I would cry if I had the strength. I swallow the lump in my throat. ‘Maybe.’

He makes some more notes on his clipboard, the sound of the pen scratching amplified by the sparsely furnished room, by our silence.

‘You’re severely dehydrated, and there are signs of malnourishment as well. I’m not really equipped to treat this kind of long-term condition here—we deal with emergencies and tummy bugs. I’m going to recommend you disembark at the next stop—New Zealand—for hospitalisation.’

‘I can’t.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s my grandma’s trip, her trip home.’ My nose begins to run. He passes me a tissue. I haven’t thought about how this might affect Grandma. How it could ruin her trip.

‘Please,’ I say. ‘What can I do?’

Grandma comes over and puts her hand on mine. ‘Don’t worry, love. It’s more important to get you better than to finish the cruise. We can do it another time.’

The doctor looks at her and I can see he’s thinking what I am. How many years does she have left? How much longer will travel be possible?

He runs his hand over his shining bald scalp. There is a rim of black hair around it and a short-trimmed beard which covers the lower half of his face. ‘I suppose…’ he says.

I hold my breath.

‘I suppose if you agree to a nasogastric tube for two or three days I could consider letting you continue to Sydney. But I’d need to run a few tests first: kidney, heart, liver function. White blood cell count, thyroid function. The last thing we want is an ambulance or, worse, the coroner coming to meet us at the next port.’

Grandma’s face crumples. She hides behind her hands.

‘Sorry,’ the doctor says, ‘but we do need to take all of this into consideration.’

‘No, don’t you be sorry.’ Grandma’s voice is muffled. ‘I’m cross with myself. I let it get this bad. I should have seen it earlier.’

‘It’s not your fault,’ he says, placing the clipboard on the metal table, putting his cold fingers on the inside of my wrist and looking at his watch. He counts my pulse. His lips move silently. I know what he isn’t saying.

Whose fault it really is.

•

When she found me in the tub, Mom called the eating disorders clinic at the Children’s National Hospital. I agreed to go because it meant I could get away from Jake. I had thought, in the tub, about a razor. The thin skin of my wrists. About how easy it might be. How I would do anything never to have to see him again. Anything except talk about it, because it was my fault.

I had let him touch me, all those times.

I hadn’t spoken out.

I had let him sit beside me.

I had let him into my house.