Home Visit

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Home Visit

        She dialled the number. Holding the phone to her ear, the hard plastic felt strange against her clammy skin. Three rings. Four… Maybe he wasn’t in on a Saturday.

        “Hello? Dr. Reed? This is Mrs Swan, Luke’s mother,” she said, so rapidly, that she couldn’t even understand herself. She paused to take a breath, and started again, “I need you to come round. Yes, I know you’re at home. Please, it’s Luke. You know how much he means to me and I’m really worried. Please doctor, it’s really quite urgent. You will? Half an hour is perfect. Oh thank you, thank you so much”

        The receiver made a thud as it was replaced, as if it was made from lead. She exhaled and relaxed her tense shoulders. Still a little jittery, she smoothed a few strands of her brittle, grey hair behind her ears.  Her fingers ached. 40 years looking after her boys and tending to their needs had taken its toll and, nowadays, she had to endure terrible arthritis in umpteen joints. Her boys were her world. They had been her life. Now, only Luke remained with her.

          She walked to the kitchen. As she drew the chair away from the battered table, she grimaced; the pain of her fingers combined with the screech, which she despised, of the legs of the chair against the outdated, tiled floor made her frown. She sat down and thought about the outcome of the impending visit from the doctor. She contemplated whether it would actually help. She concluded that it would - anything to help Luke was good – and it would get everything taken care of.

        After a few minutes, she rose from the chair, having convinced herself that the doctor needed to come round and that everything would resolve to be fine. Leaving the kitchen, she glanced down at her watch – 11:43 – 4 minutes since her phone call, but it felt like a lifetime.

        She tiptoed down the hall and up the stairs, to Luke’s room. She knocked on the mahogany door. No answer. She entered regardless.

        “Luke,” she whispered, the murmur only just getting past her lips. Her slippers barely made contact with the floor as she tiptoed to him, she didn’t want to frighten him. He didn’t turn round.

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“Luke, the doctor is coming. Everything is going to be OK. Mummy is going to fix it all,”

        Tears flooded her eyes as she uttered the last sentence. She couldn’t hold them in; she wept and beads of water cascaded over her decrepit skin.

        He didn’t respond in any way.

        She didn’t understand.

        He was still sat in the same way – lonely rigid and uncomfortable, – as he had been the last 5 times she has checked on him. The covers hadn’t moved; still tucked just underneath his chin to try and make him snugger. His ...

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