If Only I Could Tell You

by Hannah Beckerman

  “Mum, I—”

  “Please, Jess. Please hear me out—”

  “But there’s no point. This conversation’s going nowhere.”

  “There is a point, of course there is. I don’t want the first time you and Lily see each other in years to be at my funeral. I can’t bear the thought of it. Surely you can understand that? And what about Mia and Phoebe? Do you really want them having to contend with all that tension on the day you bury me? Please, Jess, please just meet her, talk to her. I can be there or not, whatever you want. Just please agree to see her.”

  Audrey’s voice began to crack and she pinched her lips together. She didn’t want emotional blackmail to force Jess into agreeing. She wanted Jess to see for herself that this decades-long feud was pointless, that it did no one any good, least of all Jess.

  She kept her eyes trained on her daughter, searching for any sign of a softening, but when Jess began to speak her voice was so eerily calm that a chill inched down Audrey’s spine.

  “I don’t know how many times I can say it, Mum. I know it’s hard for you, but this isn’t about you. It’s about me and Lily. And I’m an adult so you have to let me manage my relationships as I see fit. I don’t want Lily in my life and I never will, and there’s nothing anyone can do about that.”

  “But if only I knew the reason, if only you’d tell me why you won’t speak to her, perhaps I’d understand. Perhaps I’d be able to help. I just don’t believe we can’t sort this out, whatever it is. I have to try, you must understand that.”

  Jess thumped hard on the steering wheel. “I am not telling you. How many times do I have to say it? I don’t want to see Lily and that’s that. I don’t want you and me falling out about this, Mum, but if you mention it again then I can promise you we will.”

  Jess glared at her, and Audrey resisted the temptation to try to bridge the gap between them with words of reassurance. She knew, from decades of experience, that there were times when her attempts to appease Jess only exacerbated her anger.

  Neither of them spoke until Audrey heard Jess sigh, then swallow.

  “I’m sorry, Mum. I’m sorry for getting so angry. I know this is hard for you, really I do. And if there was any way I could make things better, I would, honestly. But I can’t. I just can’t.”

  Their eyes met fleetingly before Jess turned back to the road. Audrey looked out of the window to see a throng of shoppers emerging from Westfield—friends, families, couples, laughing, chatting, sharing stories of their day—the knowledge settling in her head like a thick winter fog that, nearly a month after moving in with Jess, she was still no closer to effecting a reconciliation between her daughters.

  Part Three

  April

  Chapter 12

  Audrey

  “I’m so sorry it’s not better news. I know it’s a lot to take in. Can I get you a glass of water?”

  Audrey moved to shake her head but she felt as if it were no longer attached to her body. “Thank you, no. I’m fine.”

  I’m fine. She almost apologized to the doctor for the absurdity of it.

  She’d known, as soon as she’d walked into the doctor’s room and seen the home-care nurse sitting in a high-backed chair upholstered in standard NHS blue vinyl, that today was going to be a Bad News Day. They only ever brought in the home-care nurses when there was heavy emotional lifting to be done.

  “I know it’s really difficult news to hear. I wish I could be telling you something different. But from your latest scan and blood tests, it does seem to be spreading more aggressively than we’d originally thought. And this fourth tumor we’ve found on your lung—as I say, it’s small, but of course we’d rather it wasn’t there at all.”

  Audrey felt the room shrink as though each of the four walls was slowly advancing toward her. “How does this change the prognosis? How long have I got?”

  Dr. Sharma shifted in her seat and swept some invisible dust from the surface of her desk before raising her head and looking directly at Audrey. “As I’ve said before, it can be really unhelpful to talk in terms of timelines. There’s no reliable means of predicting how cancers are going to behave. Every case is unique. What I will say is that now might be a good time to reconsider whether you’d like to undergo any treatment. I know you were against it before, but this latest diagnosis does change the outlook. I have to be honest with you: given the way your cancer has spread in the last few weeks, treatment options are limited. But chemotherapy may help slow the growth of the tumors and minimize the risk of the cancer spreading. You don’t have to decide anything now. I’m going to give you all the leaflets again, just so that you have the information to hand. Maybe you’d like to discuss it with your family over the weekend.”

  Audrey reached out and took the same collection of leaflets she’d first been given nearly seven months before, filled with advice and information she could have recited verbatim if tested. “But assuming I still don’t want treatment, how long do you think I’ve got?”

  An almost imperceptible flicker of something skittered behind the doctor’s eyes: impatience or pity, uncertainty or apology, Audrey wasn’t sure which.

  “Honestly, Audrey, I really don’t think it’s helpful to talk in those terms.”

  “It will help me. Please. There are things I want to do. Things I need to do . . .” Her voice trailed off, the words trapped in her throat. She breathed slowly, tried to compose her face into that of someone who was prepared for the answer, however difficult.

  The doctor eyed her silently, glanced over at the home-care nurse, and leaned forward in her chair. “As I say, Audrey, there’s no accurate means of prediction. And every case really is unique. But on average, patients with cancer like yours—cancer that’s spread in a similar way, with a similar alacrity—might be looking at a life expectancy of somewhere around four to six months.”

  Audrey felt all the air escape from her lungs. Her limbs loosened, as if she were about to topple forward out of the chair. She tried to focus on a fixed point—the cardboard calendar on the windowsill—like a seasick sailor gluing their eyes to the safe line of the horizon.

  Four to six months.

  She’d arrived at the appointment believing she had at least a year left to live. Now she had just half of that, possibly a third. She sat completely still and thought about all the events she might not live to witness.

  Her sixty-third birthday. Mia and Phoebe’s eighteenths. The girls’ A-level results.

  Christmas, New Year, Easter: all those milestones she’d experienced for the last time without knowing it.

  “I know it’s really hard to hear. That’s why we try not to give timeframes unless someone’s determined to know. This isn’t a precise science—we can’t know exactly how your cancer’s going to behave. It could be that you have longer. As I say, I can only give you averages.”

  Audrey nodded, wanting to remove any doubt on the doctor’s part that perhaps she’d made a mistake in telling the truth. But now that she had the facts, Audrey didn’t know what to do with them. They felt hot in her mouth, loud in her ears, tight in her chest.

  She blinked and swallowed, trying to reteach herself the simple task of breathing in and then out again. Such minor victories over her body: controlling her breathing, holding back her tears. Such small battles won when they all knew she’d already lost the war.

  She felt a hand on her arm, looked up to see the home-care nurse crouched next to her, saw such compassion in her eyes that she wondered how anyone had the strength to do that job: offering comfort where there was none to be had.

  “Can we call someone for you? We’d really rather you didn’t go home on your own. Was no one free to come with you today?”

  Audrey shook her head, thinking of the people who’d asked to accompany her: Lily, Jess, Mia, Phoebe. But she’d insisted on coming alone, and now she was relieved that she had. Having to cope with someone else’s shock was more than she could have borne.

  “Well, there’
s no rush to leave. We can sit outside in the waiting room for as long as you like. I might even be able to rustle up a cup of tea.”

  The home-care nurse smiled and Audrey felt herself try to reciprocate but it was as if the muscles around her mouth had slackened and couldn’t quite pull themselves up. “That’s very kind but there’s no need. I’ll call a taxi.”

  “I can do that for you.”

  There was a moment’s silence, as though all three of them were paying respects to an event they knew was coming far too soon. Then Dr. Sharma glanced at her computer screen, and leaned back in her chair. “Audrey, we don’t have to make any decisions about your treatment today. Go home, discuss things with your family, think it all through. Let’s make an appointment for next week. That gives you the weekend to mull it over. How does that sound?”

  Audrey nodded, thinking back to the discussions she’d had seven months ago, when she’d first announced her decision to refuse treatment: Lily’s pleading, Jess’s frustration, Dr. Sharma’s patient explanation of the options, as though perhaps a repetition of the facts might somehow change her mind. But Audrey had been resolute. She knew the doctors were offering her nothing more than palliative care. There had been no conversations then about possible remission, no hope of a reprieve. Just chemotherapy to try to slow the growth of something nobody denied would kill her. Audrey had imagined a day room filled with a dozen patients sitting in high-backed cushioned chairs, silent and immobile as drugs were pumped intravenously through cannulas in the back of their hands, medication seeping into their bloodstream and charging toward an enemy it was destined not to defeat. Seconds, minutes, hours ticking away, accompanied by nothing more than the hope of a brief stay of execution, with no guarantee that those faulty days would ever be refunded.

  Audrey knew all too well the effects of those therapies. Once upon a time she had been told they might work miracles. Sometimes, in her darker moments and against her rational judgment, she found herself wondering whether perhaps, given time, they might have done.

  It was more than that, though. Audrey might not allow the admission to hover on the surface of her thoughts for too long but it was always there. She didn’t deserve treatment. Whatever help the doctors might be able to offer, whatever temporary miracles they might be able to perform, Audrey felt she was the last person in the world who actually deserved them.

  “Thank you. But I won’t change my mind about the treatment. I’m sure of that.”

  “Well, there’s no rush. Let the news settle and we’ll discuss it again next week.”

  Audrey rose and shook Dr. Sharma’s outstretched hand, felt the doctor’s soft, youthful skin beneath her fingers. She felt an arm around her shoulders as the home-care nurse guided her through to the waiting room and lowered her into a chair as though the muscles in Audrey’s legs might not be able to negotiate the maneuver, then left to order a taxi.

  Audrey leaned her head against the wall, her temples throbbing.

  Four to six months. She pulled out her diary and began leafing through the pages, counting down the weeks and months until her time might run out. And the act of looking at dates, willing them to tell her a different story, took her back to a scene from years before, when she had similarly wished that time could be more on her side.

  Chapter 13

  April 1972

  Audrey sits on the edge of her bed beneath a poster of Aretha Franklin, frantically turning the pages of her diary, urging them to give her a different answer. She flicks back through the weeks—one week, then two, a third, and then a fourth. A fifth whips past her fingers and still she has to press on. Past the sixth until there it is, seven weeks previously. Practically a lifetime ago.

  She stares at her own unintelligible scribble, the shorthand her mum has taught her to mark this monthly event, unreadable to anyone else who may chance upon her diary.

  Seven weeks and somehow she hasn’t realized until now.

  She continues to stare at the open page in front of her, as though the strength of her gaze might have the power to alter history. She notices that her hands are shaking and tries to hold them steady, but it is as if they are a separate entity over which she has no control. She is eighteen, and it seems surreal to her that only a few minutes ago she could have described how her life might pan out over the next three years yet now she is unsure how to manage the next three minutes.

  She lifts her head and looks toward the net curtains, notices the tired gray tinge to the thin white material. She remembers she had promised her mum she would take them down and wash them during the school holidays, a promise she has failed to keep.

  Perhaps, Audrey thinks, if she washes them now, her parents won’t be quite so disappointed in her when she tells them. Just imagining the dismay on their faces—the realization that she is no longer a little girl, that she has not behaved how they would expect her to—causes her to scrunch her eyes shut.

  Audrey swallows the rising tide of bile at the back of her throat and drops her head into her hands. She has no idea what she’s going to do next.

  Simon and Garfunkel’s “Bridge Over Troubled Water” plays on the jukebox. Audrey has to strain her ears to hear the lyrics because the machine is on the far side of the bar and she has deliberately chosen the quietest table, tucked away in a corner far from eavesdropping ears, even though she is not expecting to see anyone she knows in this Holborn pub.

  She sits waiting for Edward to return from the toilet, unsure whether she wants him to come quickly or not. But after more than two weeks of holding on to the news, she no longer feels able to bear the weight of it alone.

  The table rattles and she leans over, wedging a coaster underneath the leg. As she sits up, the palm of her hand instinctively finds the flat of her stomach.

  There is no sign yet, nothing to give her away. Nothing to indicate what is taking place inside her and has been for nine weeks now, according to the doctor: the cells dividing and multiplying, a brand-new person slowly morphing into life. This strikes Audrey as remarkable. That it is possible for another human to be growing inside her with no external evidence to communicate this fact to the rest of the world: no change in the color of her skin, no readable message on her face, no visible aura of protection around her.

  Audrey sips gingerly at the white wine Edward has bought for her but it tastes strange—bitter—and she puts the glass back on the table.

  And then there he is, striding around the bar toward her, smiling: his tall, dependable frame; his expression a question in need of an answer; his walk toeing an invisible line.

  Can a walk, Audrey wonders, be sensible?

  “That’s better. So how’s the revision going? First exam in six weeks? You’re going to do brilliantly, I just know it.” He takes a long, thirsty gulp from his pint of bitter before letting his fingers rest on hers.

  His touch is light, but Audrey feels as though her hand is pinned flat to the table like a butterfly in a lepidopterist’s display case. “It’s OK. But you never know, do you? Not until you get in the exam room and read the questions. You could find out you’ve prepared completely the wrong topics.” She listens to her preemptive excuses, a preparation for the disappointment she feels sure will greet her results in four months’ time even though she is yet to sit her first paper.

  She has done no A-level revision for the past two weeks. Every time she has opened a book the words have dissolved in front of her eyes. She has sat on her bed, hour after hour, imagining the A grades she has been predicted in English, History, and French flipping like letters on a train station noticeboard, replaced by Bs and then Cs, until they land, decisively, on Ds. She has felt her future sliding from her grasp: all her ambitions slipping through her fingers, like grains of sand on a windswept beach.

  “You’ll be fine, Auds. This time next year you’ll be two terms into an English degree at UCL and all this worry about your exams will be a distant memory. Trust me, I’ve been there. I wouldn’t be able to tell you a single qu
estion I answered in my A-levels now.” Edward continues to talk, presenting her with platitudes of support and encouragement she hasn’t requested but feels she should be grateful for nonetheless.

  His voice fades in her ears, as if a sound engineer has remixed the volumes so that she can no longer hear him above the white noise of a busy pub on a Saturday night.

  This time next year.

  She tries to imagine it, but can’t. She cannot visualize herself with a baby, cannot imagine where she might be living, or with whom. She cannot picture a version of her life that doesn’t involve Senate House library, lectures on the Bloomsbury Group, tutorials in Chaucer, Shakespeare, Austen, Dickens, Eliot, Hardy, Waugh.

  “I need to talk to you about something.” She has interrupted him without realizing he was still speaking.

  A microscopic twitch hovers at the corner of Edward’s mouth. At first she thinks it is irritation. They have only been going out for eleven months and she has not yet learned the full repertoire of his facial expressions. But then he frowns and she sees that she is mistaken: it is not irritation but fear. She realizes that he thinks she’s about to end their relationship and is surprised by how distraught he seems.

  Words scramble from her mouth, like unruly children piling out of a classroom as the bell rings. “There’s no easy way to say this so I’m just going to come out and say it. I’m pregnant. About nine weeks, the doctor thinks. I’m sorry, I know it’s the last thing either of us wants.”

  Her lips part in preparation for another apology but she forces herself to close them. It is true that she is sorry, but it should not be her apologizing. It has been his responsibility, after all. She has trusted him to buy them, put them on properly, withdraw ensuring that nothing escapes.

  Edward is shaking his head and Audrey cannot tell whether it is in disbelief, horror, or denial.