description of those books had been, almost as if he had intimate personal knowledge of them ; in the month since Rosie's birth the two of them had reached a sort of impasse comprised of banter which just stayed on the right side of civil. Cal had had his chance with Max's middle name; this was his for the taking.
And then, like always, Fran blindsided him.
'Yes, but Rosie Walker sounds like CEO of her own company.'
Max knew he wasn't imagining the silence which followed her words, and he fought to look anywhere but at his step-sister, because Robyn's eyebrows were working overtime to catch his attention. Cal and Ethan weren't much better people to look at as they seemed just as alarmed as he was, and he wasn't sure that Cal wasn't marginally more disturbed, proof positive of the fragility of the ceasefire between them.
The only person who it seemed safe to look at was Fran, and she wasn't even looking at him. Having reclaimed her daughter from Robyn, too shell-shocked to argue for a longer cuddle, Fran was clipping her daughter back into her car seat and preparing to head outside. Max wasn't sure whether she had noticed the silence or not. She had excellent form for ignoring things she didn't want to deal with.
So now when she looked up at him and asked, 'You ready to go?' he merely nodded and followed in her wake.
He maintained the silence for the whole drive to the registry office, not even remarking on Fran's choice of album (what seemed to be the greatest hits of Tru Steppers, something he hadn't even known was possible). Even when they were seated in the overheated building, placed in a queue despite seeming to be the only people there, he still couldn't quite find the words to broach the subject she'd introduced with such ease.
Or maybe not. Because, in a stark break with tradition, it was Fran whose mouth wouldn't stop moving right now. Admittedly, she was talking to Rosie, something she seemed to do without even being aware of it, which Max found surprisingly endearing. Even so, it was unlike her to talk quite so much.
'I suppose you would be asleep now. Probably the most important day in your life so far and you're asleep. This is what happens when you decide to stay awake all night.'
'All night?' Max prompted, because discussing Rosie's insomnia was easier than anything else.
'As good as. I think she missed a few hours around three.' Fran spoke with a battle-weary smile on her face. 'I must just be wonderful entertainment for her.' Then, with a slightly grimmer smile, she added, 'And if she sleeps now, I suppose we'll see two am again tonight.'
Again with the self-reliance, this idea that she was doing this on her own which simply wasn't true. Or at least, it didn't have to be, if she didn't want it to be, and given what she'd just said…
'Walker.'
He was aware how ridiculous he sounded as Fran turned away from Rosie and blinked. 'What?'
'Walker. You said… Walker.' He swallowed, as though that would reset his brain and everything would make sense. When it didn't, he fell back on humour as a way to ask a difficult question. 'Did I miss that memo?'
'No. I thought… I thought you'd like it.' That doubt again. He wondered if she knew how much nicer it made her seem. 'You do, don't you?'
'Yeah, of course. It's… it's great. I just didn't know that's what we were doing.' He tried not to stress the pronoun. Then, a little bolder, he added, 'I meant what I said, Fran. I want to be a part of her life. A proper part.'
'I know! You are. You… will be.' This was unfair, he briefly thought, as Fran's voice became uncomfortably high-pitched; it was unfair of him to be having this conversation with her now. Raking a hand through her unusually unruly hair, she said, 'That's what I'm doing.'
'Then let me stay over tonight.' He hadn't known he was going to say it quite like that, but the words kept coming. 'Come on, Fran, you look wrecked-'
'Thanks.'
'I didn't mean it like that, but... come on. You can't do it all by yourself.'
'I've been doing okay.'
'I never said you hadn't.' This was the sort of conversational one-way system Fran always took him down, a bewildering series of exchanges which left him disorientated and certain he'd said at least three things wrong. He'd always thought he was quick-witted, but she managed to trip him up every time. And make his brain hurt, he thought, as he dropped his head into his hands. This wasn't how he'd seen today going; it was the first time they'd exchanged even a mildly irritated word since Rosie had been born.
They sat in silence for a while, Rosie fast asleep at their feet. Max let her distract him. He hadn't known it would be like this. Babies were good and everything; whatever Robyn said, he'd often found the best thing about Charlotte to be her seemingly infinite fertility and the entertaining succession of children she'd had over the past few years. Max thought he made a pretty good uncle. But he hadn't realised how different it would be this time. He hadn't known that a single flicker from Rosie's eyelid would hold his attention for many minutes, or that he'd find something new and amazing about her every single day. He hadn't been prepared for being a father.
'I didn't know it would be like this.' For a moment, he had to remind himself that he wasn't talking. Lifting his head, he looked at Fran, who was fiddling with her cardigan sleeves again, a familiar sight by now. 'I knew it would be… hard. I knew she'd be demanding. But…'
'You're doing great.' He felt she needed to know that. It was the sort of thing he'd want to be told if he was in her position. 'I'm not criticising you, Fran.'
'I'm just so tired.'
After the smallest pause, Max said in a gentle voice, 'So let me help.'
Another long moment of silence. 'I don't have a spare bed.'
'I'll sleep on the sofa.'
'You've got work tomorrow.'
'I don't mind. Fran.' Max finally forced her to look at him. 'It's my turn.'
A door opened. 'Francesca Hardy and Max Walker?' A woman stood in the doorway, her face creasing into a smile as her eyes alighted on them. Or, more specifically, Rosie. 'My last appointment of the day. I love doing births. Come on through.'
Max hesitated for a second, his hand lingering over the handle of the car seat. Then Fran smiled.
'Go on. You better get some practise in for tonight.'
Ostensibly, Cal was catching up on paperwork. Always his least favourite part of the job, it had taken an ear-bashing from a combined force of Louise and Connie to persuade him that perhaps he might turn his mind to the piles of paper he'd generated over the past couple of shifts.
In reality, he'd spent the past twenty minutes clicking his pen in and out, and in again, whilst staring blankly at the folder in front of him. Trying to decipher his scribbled notes at the time of treatment would have been enough of a challenge without his mind being almost wholly distracted by a plethora of things, few of which he really wanted to dwell on. That was why he'd latched onto this one thing, a tiny trivial problem which was nothing to do with him anyway, and was running with it.
Rosie Walker. Fran was right: it did have a certain power behind it. Not being versed in these things, Cal didn't know if it was the combination of consonants or the matching long vowel sounds, but they did seem to suit each other: Rosie Walker. It wasn't a name you could really find fault with – but Cal was having a go anyway.
Fran hadn't mentioned this plan to anybody, including Max by the looks of it, which did make it more palatable to Cal. If Cal had given it any thought (and he hadn't), he might have expected this, given how much time his sister had been spending with the porter. She'd said he was going to be involved, and this was the ultimate in involved. They probably shouldn't have been as shocked.
But shocked they had been, and Cal continued to be, because he was still thinking of the Fran he'd known all of his life, the careful, methodical, fearsomely independent sister. As she'd shown over the past year, she wasn't the kind to ask for help, or even believe she needed it. Yet here she was, tying her daughter to a name, a person, who she really knew nothing about. That wasn't usual behaviour. People might say that it made little difference, that it was nice even, that she was involving Max in such a way. Cal didn't. Sharing a name didn't equal involvement, didn't make somebody more reliable or tied to you. He knew that from bitter experience.
So, no, he wasn't thrilled by Fran's choices.
'Ethan, the patient in HDC, Mrs Tapton?' Ash began the conversation in a particularly telling tone of voice which interrupted Cal's thoughts. It was a tone of voice usually directed towards Cal himself, so it was a novelty not to be chastised.
'I know,' Ethan put in.
'She's about to go past the four-hour window.'
'I know! I was just… hoping her daughter would get here.'
'We can't just leave her on a trolley.'
'I know. I'll… sort it.' Ethan managed to hold it together until Ash had left, before he slumped onto the desk.
Abandoning his paperwork, Cal sat back in his chair and said, 'You've still not told her then?'
Ethan rolled his eyes, and Cal wished he hadn't spoken, or at least thought about his tone of voice. It sounded critical, which hadn't been his intention, at least not wholly.
'I'm waiting for her daughter to arrive.'
'You've been waiting four hours.'
'Cal, for once, unusually, does have a point.' Lily, hovering nearby, didn't miss an opportunity to stick the knife in even as she supported Cal's words. 'It would be best if she was sent upstairs.'
Ethan still looked pained, and Cal said what he thought might help. 'You could always send her upstairs and get them to break the news.'
'Because that's incredibly ethical,' Ethan remarked, throwing his brother a filthy look, much more than was actually warranted in Cal's opinion. 'I'll tell her, I just… want to do it right.'
'Do you want someone to come with you?'
Too late, Cal realised that should have been his line, not Lily's. Today, of all days, he should be at least trying to be supportive of his little brother. It wasn't a position he felt entirely comfortable in, so instead he did his best to prevent anyone else taking it up.
'Yeah, alright, Lily. Ethan's perfectly capable. Aren't you?' he asked, and he was immediately sent reeling back thirty years, Andrew Knight's voice ringing in his ears as it was insisted that Cal was just fine, aren't you, he wasn't going to cry, are you? He'd never realised how much he could sound like his father.
Ethan stared at his brother for a long moment before nodding. 'Of course.' Then he walked away.
'Well, that was a touching display of brother affection, as always,' Lily remarked.
She was acerbic by nature. Sometimes she was even funny with it. She was certainly less frustratingly annoying than she had been when she'd first started. But Cal wasn't paying attention to that anymore.
'Shut up, Lily.'
Elsie was having a great day. She told Ethan as much as he apologised for the umpteenth time about how long she'd been waiting. A chat to Robyn, a cup of tea and a biscuit: she really didn't ask for much. Somehow, that made Ethan feel even worse about the news he had to deliver.
So he hesitated and prevaricated, mumbling and stumbling and making a terrible mess, so much so that, finally, Elsie interrupted him.
'Are you trying to say that I need to stay in hospital?'
Letting out a long held breath, Ethan nodded. 'Yes. Yes, I am. You've suffered a fracture to your left hip. It may need surgery.'
'I've never had surgery before,' Elsie said conversationally.
Trying not to be put off, Ethan continued with, 'There's a bed upstairs all ready for you. We're still waiting for your daughter to get here, I'm afraid.'
'There's a surprise.' Elsie gave a small giggle. 'Always late, that's our Jenny. So, when am I going upstairs?'
Ethan couldn't help it. Any response he might have hoped to make died away as he stared at her, the woman he'd been working all day to try to protect. He'd flouted hospital regulations in his attempts to cushion the blow that would come anyway. Now it seemed that Elsie was more capable of dealing with this news than Ethan had given her credit for: perhaps more able to deal with it than Ethan himself.
'Sometimes,' Elsie said now, eyes twinkling, 'it's better to just get it over with. Better to tackle it head on. Or so I've always found.'
Her sentiments lingered long after she'd been taken upstairs, immediately striking up a conversation with the porter. Tackling things head on had never been Ethan's way, because doing so usually caused an argument. Conflict wasn't his thing. He supposed it was nobody's idea of a great time, but in his family, the desire to avoid conflict was engrained so much so that it would never have crossed his mind. Until Elsie had spoken. Until Tiffany had.
Cal was humming when Ethan came into the staffroom. Humming. Ethan had no idea what he had found to be humming about, but it made an irritating situation even worse.
'I wondered what had happened to you. Where've you been?'
Ethan ignored the fact that it almost sounded like Cal had missed him. 'Doing my job.'
As usual, Cal didn't take the hint. 'So, drink tonight?'
Pulling his things out of his locker, Ethan set his jaw firmly. 'I'm busy.'
'Doing what?' The scoffing was obvious; Cal was unable to believe that his brother would have plans which didn't involve him. 'Sack it off.'
'I'm seeing Tiffany.'
Silence. Then, 'What are you doing that for?'
Throwing his brother a look of disgust, Ethan slammed his locker door shut and made to leave.
'You can't be serious?'
Ethan tried hard not to let his voice wobble, not to scream or shout, not to let any vestige of his anger creep onto the surface. 'Have you even remembered what day it is?'
'Wednesday. You don't usually go out on a school-night,' Cal joked.
Any sympathy Ethan might have felt ran out. 'It's Mum's birthday. And… you forgot.' He shrugged. 'So I'm seeing Tiffany this evening. I'll… see you at home.'
He was almost out of the door before Cal said, 'I didn't forget.' Then, more loudly, 'I didn't forget. I just didn't want to remember.'
'Yeah, well, it's not always about you.'
'We could… do something?' Cal shrugged, a too-casual, too-late gesture. As if it was that easy to make up for this. As if his little-boy helplessness would work on Ethan as it had always worked on their mother.
'Like I said. I'm seeing Tiffany.'
The door slam was unnecessary but felt almost right. Ethan tried to put it to one side, and spent most of the evening wondering how Cal managed that.
Fran could virtually feel the irritation coming off of Max in waves, even as his face and voice displayed no evidence of being even mildly put-out. But he had to be slightly vexed by her constant interruptions of a routine he knew well enough to carry out without supervision. She didn't know why she was being so difficult.
'It might be too hot,' she said as he brought the bottle towards their daughter's mouth.
'I've tested it.'
The lack of a squeal from Rosie suggested it was in fact a perfectly adequate temperature.
'You might find it easier if you tilt it a bit more.'
No reply, but he didn't take on her advice, and Rosie continued happily sucking away as if she hadn't seen a bottle for the longest time.
'Don't let her gulp it too fast.' Still no reply from him, and Fran felt yet another piece of advice dressed up as an irritating comment come spilling from her lips: 'And don't forget-'
'Fran.' All he said was her name, and not even in exasperation. He was even smiling, almost laughing, as he dragged his eyes away from Rosie and looked at her.
'Sorry. I'm sorry, I know, I'm being a nightmare.' She slumped back against the arm of the sofa, her legs knotted together beside her.
'You're fine.' Max was definitely laughing now, having to rearrange Rosie in his arms in order to avoid jerking her too much. 'Just… I thought the point of this was so you could go to bed early. If we're both sitting up, I might start to feel redundant.' Then, as if she hadn't got the hint, he added, 'Go to bed.'
Fran glanced at the clock. It was pretty late and, she realised with a dizzying sense, she'd been awake almost twenty-four hours. It made the shifts she'd pulled as a junior doctor look like parties. By rights, she should have been asleep as soon as Max had taken over duties with Rosie. Instead, her brain had woken up, as though somebody else relieving her of her sole parental responsibilities meant she had excess space for all manner of thoughts.
'I'm not even that tired,' she said now, watching as the bottle moved slightly, her daughter having an alarmingly strong mouth.
'You look exhausted.'
'You do know that's not a compliment?' she fired back, before sighing. 'I know. And I am tired, I suppose. I'm just not sure I'll sleep. It's not even her, mostly. It's me.' Then, aware how self-pitying she sounded, she made a conscious effort to sit up straighter. 'Sorry, I'm being pathetic.'
Max didn't reply. She wasn't sure whether that was confirmation or denial. Maybe he always stayed so quiet around her because he didn't want to offend her; it seemed like the kind of nice yet honest thing he'd do. It wasn't doing anything to alleviate her embarrassment at becoming the kind of incoherent rambling mess of a woman she saw on far too frequent an occasion in the ED. Under the circumstances, she thought retiring to bed probably was her best option, even if she didn't sleep; at least she wouldn't be able to make an even bigger idiot of herself than she already had.
'What are you worrying about?'
She frowned. 'Sorry?'
'If it's not Rosie keeping you awake, and you haven't got some hot stud-muffin of a lover that none of us know about-
'Stud-muffin?'
'- then what's keeping you awake?'
Fran regarded him closely for several seconds. From anybody else, she'd have brushed the question underneath the carpet so quickly they wouldn't have even noticed. Ethan and Cal would get nowhere with a question like that, wouldn't even entice her into answering them properly for even half an instant. She wouldn't say she was exactly dishonest when it came to things like this. She just didn't always give herself the opportunity to be entirely truthful.
Why Max was different, she had no idea. There was something about the way he looked at her though, as if whatever she said wouldn't surprise or shock him in any way. He didn't look away or blink or act as though there was somewhere else he'd rather be. Fran wasn't used to that.
'Do you really like the name Rosie?'
Maybe she'd misjudged him, because his eyebrows raised slightly, his face registering complete confusion. 'What?'
'Rosie. Do you really like it?' A strange half-giggle rose up out of her throat, a sign of exhaustion or the beginnings of some sort of psychosis. 'You wanted to know.'
'That keeps you awake at night?'
'Amongst other things.' And that wasn't even the most petty and strange. 'So?'
'You want me to answer that?'
'Yes.'
He actually considered it. He wasn't telling her to be quiet or stop being weird or get some much needed sleep. He was listening to her question.
'It wouldn't have been my first choice.'
It wasn't the answer she wanted. 'What would have been?'
'I have no idea.' He gave a small laugh. 'I've never thought about it. This seriously worries you?'
'I just thought… I made the decision without really asking you and it only occurred to me the other day that I should have asked you.'
'Trust me, you were welcome to that decision. If it had been left to me, she'd be Baby Walker for at least a year.' He flashed her a smile. 'Honestly, Fran, it's… fine, it's… good. She looks like a Rosie.'
'What does a Rosie look like?'
'Not a clue. But seriously. Don't you think people sort of… become their name? Like, whatever you call them, their name eventually fits them? One day, we'll think a Rosie looks like… well… Rosie.'
Fran found her face creasing into a smile at his words. It was such a simple idea, yet one she loved the minute he'd voiced it. That her daughter would become the standard for all other Rosies she ever met. It made who she was suddenly infinitely more important.
'So is that worry number one ticked off of the list?'
'Oh, that doesn't even make top ten.' She was only half-joking, but she thought he probably didn't need to know this. The current top-ten worries, in no particular order because they didn't tend to align themselves neatly, included: was Rosie still breathing? Had she worn all of the first size clothes they'd been bought yet? Where would they spend Christmas? When was Rosie supposed to start lifting her own head up and what if she didn't? What was going to happen when her maternity leave finished? What if Rosie became allergic to something? She'd lost count of how many times she'd got up in the middle of the night to check the labels on Rosie's unworn clothing, or to simply listen to her breathing. She suspected sharing this with Max would necessitate some sort of psychiatric assessment.
'Have you always been like this?'
'Pretty much.' She gave him a rueful look. 'I suppose you're one of those people who puts their head on the pillow and goes out instantly?'
'Sometimes I don't even make the pillow.'
'If you weren't holding Rosie right now, I could hit you.'
He grinned wickedly. Then, gently, he said, 'Take the night off, Fran. Just one night. Even you can do that.'
She let out a long breath. 'Yeah, I guess I can. Thank you.'
'Any time. I've got it all under control here.'
Too quickly for Fran to intervene, Rosie was spectacularly sick all over him. The look on his face brought on a fresh round of laughter.
It was a beautiful evening, one of those rare summer nights when the light seemed to last forever and the air was fresh and clean. It was an evening for sitting in gardens with glasses of wine, and strolls by the riverside. Ethan expected it would be busy outside of his flat right now, with couples meandering along the two-path, hands lazily entwined, secrets whispered on the breeze.
The last place anybody should be on an evening like this was in a cemetery. People could plant flowers and leave balloons, but there was no getting away from what this was. No amount of sunshine would make any difference.
Ethan hadn't been here for weeks. Diana's grave, with its still shiny headstone, was bare of flowers. Looking around, the surrounding graves had fared little better in this heat, and Ethan wondered which was worse: having no flowers or the dried shrivelled remains of what had once been flowers but had been decimated by the sun. It was a tough call.
He ran his eyes over the inscription again. She'd chosen it, back before the illness and the medication had rendered it impossible for her to make any choices at all. 'Simple,' she'd said; 'honest,' she'd said. He supposed it was almost both of those things, or as simple and honest as Diana Hardy's life had ever been.
'She kept her married name,' Tiffany said now, her first words in the longest time Ethan could ever remember her having kept quiet.
He nodded.
'But… didn't your dad walk out on her?'
He nodded again.
'Jeez.'
He knew what she meant. As soon as he'd been old enough to know what any of it meant, he'd questioned her decision as well. She should have hated David, should have wanted to cut him and his new-family out of their lives. Instead, she'd embraced them, treated Fran like her own relative, a niece or god-daughter, shared school-runs with Claire as if it was no big deal. She was Diana Hardy in all the ways she could have been. She just hadn't been married to David Hardy.
Her open-heart was what Cal had been looking for today, Ethan realised now. It wasn't as though her eldest son hadn't forgotten her birthday before. Birthdays and Mother's Day and sometimes even, somehow, Christmas. He'd turn up, empty-handed, apologetic and charming, and she'd forgive him, pleased just to have him there with her. It had been the same throughout her illness; she'd never once complained about his absences, never once berated him for not being there when she needed him. She loved everything about both of her sons, the good and the bad. Ethan expected Cal missed that about her the most.
The epitaph was factual and simple: dates and names. She'd chosen one isolated line of poetry to complete the headstone, unremarkable in the grand scheme of things: Play, smile, think of me. Pray for me. It summed her up so perfectly, though, the selflessness and desire for others to live their very best lives. She was a better person than Ethan could ever be; he expected he needed prayers much more than she did.
When he spoke, he wasn't sure whose benefit he was speaking for. 'I think sometimes it's possible to love somebody and not be able to be with them at the same time.' Emboldened he added, 'I think she loved my dad till the day she died.' It was obvious really: she'd never met a man to match up to David Hardy. Having him in her life was more important to her than anything, including her own dignity, something only more apparent when Cal's dad had disappeared into the ether. Diana would have forgiven him anything, so long as he was there. It seemed that was a habit she had.
Now, remembering himself, Ethan tried to pull himself together. 'Sorry. You don't want to listen to this.'
'It's alright.' Tiffany shrugged. 'I've never really heard you talk about her before.'
Because Cal didn't like him to. Forgetting was his brother's standard way of coping.
'You didn't have to come here tonight.'
Another shrug. 'Who else was gonna come?'
A fair point: nobody else had been queueing up for this job. Not that Ethan would have offered the slot to anybody else. He hadn't even known he was going to come here until Tiffany had got into his car, handing her evening over to him on a platter. It was the last place he might ever have imagined standing side by side with the paramedic. But he was glad he had. There was nowhere else he could have contemplated being tonight.
'Thank you.'
'You're welcome.'
Next time: You Don't Know What You've Got Till It's Gone
'Me and Ethan are just fine.'
'That's why you forgot your mom's birthday, right?'
He half-choked on his cigarette as he stared at her in disbelief. She knew. She knew it all. Ethan had told her. This was… unsettling.
Even so, he wasn't going to let that myth perpetuate any longer. 'I didn't forget! I just didn't want to remember!'
'Isn't that the same thing?'
'No! God!'
Lyrics/chapter title from 'You've Got a Friend' by a whole bunch of different artists
