Photos of You (ARC)

by Tammy Robinson

  “Good point.”

  “But it’s not about that for me. Not anymore. I’m not looking for any of the stuff that comes after the wedding. I just want the day itself. I want the chance to wear the dress, and feel like a movie star getting my makeup done by a professional because, let’s face it, I’m kind of shit at the whole makeup thing.”

  They murmur their agreement.

  “But we can do all that without calling it a wedding,” Kate says. “We can go dress shopping, and do the salon thing. Get some proper photos done. Have a party and invite everyone. But to call it a wedding? I mean, you’re not talking about walking down an actual aisle, are you? What for?”

  I take a deep breath. “My funeral. Kind of. But while I’m still here.”

  “Explain,” Amanda says. “It’s too early and I haven’t had enough coffee.”

  “I don’t want a traditional funeral. I don’t want everyone in black, standing around discussing my life while they eat mini pies and drink watery tea at the local funeral parlor while I lie in a box nearby unable to participate in any of it. What’s the point of that?”

  “To say goodbye? And celebrate your life with a proper send-off?”

  “Exactly. Celebrate my life. So why wait to do that until I’m gone? Why not do it while I’m still around to enjoy it, and make a bit of a party out of it at the same time.”

  “OK,” Kate says. “So what you’re saying is that you want a wedding instead of a funeral?”

  “Yes.” I click my fingers at her, excited that she’s got it. “I want to have my big day, celebrate my life, and say my goodbyes myself.”

  “You know,” Amanda says thoughtfully, “that kind of makes sense, in a weird, twisted way.”

  “I knew if anyone would understand it’d be you two.” I smile gratefully. “And the first job I’m going to need you both to do is to help me convince my mother.”

  Chapter Ten

  Absolutely not.”

  “Please?”

  “No. Uh-uh. No way. Not happening.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because”—my mother shakes her head firmly—“no daughter of mine is getting married in the local surf club community hall.”

  “Ah.” I hold up a finger. “But I’m not actually getting married, am I?”

  “Whatever you want to call it—and you’re the one insisting on calling it a wedding, by the way—we can do better than a few streamers and balloons and trestle tables.” She shudders at the thought.

  “It was good enough for Bill and Barbara’s golden wedding anniversary last year,” Dad comments. “Remember? We had a lovely time.”

  “Yes, it was a perfectly adequate venue for that. But not for this.”

  “Since when did you become a snob?”

  “It’s not snobbery to want the best for your daughter’s…” She pauses to swallow. “…big day.”

  Even though she smiles brightly I can see how much of an effort she is making not to cry. How much she is struggling with this. Planning a funeral for your only child is a big ask of any parent. But this is not an ordinary funeral. My mother is having difficulty pretending it is easy for her to celebrate when I am dying, but she’s doing a decent job of trying to hide it.

  “Where, then? It’s not exactly as if we have metropolitan venues on every corner,” Dad says. “It’s the surf club or the Chinese restaurant. They’re the only places in town that might be big enough.”

  “I don’t know yet,” Mum admits. “But we’ll find somewhere more appropriate.”

  “I really don’t mind the surf club,” I venture cautiously.

  “I said no. And that’s my final word on the matter.”

  Dad and I exchange a knowing look. When my mother has made her mind up about something there’s no way of swaying her.

  “I forgot how scary you can be, Mrs. G.,” Amanda says.

  “Pfft,” Dad laughs. “She’s not scary.”

  Mum swivels to give him “a look.”

  “I’ll just put the jug on, shall I?” He backs out of the room.

  We are camped out around my parents’ round dining-room table, with magazines and brochures spread out in front of us. In the end, my mother took little persuading to get on-board with the wedding idea. She could see how much I wanted it, and there was no way she’d deny me anything, not anymore.

  “What’s our budget like?” Kate asks, her reading glasses perched on the end of her nose. She has a pen poised over a brand-new spiral-bound notebook and is clearly in her element.

  “I have some money saved,” I say. “Not a lot, though.”

  “How much?”

  “Five grand, closer to five and a half.”

  Amanda sucks in air between her teeth. “Is that enough for a big farewell party?”

  “Probably not,” I say.

  She frowns thoughtfully. “What if we…”

  “What? What if we what?” Kate asks when Amanda trails off mid-sentence.

  Amanda shakes her head. “Nothing.”

  “I called this morning about refunding the airline ticket,” Mum adds. “The lady was nice and agreed these are extenuating circumstances. That will add another couple of thousand. Plus your father and I can rustle up a bit more.”

  I put a hand on her arm gratefully. “No, Mum, the ticket money is enough.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “So seven grand, give or take?” Kate asks.

  I nod, feeling inadequate.

  She scribbles it down in her notepad. “OK.” She nods. “It’s a good start. I nominate myself to be in charge of expenses, so any and all, and I mean all, expenditures related to the wedding must come through me. No matter how trivial you might think, it all adds up and I’m not having the budget blown out on my watch. I want receipts for everything. Everything. Understood?”

  My mother, Amanda, and I look at each other and then burst into laughter.

  “Too much?” Kate asks wryly.

  “You might want to dial the crazy down a notch, yeah,” Amanda says.

  “Well, anyway.” Kate consults the pad in front of her. “I think the best way to do this, unless someone has a better idea, is to make lists for everything and then delegate. I’ve taken the liberty of preparing these ahead of time,” she continues, pulling a Filofax folder to her lap and undoing the clasp with barely concealed glee. She lifts out different-colored manila folders and lays them out on the table. On the front of each is a sticker with a task written on. I read a few.

  DRESS

  VENUE

  FOOD/DRINK

  PHOTOGRAPHER

  MUSIC

  FLOWERS/PROPS

  There are others too, but I can’t read them all from where I’m sitting. Seeing them, I realize the magnitude of planning that needs to be done, and I lean back in my seat, exhaling softly, suddenly feeling very tired.

  “What’s wrong, what is it? Are you in pain?” My mother is on me in an instant, her face creased with worry. She places the palm of her hand on my forehead to check for fever, the way she did when I was little and coming down with something.

  “A mother’s hand is a better judge than any thermometer,” she’d say back then, pulling me in against her and kissing my head soothingly. I can still recall how comforting that felt, listening to her heartbeat through her chest against my ear.

  “You’re a little hot,” she says now. “Maybe we should take you to the hospital.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You are a little flushed,” Kate adds.

  “Want me to start the car?” Amanda asks, pushing her chair out.

  “Guys, I’m fine,” I reassure them. “Really. Stop fussing. Can we please get back to the job at hand?”

  “I call dibs on Food/Drink and Music,” Amanda says, picking up the folders.

  “Naturally.”

  “I’ll scout out some venues,” Mum says.

  I open my mouth to speak.

  “And no, not the surf club rooms either,” she adds. Sh
e picks up another folder. “Also I’ll have a chat to Christine about who did the flowers for her daughter Maxine’s wedding. They were nice. Do you remember them?”

  “No.”

  “Really? They were lovely. Roses, I think. And those little blue things. I don’t know all the names. Remember she had those funny stick things in the middle of the tables with the lights on?”

  “I wasn’t there, Mum.”

  “Weren’t you? Are you sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “Right, well, anyway,” Mum carries on. “I’ll do some research on the Internet. Find out what’s in season and what’s not. Leave it with me.”

  “Dress is obviously your department,” Amanda says to me. “Although of course we’ll all come shopping with you if you’ll let us.”

  I nod, because I don’t trust myself to speak. It just keeps hitting home, and I wish it wouldn’t. I’d love nothing more than to pretend that this is a normal wedding we are planning. To get caught up in the details and carried away by the frivolity of it.

  “Great,” Kate says, picking up her papers and shuffling them. “We’ll reconvene here on Saturday—that should give everyone enough time to rustle up some initial quotes, et cetera.”

  “Are you absolutely sure this is what you want?” Mum asks me.

  I nod again.

  “OK.” She smiles. “Then let’s organize you a wedding.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Wake up. Look.”

  The voice is muffled but insistent.

  “Ava, wake up,” it says again. Then something starts bouncing on the bed beside me, whacking lightly at my foot. I ignore it, burrowing my head deeper into the pillow. It took me hours to get to sleep the night before, and most of the nights before that. Cancer has a way of making you question everything, never letting your mind shut off.

  Will I live long enough to finish this book I just started?

  To see the final episode in this series?

  To use all of this bottle of hand moisturizer I just purchased?

  If we are all Here For a Reason, what was my reason? To live a life only remarkable by its complete lack of anything spectacular, then fizzle out at the grand old age of twenty-eight, leaving only a handful of people to mourn the world’s loss of me? I didn’t leave a legacy like Shakespeare, or whoever it was that invented the wheel.

  I didn’t even have love. Not the real stuff, the good one. The one you read about.

  “What’s going on in here? Is she OK?” Kate’s voice joins in, sleep still weighing down the syllables. I hear fear in her voice and that prompts me to roll over and blink open my eyelids.

  “She is fine,” I say. “Although she is wondering what the hell’s going on.”

  “Just shut up and look,” Amanda says, thrusting her phone in front of my face. It takes my eyes a moment to focus.

  “What am I looking at?”

  “Duh, my phone. Check it out.”

  I groan. “Seriously? It’s too early in the morning to expect me to admire photos of whoever you hooked up with last night, Manda. Actually, if you’ve only just crawled out of his bed then it’s too early for you to be Facebook-stalking him. Go away.”

  “I didn’t hook up with anyone last night,” she retorts. “I was too busy kicking your arse at poker, remember? Now look.”

  I finally sit up and rub the sleep out of my eyes, letting my sight adjust to the light in the room. Then I take the phone from her hand and peer at the screen.

  “HELP MAKE AVA’S WEDDING A KICK-ARSE AFFAIR TO REMEMBER!!”

  There is a photo of me blazoned across the top as a cover photo. It is not one I would have picked, given the choice, but I’m guessing Amanda only had the option of what was on her phone. She’s gone with a photo of the three of us taken at my recent birthday party, only she’s cropped her and Kate out so it’s a zoomed-in picture of my face wearing a slightly manic smile. I can see a small bit of food stuck between my teeth.

  “Shit, Amanda, what the hell is this?”

  “Yeah, OK, so it’s not the best photo, but we can change that.” She takes the phone back off me and scrolls down to click on the about button. “Here, read this.”

  Ava Green is my best friend, and she’s recently been diagnosed with terminal cancer. She’s a top chick, actually she’s the best, and it’s bullshit that she’s going through this, because it’s not fair. Her dying wish is to throw a big wedding party as a farewell celebration of her life, but she’s broke, as am I, so I’m putting this out there to you, the good kind folks in the Facebook universe and saying, HELP, please! If you can donate in any way, shape or form we’d be grateful! Comment or message me if you’d prefer to stay private, and please share this page with your friends and family so we can spread this wide and far! Thank you and peace out!

  I groan and pass the phone to Kate. “Did you know about this?”

  “Know about what?”

  She sits on the end of the bed and reads what I just read. When she’s finished she tuts. “Geez, Manda, you could have mentioned you were doing this. At the very least I could have proofread it and come up with something a little less crude and a little more elegant.”

  “Well, I’m sorry I’m not as poetic as you.” Amanda rolls her eyes, taking the phone from Kate.

  “Says the songwriter.”

  “Exactly. If you’ve listened to any of my songs you’ll know I say exactly how I feel. I don’t sugar-coat anything.”

  “I’ve known you since you were four. I don’t need to listen to your songs to know you think blunt honesty is the same as tactful—”

  “Anyway,” I interrupt. “Back to the whole point. What were you thinking? This is embarrassing. Delete it, quick, before anyone sees it.”

  Amanda adopts a smug expression. “Too late.”

  “What?”

  She giggles. It sounds incongruous coming from her. “This page has barely been up a week and it’s already going viral. It’s been shared in four countries that I can see, by”—she peers at her phone—“three thousand, four hundred, and twenty-nine people and counting. Over five hundred comments and quite a few messages. I haven’t even read them all yet.”

  I stare at her. “What?”

  “Which part did you not understand?”

  “Any of it?”

  “OK. Remember when we were at your house with your mum, talking about the budget?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I had an idea to help us raise some funds so we can throw you a proper party. I mean, anything that’s anything is on Facebook now. It’s the way to connect with the world.”

  “Well disconnect it, please. I don’t want anyone feeling sorry for me.”

  “Oh, please. If you can’t accept charity when you’re dying, when can you?”

  “But I don’t need charity.”

  “Wrong choice of word,” she says, conciliatory. “It’s not charity, Ava, if people want to help you.”

  “It is if they don’t know me and only want to help me because I’m sick.”

  “You’re so stubborn.”

  “I’m not. How did all these people even see it? If you only just created it?”

  She smiles modestly. “I shared it on my band’s page. We may be on the wrong side of famous still, but we have a lot of dedicated fans. They all started sharing it and, well, it’s all gone a bit nuts.”

  “I can’t believe you did this without asking me.”

  “Look.” She holds the phone out to me again. “I’ll delete it if that’s what you really want. But before I do, read some of these comments first, OK? You have a lot of people thinking of you and sending positive, healing thoughts.”

  “That reminds me,” says Kate drily, clicking her fingers. “I meant to put an order in for healing thoughts at the surgery yesterday. We’re fresh out of stock.”

  “Oh, ha ha,” Amanda says. “You’re so funny. There’s nothing wrong with the power of positive thinking.”

  “Except it can’t
cure cancer.”

  “No, it can’t cure cancer. Obviously. Just shut up, OK? This is for Ava.” She gets to her feet. “I’ll make you a cup of that green crap you drink while you have a look.”

  After they’ve left the room I prop myself up in bed with an extra pillow, and with some trepidation I start scrolling down the Facebook page. She’s right: there are loads of messages. I even recognize the odd name from my past, an old school friend, an ex-colleague. But the vast majority are strangers.

  Sorry to hear you’re sick! Kia Kaha, thinking of you xx

  I lost my mom to cancer. Of course she was much older than you. It’s a horrible disease and I’m really sorry you have it. I’d like to donate to your wedding party, do you have a fundraising page? Or an account we can deposit into?

  So sorry to read about your illness. I think what you’re doing is a great idea. Go out with a bang! I don’t have any money to spare sorry, but I do have my old wedding dress just hanging in the wardrobe going to waste. It’s a size 14 and I’ll attach a photo. If you’d like to wear it get in touch!

  I’m so busy sifting through the messages I don’t notice Amanda slip in to leave a cup of green tea on my bedside drawers, and I only realize it’s there once it’s stone cold. The whole time I’m reading, more comments are arriving on the page. Most are thoughts of goodwill. But more and more are offers of money, or goods and services for the wedding. Four DJs have offered their services and an assortment of beauticians. There are even offers of venues.

  Hey there from the marvellous Marlborough Sounds! Cancer sucks, I lost my sister to it last year. She was only 36 and a mum to two young boys. Seeing what she went through was hell and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. My husband and I own a winery, it’s a small family business in a stunningly picturesque area. Google Anchor Bay Winery and you’ll see. If you’d like to hold your wedding here give me a call, we’ll come to an arrangement.

  “You see?”

  Amanda is peering around the door frame. When I don’t immediately yell at her or chuck her phone in her face she comes into the room and perches again on the side of the bed.