Jesse's Wish, page 2
Looking around Alex’s workspace, Ian whistles, playing to the others in the room, all of whom are listening intently while pretending not to and continuing to stare at their screens.
‘To be honest, Alex, it doesn’t surprise me that you don’t know about such a worthy institution. Look at you, all wrapped up in yourself. No photos, nothing personal . . . You really are a loner, aren’t you? Either that or you have a dark secret . . .’
Losing his concentration, Alex looks around at his colleagues’ workspaces. He’s been introduced, via photo, to all their partners and children, he’s responded appropriately when one of them has proudly shown off the artwork his four-year-old produced at nursery: ‘Yeah, for sure another Picasso there, Steve, should put him in art classes.’ He contributed generously to the wedding present bought for Sarah when she married Claire a couple of months ago. Alex has no such occasions to mark. He doesn’t think people would appreciate buying a gift for his dog – his only companion at home.
Ian knows this – he’s needling Alex by pointing it out to the whole team. Alex clenches his fists, his jaw. But he’s not going to give Ian the satisfaction of knowing how much he’s affected him. Alex breathes deeply, centring himself, before inching his chair forwards as far as he can to put some space between him and his overbearing boss. He could stand and face him eye to eye – in fact, he’d be looking down on Ian’s bald head. But he’s feeling a bit more generous today, so he makes do with reclaiming some personal space by extending his long legs, causing Ian to take a step back and stumble slightly. He might be the boss, but everyone knows it’s only because he married Frank’s daughter.
‘Ian, what do you want? I’m right in the middle of combining the animated sequences with the live action in the final cut of Stingrays Rule the Ocean.’
‘I’ve got a really important job for you. A bit of enthusiasm and appreciation wouldn’t hurt.’
‘Ian, I told you I’m busy.’
‘That’s not the attitude, Alex. Regardless of what I ask you to do I expect “Thank you, Ian, how can I help? Tell me more”.’
‘OK. Thank you, Ian, how can I help? Tell me more.’
Ian clearly chooses not to notice the sarcasm. ‘I need you to go to the Children’s Hospital tomorrow at three. You’ll meet a social worker there named, um, um . . . what’s her name?’
‘I don’t know, Ian, how could I?’
‘Kelly, that’s it. Kelly something or other. I’m sure it doesn’t matter, there can only be one social worker named Kelly. Anyway, she’s got a kid there, a young girl, who wants her own video experience to be customised for her family. Apparently, she’s really sick.’
‘Whoa, wait up a minute, what are you talking about?’
‘You need to listen, enough joking around. Frank, the man who pays your wages—’
‘And yours,’ Alex throws in.
Alex’s words make Ian pause for a second. He hates being reminded that he’s the boss’s son-in-law, and Alex knows it.
‘Frank got a call from a pal of his who knows the head of the local Inspire a Wish Foundation, asking us to help this kid out with a one-off video experience. Well, as you can imagine, Frank sees the chance for some positive PR for a change, instead of all this whining about how we’re poisoning the minds of children. I got the word from Frank: make it happen and put your best designer on it. And Frank, not to mention my lovely wife, Cheryl, won’t be pleased if we let him down.’
‘Ah ha. So obviously you’re asking your best designer. The one with the biggest workload. Ask Steve, he’s got kids, he’ll be better at this.’
On the other side of the wall that divides their cubicles, Steve instinctively hunches down to make himself invisible. Alex registers this and sighs. It was worth a try.
‘Sadly, you and I, as well as every other designer here, know you’re the only one with full knowledge of 3D CGI. Frank wants the best; Frank asked for you. I told him that you would grumble every step of the way, but he wouldn’t listen. Case closed as far as he’s concerned. Three o’clock tomorrow. The Children’s Hospital. Social worker. I told you her name.’
‘And if I don’t do it?’
‘If you were bothered to look up occasionally from your millennial bubble, you’ll see that business has been tough lately – mess up an opportunity for good PR like this and you’re putting all your colleagues’ jobs at risk. But yours would probably be the first to go.’
Alex and Ian lock eyes for a moment. Alex breaks contact and looks around the room. One by one his colleagues silently nod at him before looking away. No pressure, mate, they’re all thinking. Take this one for the team. Everyone knows TriOptics needs a lucky break right now.
‘Three o’clock tomorrow,’ Ian repeats. ‘Don’t be late,’ he throws at Alex as he walks away.
Steve gets up slowly and walks around to Alex’s cubicle. He’s the father of two young children, and Alex is sure that the thought of a very ill young girl at the Children’s Hospital fills him with horror.
‘Sorry, mate, you know how he is when his father-in-law tells him to do something.’
‘Yeah, it’s “how high do you want me to jump, Frank, what can I do to please you, Frank”.’
‘I gotta say, that’s a tough gig . . .’ Steve shakes his head. ‘For a dad, a parent, that’s the kind of thing you hope you never have to deal with. Might be easier on you, you know . . .’
Alex sighs. He knows Steve means well, but it’s hard not to react to the underlying suggestion that he doesn’t have a family to care about.
‘We’ll all help out if you need it.’ Steve calls out to the others in the room, ‘Won’t we? People? Are you with me? We’ve got Alex’s back?’
The mutterings of support, eyes still firmly on screens, don’t fill Alex with confidence.
One by one, Alex’s co-workers power down their computers. Around the crowded room screens flicker as slowly, individually and in small groups, they leave for the evening, laughing and chatting, calling out goodnight to Alex and telling him – as they do every night – not to stay late. The last to leave flicks off the main overhead lights, leaving the windowless room in semi-darkness except for the myriad of screens that surround Alex, illuminating him and casting a colourful glow.
Finally, Alex stands, stretches and looks around, realising everyone has left, yet again. He’s been distracted all day, his focus gone since his conversation with Ian.
‘No point staying here,’ he says to himself.
Powering down his machines, he retrieves his motorbike helmet from under his desk, grabs his leather jacket from the back of his chair and struggles into it as he passes the helmet from one hand to the other. His mood is dark, his anger at being given an assignment out of the office hangs over him, and he hates the way that Ian chose to do it in front of everyone, making it impossible for him to say no. He’s never been keen on socialising, he likes the work he does, squirrelled away at the end of the long room where he can ignore others and be largely ignored in return.
As Alex leaves the basement car park he is surprised by the strong sunshine outside. He’s used to driving home much later, in the dark. His ride takes longer than usual, which doesn’t improve his mood as he’s driving through peak-hour traffic. Another reason to stay behind.
Turning into his street, a suburban cul-de-sac, his neighbours’ kids’ bikes and skateboards left outside in front gardens and basketball hoops sagging above garage doors, he slows down, never knowing when a child might run across the street on their way home for dinner after a play date. He arrives at his neat townhouse, the grass perfectly manicured from kerb to building, no flowers or bushes to worry about, the drive leading to the garage, where his ageing car waits for his bike to join it. He hits the remote, entering without needing to stop. His home is Alex’s one luxury – that and his motorbike. A Ducati Panigale he spent a year saving for, now his pride and joy.
He is paid very well at TriOptic Studios, something that leaves him more anxious than satisfied. This is the first time in his entire life that he’s had a proper home, a place that’s his, safe, where he can’t be moved on from at short notice. Everything in his home is as he likes it: minimalist, clean, and all his. Growing up in the foster system, passed from one home to another, drove him to work and save, craving the security of a place of his own. The threat Ian made of him losing his job – and therefore his security – triggered Alex in a way that he doesn’t want to acknowledge. Alex’s childhood was far from picture-perfect. He was healthy, sure, but he was lonely, finding consolation and companionship in the games he played online, none of his carers pestered him with ‘too much screen time’, ‘you’ll get square eyes’ comments he’d heard other kids repeat from their parents. He wishes someone had cared about him the way people seem to be caring about this sick kid. That’s not her fault, he knows that. Still, it’s hard not to feel resentful of other people’s supportive families. Leaving his helmet on the bike seat, Alex enters the house from the internal door. Before he can call out, he is greeted by a large golden retriever who jumps up for his usual hug.
‘Hey, Max, how was your day, buddy? Same old, same old, huh? Me too. Well, not quite, I’ll tell you about it later.’
For the first time today, Alex smiles. Max makes his sadness and anger evaporate. They engage in their homecoming ritual of pats and cuddles before Max brings him his favourite toy to throw down the small hallway. Once they’ve had a play, Alex changes into shorts, a T-shirt and runners. ‘It’s early to eat. How about we go for a walk before dinner?’ Max jumps up excitedly at the word ‘walk’ and Alex attaches a lead to his collar.
Stepping out of the house, Alex and Max set a steady pace to the park at the end of the street. There, he releases Max from his lead to run free. Leaning against a large oak tree, he watches Max as his mind wanders back to the conversation with Ian. A small part of him has always wanted to go it alone, to create his own business, do things his way, rather than TriOptics’. But his fear of losing the stability he’s worked so hard to create for himself means he’s too scared to become his own boss. One day, maybe.
Alex picks up his pace on the run home; he needs to be in his safe place, his comfort zone. Kicking his shoes off when he enters the kitchen, he fills Max’s bowl with dry food and carries it into the hall. Thinking of going to the hospital tomorrow has made him lose his appetite.
‘Come on, boy, you can eat in my room.’
Opening the door to his office, Alex flicks on a small lamp before putting Max’s bowl down beside one of his many dog beds. In the glow of dimmed light, Alex sits at a large desk and powers up the screen in front of him. One by one, the screens around him come alive, creating a kaleidoscope of colour. Code scrolls across the screens, alongside a host of animated figures, created with the help of artificial intelligence, that blur the line between the real and the imagined. He dreams of creating a way for everyday people to make a film of their lives at a quality beyond anything done today. A combination of homemade videos and what he is an expert at designing: 3D CGI. A way for families to leave recorded legacies of who they were and what they did. Family. The one thing denied him. The one thing he wishes no other child would grow up not knowing. A faint smile plays on his face as he reads the small text watermarked across each image: ‘Designed by Alex Daniels, patent pending’.
Having scoffed down his dinner, Max ignores his comfortable bed, picking up a small soft toy. Curling up at Alex’s feet, he tucks the toy under his chin and settles down for the evening.
CHAPTER 4
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.
