âMrâ and not âDoctorâ even though they ARE doctors, but Iâve got used to it now.
âHi, Mr R,â I say, flicking the glossy pages of a BBC food magazine. âHowâs it hanging?â
Mum sighs.
âNot a great question to ask a doctor,â says Mr Rogers. âIâm likely to give you a long, medical and potentially boring answer.â
I smile. I like Mr Rogers and his weird sense of humour. Somehow he always manages to make me feel like Amelie-The-Person rather than just Amelie-The-Patient.
âYour Mum tells me you want to go to London,â he says. âSome big competition, I hear. That does sound very exciting.â
âYeah,â I say, âbut has she also told you sheâs not allowing me to go?â
Mum flushes pale pink when I say that. Her face clashes with her red jacket. I think of the pink slices from a tub of Neapolitan ice cream and the red of the strawberry sauce I like to pour over them.
âI was just about to get round to that,â she says, all defensive and huffy. âMr Rogers is a very busy man.â
He perches on the edge of the bed where Iâm lying.
âNot too busy to discuss your health,â he says. âSo I take it you still want to go to London?â
I put down the magazines with a sigh. Iâve just found a glorious twist on a traditional baked cheesecake recipe which involves major use of chocolate.
âOf course I do,â I say. âItâs only like the biggest baking competition in the country. And I donât see why I canât still go, so long as Iâm careful and look after myself.â
Mum stands up and folds her arm. She looks tired, wary and wired up all at the same time.
âIâm getting a bit fed up of this stuck record,â she says in a voice I hardly ever hear. âIâve told you youâre not going, and thatâs that. Donât try to swing me by dragging Mr Rogers into it all.â
Mr Rogers stands up and clears his throat.
âItâs your annual review next week, isnât it?â he says. âPerhaps if I might suggest, Mrs Day, we could make a final decision based upon the results of that?â
Mum flushes again. I can tell that sheâs angry that Mr Rogers hasnât entirely backed her up.
âOh, alright,â she says. âBut I canât see Amelie being much better than she is now and right now she is in no fit state to go anywhere. Iâll be at the coffee machine.â
She goes out of the room and lets the door bang behind her.
Mr Rogers and I regard one another for a moment. He has kind eyes â dark like chocolate raisins and with a sort of glint behind them. I try to picture what his kids are like and reckon that heâs a good father.
âI only want to get on with my life,â I say in a whisper. âThatâs all.â
Mr Rogers nods and puts his hand on my shoulder for a moment. The brief gesture causes tears to well up in my eyes.
âIâll leave you in the capable hands of Sister,â he says. The nurse is unhooking the flush from my portacath. âDonât worry. Iâm sure we can sort something out.â
My heart lifts a little.
âOh, here,â I call after his retreating back. âI made you something.â
Mr Rogers comes back and peels back the lid of the box Iâm holding out.
âI did them all on a medical theme,â I say, shy.
He bursts out laughing. Iâve been practising biscuits for the competition. Inside are some iced golden syrup cookies with little piped pictures on top. Iâve done a pair of lungs on one, a heart on another and a selection of pills, beds, syringes and stethoscopes on the rest. It took me half the night to perfect the drawings and I did them in a dark green colour in the same shade as Mr Rogerâs operating overalls.
âYou are something else, Amelie,â he says, wiping his eyes. âI canât
Martin H. Greenberg et al (Ed)