“I’m afraid he won’t make it,” Emily said in a detached, chilly tone. “Come and talk to the doctor yourself if you don’t believe me. They’ll take care of everything there. That’s the whole point of palliative care, isn’t it? Everyone does it…”
Henry was born two months premature and immediately taken to the neonatal intensive care unit. At first, the doctors were tight-lipped about his condition, but then a flicker of hope appeared—he began to breathe on his own and gain weight. When he was discharged, he was still so tiny that Tim was afraid to hold him, worried he might hurt him even more. When little Henry woke up and cried softly in the night, Alice didn’t get up, and Tim had to get the hang of it. Alice refused to take him to the doctors, claiming they were responsible—she’d done all the necessary prenatal checks, and everything was supposed to be fine. Was this really fine? Three months old and he couldn’t even hold his head up.
Tim took it upon himself to schedule doctor’s appointments, listen to baffling medical terminology that tied his tongue, close his eyes like a child every time Henry had blood drawn, and eventually traveled to see geneticists in the city. They explained that Henry could be helped but needed special medications. That’s why Tim finally took that job his friend had been urging him to apply for—it paid well, but Alice kept opposing it. Now he had no choice. He left, assuming Henry was safe with Alice, only to find things quite different. His aunt hadn’t told him anything, though he sensed she was hiding something.
“All’s well, my boy, keep working,” she would reassure him.
It turned out his aunt had been the one visiting Henry in the hospital all along, talking to him, applying cream to prevent bedsores, and massaging his tiny limbs. Meanwhile, Alice had returned to work without telling Tim, only confessing when he said he was coming home for a month’s leave.
“He’s our child, Alice!” he protested. “Palliative care? What am I working for? The doctor said there are medications…”
“What medications!” Alice snapped. “Have you even seen him? You’ve been gone for half a year, so don’t tell me what I should or shouldn’t do! I’m still young, and I want to live a bit for myself. We can have another child. I don’t want to change nappies forever like some old mother.”
Alice’s younger brother had childhood paralysis, and when Tim met her, he was impressed by how delicate and graceful Alice cared for her brother, lifting him into a chair and reading to him. That caring nature drew Tim to her. But it seemed her affection was only reserved for her brother.
“If you don’t bring Henry home, I’ll file for divorce,” Tim threatened.
“Go ahead! See if I care! I’ve managed perfectly fine without you and I will continue to do so.”
Tim never imagined she would actually leave. But Alice left before he returned, handing the apartment keys to his aunt, who had suspected everything but had said nothing to Tim. Alice had found someone to move in with during those six months.
“Don’t worry, my dear, we’ll manage. I’ll help with Henry, but we’ll need to find work here—I can’t handle it alone,” his aunt admitted.
Tim knew it was true—his aunt had been sick for a long time and needed care herself, but he couldn’t repay his debt to her; he couldn’t be in two places at once.
His aunt had raised Tim. His mother, a reasonably successful singer, had left him with his aunt for a month but never came back. She sent money regularly while he was in school, and then, thinking it sufficed, stopped. In his youth, Tim thought his mother loved him but had a complicated life—concerts, filming, admirers… He once went to see her perform, dreaming he’d walk up with a giant bouquet, and she’d recognize and embrace him, declaring from the stage, “That’s my son!”
But it didn’t happen that way—she didn’t notice him until midway, then grabbed the bouquet without looking and tossed it aside. Tim had spent most of his paycheck on those flowers. After the concert, he barely got backstage, trying to explain he was her son, but she wouldn’t see him. A message was relayed that she was tired and would call him. He waited by the phone for a month, but she never called.
Now, he didn’t think about her, and if one of her songs played on the radio, he’d switch it off instantly—even though he used to know them all by heart. His aunt had been his father, whom he’d never known, and his mother. And now she was Henry’s mother—caring for him while Tim found a job with a normal schedule, so she wouldn’t get too worn out. Alice didn’t call; she was worse than his mother—at least his mother pretended sometimes that she had a child.
“Tim, I had such a vivid dream today,” his aunt told him one day. “Your granddad, bless his soul, asked me to bring him water from the well. ‘How can I carry it when I can hardly walk!’ I told him. He said, ‘Here, everyone can walk.’ I looked down and saw this brilliant green grass, soft as down. I walked on it, and my feet glided without pain! I fetched the water and peeped into the well. And there you were, in a suit and tie, with a lovely girl with dimples. Wearing a veil. I have a feeling it’s a good omen—you’ll find a wonderful wife, not like that careless girl!”
“Auntie, who’s going to marry me? If his own mother can’t care for Henry, who else will?”
The next day, his aunt didn’t wake up. So perhaps the dream was prophetic, but in a different way—now she brought water to Grandpa, not to little Henry.
Tim had no clue what to do next. His mother helped with the funeral, even came herself, but it was still costly, and he was too embarrassed to ask for help. Yet, a couple of weeks later, she called and said:
“I’ve found a carer for your son. Don’t worry, I’ll pay her.”
Tim was taken aback by this sudden generosity and initially wanted to refuse, declaring he needed nothing from her, but reconsidered—pride wouldn’t buy Henry’s medicine.
Somehow, he expected a mature, experienced woman, the kind he’d often seen in hospitals when he took Henry for appointments, someone like his aunt in her younger years—capable, practical, who knew what she was doing. But his mother seemed to have tightened her purse strings again, sending a fresh graduate instead, who confessed that this was her first job.
“Don’t worry, I completed a special care course; I know what I’m doing,” she said with confidence, though her voice was shaky.
Tim considered telling his mother the young woman couldn’t manage Henry, but he didn’t want to talk to her at all. Deciding to wait, he hoped the training would suffice.
Her name was Julia. She called him every half an hour.
“Mr. Johnson, is it normal for him to hiccup?”
“Hold him upright. Keep something warm against his back, like an ironed towel.”
“Mr. Johnson, he’s breathing heavily, I’m scared!”
“Julia, use the inhaler, remember?”
And so it went on.
But after a fortnight, she seemed to get the hang of things. Tim had to find another job, though—her working hours ended at six, and he had to get back in time. So, he found work on a construction site, which offered flexible hours, all off the records. They promised good pay, but when that would happen…
Weekends were now spent with Henry—this young woman, even for extra pay, wouldn’t work weekends, as she studied Chinese, aiming to go for acupuncture internship. Julia was amusingly naive, depending on the Internet the way his aunt used to trust TV.
On Henry’s birthday, Julia made an exception; she brought him a balloon, which he loved, and a hand-knitted outfit. Tim was touched and invited her in for tea—he had bought a cake for the occasion. Then they went out together, dressed Henry in his new outfit, and tied the balloon to his stroller for him to see. Tim knew that Henry might not live to see another birthday, which made it hard to breathe. But as he wheeled his son along the sunny street, with the balloon bopping in the autumn breeze, he felt strangely content.
He spotted Alice too late, on the other side of the pedestrian crossing, her face painted like a doll’s. She was with similarly dolled-up friends, likely heading to an event. Alice hadn’t noticed him at first, but when she did, blotches of embarrassment spotted her face. She turned away, muttered to her friends, and hurried across the road.
“Who’s that?” Julia asked, noticing his tense gaze.
Tim exhaled slowly and replied, “No one.”
“Good,” she said, smiling softly.
He hadn’t seen her smile before. Dimples played on Julia’s cheeks, a sight that stirred a memory in him, but of what? The blue balloon danced against the equally blue sky, just like his heart.
His wages were still delayed. Medicine supplies dwindled, leaving Tim with no option but to call his mother.
“Isn’t my help enough?” she snapped. “Do you even know how much I pay that girl? What kind of man are you if you can’t earn enough for the medicine?”
Shame flooded Tim, stealing his breath. Was he truly unable to support his own son? He shut off his phone, longing for his aunt to walk in, place a comforting hand on his shoulder, and say everything would be okay…
But instead, light footsteps sounded, and Julia appeared at the kitchen doorway. She held an envelope.
“This,” she said, placing it on the table.
“What is it?” Tim asked, confused.
“It’s for Henry’s medicine.”
He struggled to comprehend what was happening.
“Your mother paid me well, don’t worry. I was saving up for a trip to China, but I live with my parents; I have everything I need.”
“But your trip…” Tim stammered.
Julia shrugged. “Where would I go now?”
She offered a shy smile, dimples gracing her cheeks once more. Tim remembered his aunt’s dream and blushed, not knowing why.
“You should take it,” Julia insisted. “It’s the right thing to do.”
“I’ll pay it all back,” Tim managed to say, clearing his throat. “And since you’re not going to China, maybe you’d visit us this weekend? Like last time, we could take a walk…”
Julia’s smile widened. “I’d love that.”
