Kevin Brooks - See Through Me

He was talking too quickly, almost jabbering, and his eyes were all over the place. He kept trying to look at me, but there was nothing of me to see – my face wrapped up, my eyes masked by sunglasses . . . and I realised then that he had no way of knowing how I was. He couldn’t see if I was crying, smiling, angry, sad . . .

But he couldn’t see my faceless skull either.

And that’s how it had to be.

‘Where do you want me to put it?’ he repeated, still holding the bag, his eyes still darting around the room. ‘On the bed?’

‘Yeah, anywhere, Dad . . . it doesn’t matter.’

‘I’ll put it on the bed.’

He went over and put the holdall on the bed, and for a second or two he just stood there, facing away from me, not saying a word. His head was slightly bowed down, as if he was staring at the floor, but after a few moments he slowly straightened up, and then – to my surprise – he turned round, came over to where I was standing, and put his arms around me.

Dad was never any good at hugging. He didn’t like it, didn’t get it, and didn’t do it unless he really had to. And when he did do it, he did it really badly. So although I was surprised when he embraced me, I wasn’t in the least bit surprised at how stiff and awkward it was – his hands barely touching my back, his arms held rigidly, his body arched away from mine. It was like being hugged by a robot.

‘I’m sorry, Kenzie,’ he muttered. ‘I just . . . I don’t know. I’m sorry.’

I didn’t know what he meant by that. I would have asked him – at least, I think I would – but by the time his words had sunk in, he’d already stopped holding me – if you can call it that – and now he was just pacing aimlessly around the room.

The moment had gone.

There were no more moments in the next half an hour or so. We sat down and talked – Dad in the armchair, me on the settee – but we didn’t really say anything. I asked him about Finch. He told me he’d been having breathing problems again.

‘What kind of problems?’ I asked. ‘The same as before?’

Dad nodded. ‘But it’s lasting longer now. And it’s becoming more regular.’

‘Has Dr Moore seen him?’

Dr Moore was our GP.

‘She came round yesterday.’ Dad shrugged. ‘She said if it keeps getting worse, he might have to start using a ventilator.’

‘Can he do that at home?’

‘He can if we can get hold of one.’

He went on about ventilators for a while – how long it took to get one through the NHS, how much they cost to buy privately – and then he started telling me all about the problems with Finch’s carers, and as he droned on about shift patterns and new working practices, I just sat there, wondering why it had to be like this.

He hadn’t asked me how I was . . . how I was feeling . . . how I was coping with this life-changing nightmare . . .

He hadn’t asked me why I was dressed up like something from a horror film . . . why I felt the need to cover myself up for him . . .

He hadn’t asked me what the hell was going on.

He hadn’t asked me anything.

And I knew that wasn’t right. He was my dad, he was supposed to care for me. He should have been sitting beside me asking me hundreds of questions and telling me that everything was going to be all right. And I knew that I should have been devastated by the fact that he wasn’t . . . and perhaps a tiny part of me was. But for the most part, the overwhelming truth was that I was glad he wasn’t asking me hundreds of questions and pretending that everything was going to be all right . . .

This was how it was with Dad.

It was how it had always been.

And it was okay with me.

I’d got the impression from Dr Kamara that Dr Reynolds would be on his own when he met with me and Dad to discuss my condition, so I was a bit surprised when he turned up with Dr Hahn, but only because I wasn’t expecting her. I didn’t mind if she was there or not. Neither of them said anything about my appearance – in fact, they barely gave it a second glance – and I guessed they already knew about the headscarf and sunglasses. Either that or they were really good actors.

Dad was sitting beside me now.

Dr Hahn had pointed out that it would be a lot easier for Dr Reynolds to talk to us if we were both on the settee. So Dad had moved, Dr Reynolds had taken his place in the armchair, and Dr Hahn was sitting at the table. It wasn’t obvious that Dr Hahn was keeping a close eye on Dad – it looked as if she was just sitting there quietly in the background, not doing anything in particular – but I knew she was watching him. There was something in her eyes when she gazed his way that wasn’t there when she looked at Dr Reynolds or me. Dad wasn’t aware of it though. He was just sitting there – his back straight, his hands on his knees, staring blindly at the floor. It must have come across as a strangely inappropriate thing to be doing – and I have to admit it was slightly embarrassing – but I knew Dad couldn’t help it. It was just what he did sometimes when things got too much for him. I thought he might snap out of it when Dr Reynolds began talking to us, but he didn’t.

‘How are you feeling today, Kenzie?’ the doctor said.

‘I’m okay, thanks.’

‘And how do you like it here in your new room? Are you settling in all right?’

‘Yeah . . .’

‘Good.’ He glanced briefly at Dad, got no reaction, and turned back to me. ‘Has your dad told you much about the discussions we’ve already had?’

‘What discussions?’

His eyes flicked over at Dad again, and I could sense his growing annoyance with him.

‘Perhaps ‘discussions’ is the wrong choice of word,’ he said, trying hard to hide his irritation. ‘We’ve been in regular contact with your dad all the time you’ve been here, and we’ve kept him up to date as much as we can. Not just about your condition, but about everything we’re doing as well. And, wherever possible, why we’re doing it. So although we haven’t really discussed anything at length, your dad knows what’s going on.’ He paused for a second, realising what he’d just said – your dad knows what’s going on – and I could see him thinking – not that you’d know it from looking at him now – but he didn’t say anything. He just raised his eyebrows a fraction, then carried on. ‘I was only asking how much your dad has told you so that I know where I stand before I start explaining things further. I’m guessing now though that he hasn’t told you very much. Is that right?’

I nodded. ‘We haven’t had time to talk about anything really.’

‘Well, that’s okay . . . as long as I know.’ He lowered his eyes for a few seconds, gazing thoughtfully at the floor, then he blinked once, tapped his finger on the arm of the chair, and looked back up at me. ‘The only thing I can promise you at the moment, Kenzie, is that we’re all doing our level best to find out what’s wrong with you. It’s an extraordinarily challenging and painstaking process, and I honestly can’t tell you how long it’s going to take. But we’re making good progress, and we’re now beginning to focus most of our attention on one type of disease in particular. And that’s what I want to discuss with you today. All I ask is that you bear in mind that at this point we’re still only speculating.’

I can’t remember everything Dr Reynolds said that day, and I’m not sure I understood it all anyway, but the one thing I don’t have any doubts about now is that although he was almost certainly right, it didn’t – in the end – make the slightest bit of difference.

‘We’re working on the theory that the underlying cause of your condition is a previously unknown genetic disorder,’ he told us. ‘I realise that because of your brother’s muscular dystrophy you already know quite a lot about genetic disorders, so I’m not going to waste your time going over the basics with you, but it’s important to understand that although the fundamental cause of all genetic disorders is the same – that’s to say one or more abnormalities in the genome – the specifics behind the many different types of genetic disease are enormously varied.