The Most Important Thing
Ellas fever climbed with the enthusiasm of a Blackpool arcade grabber, darting from normal to a staggering 40.5°C in minutes. Then, as if someone had flicked a haunted light switch, her little body jerked into convulsions. For a split second, Iris stood frozen, eyes fixed in disbelief. Then she lunged for her daughter, hands trembling, barely keeping it together.
Ellas lips bubbled with foam, her breath coming in ragged, choking gasps, as if some invisible hand were squeezing her from within.
Iris tried to pry her jaw openher fingers slippery, clumsy and numb, but after fumbling and nearly panicking herself into next week, she managed it. Suddenly, Ella went limp, slipping into unconsciousness. Was it five minutes, ten? Who could say? The seconds didnt tick, they poundedeach one echoing through Iriss head.
She hovered anxiously, ensuring Ellas tongue didnt block her fragile breath, cradling her daughters head as the fits jolted her worse than any electric shock could.
Everything faded except the most important thing: Ella had to breathe again. Ella had to come back.
Iris screamedacross the kitchen, at the cold walls, to the empty air and the stubborn, silent sky. She howled her daughters name into her mobile, dialling 999, the way you shout at a closing lift door, as if sheer force of voice could anchor someone to life.
When she called Martin, all she could sob between hiccups was:
Ella Ella nearly died
But into the phone, Martin only heard the worst: died.
His heart all but leapt out of his chest; it felt as if someone had stabbed him with a roasting fork. His legs buckled and he slid, quietly, hopelessly, out of his armchair onto the carpet. He moved like a wind-up toy whose gears had finally run down: no more strength, no more plans, not even a tomorrow.
Neighbours rushed in, tried to hoist him upright, fussed with glasses of water, a few spritzes of Rescue Remedy, someone even stroked his back in soothing circles. Their voices bounced off his sorrow like pebbles off Buckingham Palace gates. Nothing, not even There, there, could reach him through the thick fog of panic.
Martin was a mess. His hands trembled so hard the glass risked chipping a tooth, and when he tried to speak, only broken syllables escapedas though he were a malfunctioning record player.
EEElla d-d-died E-Ella d-d-d
Lips ashen, breath hitching, arms stiff and alien.
His boss, Peter Anthony, didnt waste any time. Seizing Martin under the arms, he almost shoved him into his oversized Range Rover. The door slammed, ringing like a bell inside Martins emptiness.
Where? Where do I go?! Peter barked, nearly nose-to-nose with Martin, hoping to shock him into reply.
Martin sat there like a moth in a lampshade, his eyes wide, close to wild, tunnelling into a place between nightmare and reality.
The the childrens ward city hospital Martin managed, every syllable scraping its way up from a cavern of terror.
The hospital was miles awaypractically in another kingdom for a man whod just heard the worst word in the dictionary.
Peter threw the car into gear, and they hurtled through town, the Range Rover veering side to side, traffic lights melting into streaks of green and redmeaningless, like Monopoly money after midnight.
Once, at a crossroads, a black, gleaming 4×4 emerged from nowhere. The escape was so razor-thin it would give stunt drivers coronary palpitations. Peter yanked the wheel, the car spun, tyres screeched, and sparks fizzed beneath the brakes. The other SUV whooshed by, leaving only the stink of burnt rubber and the chilling sense that death had just brushed their shoulders.
Martin didnt notice. Tears streamed unashamedly, his fist pressed to his lips to keep from howling like a wounded animal.
Thena flash. As if someone switched on the home movies in his head.
Ella, three years old. Bedridden with tonsillitis so nasty, the thermometer made grown men shudder. Paracetamol suppositories recommended by the ambulance crewcheerful types. Little Ella stood on her bed, all pink cheeks, soggy with tears, pyjama rabbits askew. Iris coaxed her for half an hour until finally, Ella, hiccupping, eyes puffy from weeping, gave in and sighed:
Fine, do it but dont light it!
Martin nearly collapsed with laughtertheyd only gone to St Peters last Sunday, and shed clearly remembered that church candles are meant to be lit.
Peter drove on through the city, headlights glinting on the damp roundabouts like blades. Another memory walloped Martin:
A fortnight later, Ella had climbed atop the wardrobepart-monkey, part-rascal, dangerously nimble. Just as Iris gasped, the wardrobe tippeda slow, dreadful topple. Bang! It thundered to the floor. Martin dashed across the room, but too late. Chaos reigned.
But Ella survived: black-and-blue, wailing, and consoled only by the worlds largest chocolate bar, offered as a bribe. Spying her prize, Ella immediately stopped sobbing, wiped her nose on her sleeve and asked:
Can I have two?
Chocolate: her own personal panic button.
Martin always thought if hospitals handed out Dairy Milk, immortality would be a given.
And the memories kept arriving.
Quiet evenings, lamp softly glowing in the living room. Iris would say:
Tomorrow well go to church and light a candle for your health.
And Ella, ever the philosopher, would deadpan:
In my bottom, you mean?..
Iris hid her red face in her hands while Ella just watched, expression reading: Whats so funny now?
And sitting in that car, the memory ached all over again, because that silly question captured the point of it all: her life was messy, ridiculous, and so ours.
Peter delivered Martin to the hospital with a lurch, as if even the Range Rover couldnt bear to stay longer than needed.
The girls alive, was the first thing he heard. Shes been taken straight to intensive care. The doctors havent said a word for hours.
Iris was allowed in. Martin could only wait and channel every last ounce of hope.
—
One in the morning: that time when even the street lamps look lonely. Martin glanced up and found the window of the second floor, where his little girl fought for her life.
Iris appeared, silhouetted behind the glass, arms by her sides, gaze unwavering. She didnt wave, didnt answer the phonestood there like the ghost of love itself, too afraid that moving might break the spell.
He waved anyway, trying to shoo away the shared terror. Phoned hershe didnt answer. Just stared, a silent sentinel of hope.
His mobile rangsharp and curt.
Come in, a voice said, and hung up, none too gently.
Dread closed in, thick as treacle. He tried to stand; his legs laughed at himno way, mate. Even the linoleum felt like it was gripping him, as if, by staying put, he could delay the news forever.
He knew he had to go, but terror cemented him to the spot.
Just then, a nurse appearedyoung, half-asleep, trainers squishing from a twelve-hour shift. She came straight over.
Martin looked up, and it felt like the end. Absolutely, certainly, the end.
She bent a little, speaking softly, clearly, as though pronouncing a gentle verdict:
Shes going to be alright. The crisis is over
The world tilted.
His lips wobbled, his hands werent his any more. He sat mutely, wanting to say somethinganything: Thank you, God, even just a breath. But only a tremor moved his mouth; the rest was a wash of hot, fragile tears.
—
After that night, most things just didnt matter any more.
Martin didnt worry about the job, about seeming daft or overwhelmed. The only thing with any meaning left was the memory of that night: of how, in one second, your world can simply snap. How a person youd move mountains for can almost disappear with the flick of a fever.
Nothing else carried weight.
It was as though the whole universe split: Before and After. All those small, noisy fears dissolved, like traffic drowned out by real, heart-thudding silence.
