“That. That shake of your head. What was that?”
“I didn’t shake my head.”
“I saw you. You shook your head. No! What is this? Why are we here. The last time we came here to eat, you were forcing me into that dry out center. Is that what this is about? You want me to go back there? You want me to go and live with those nutcases again? Is that it?”
“You did not tell him, Mum?” Abn said.
“Tell me what?” Ed said, as he flashed a glare at Abn.
“Why does everything have to be about you?” she said, suddenly feeling her blood boil in reaction to Ed’s outburst.
“Oh, rubbish. Since when has the big attention ever been on me? Everyone knows that the world revolves around Abn,” Ed said.
“He’s our son,” she said, unable to hide her defensive tone.
“Okay… Okay… calm down everyone. There is a reason why we are all here. And that reason isn’t because of you, Ed,” Ron said.
“Then what?” Ed asked.
“It’s me… ...It’s the cancer.”
“What cancer? You beat the cancer,” Ed said, his tone lowering a couple of decibels but still maintaining its accusing edge.
“It’s back. I’m dying, Ed. That’s why we’re here. I’m dying and there is nothing that can be done about it.”
“You’ve been in remission for over a year. The doctors said there was no sign of the cancer,” Ed argued.
“Jesus! Won’t you just shut up and listen to your brother for once?” Jane said.
“You shut up,” Ed said. “He’s my brother and I’ll say what I want to him.”
“All of you shut up,” Ron said, his voice raised just enough to show that he meant it. “Now, I’m not in the mood for bickering. The cancer is back. It’s stage four and this time it’s in the pancreas. It’s inoperable and untreatable. I have about six months to live and I don’t intend to spend that time squashing family arguments.”
“Jesus fucking Christ!” Ed said with another glare at Jane. “You knew about this?”
“I was going to tell you earlier…” she began before being cut off in mid-sentence.
“…Jesus fucking Christ! There has to be something that can be done.”
“There’s nothing that can be done. Like I said, my pancreas is riddled with it. All they can do is try to make me comfortable.”
“Try to?” Ed said. “They damn well will make you comfortable.”
“They’re doctors, Ed. I’m sure they know what they are doing,” Ron said.
“Jesus fucking Christ! I need a drink.”
Jane felt like protesting, but it was too late. Ed got to his feet and strode to the bar. In that same moment their meals arrived, placed onto the table by a jubilant waiter.
“Is there anything else I can get for you?” the waiter asked.
Jane could only shake her head. She watched the others do the same.
“Well, that went well,” Ron said as the waiter left.
“Are you sure he’s your brother?” she asked.
“Jane!” Ron said, his eyes flashing toward Abn, his tone holding an edge of warning.
“What?” she said.
“He is my brother. You’re going to have to get used to that. And need I say, you may need him in the coming months.”
“I highly doubt that.”
“I was reading a medical paper about a new treatment in Finland,” Abn said. “They have had the best results in the world with your type of cancer.”
Ron’s tone returned to normal as he looked at Abn and answered, “I’m not going to Finland.”
“As much as I love it here in New Zealand, we are not even in the top thirty when it comes to cancer treatment,” Abn argued.
In a mock display of finality, Ron raised both of his palms. “No! I won’t go through the treatments again. I can’t.”
“You are giving up?” Abn said.
“I’m not giving up. What I’m doing is making the best of the time I have left. And that time should begin here and now,” Ron said.
Jane could see that Abn was about to present further resistance. She stopped him. “Abn, this is what Ron wants. As painful as it is, we have to support him,” she said.
They continued to eat in silence for a few minutes. She could see that Abn wanted to say so much more. He had lost both of his parents when he was a toddler. He had lost his surrogate father in Iraq only a few years ago. And now, here he was again, about to lose Ron. It was impossible to interpret his reaction to the current situation. All she could do was carry on as best as she could and support Abn along the way. Somehow the idea gave her strength. She would be there for him. It was she who had bought him to New Zealand. She had a responsibility to not break down. From this point on, she had to be both mother and father to him, and as she finished her meal, this determination solidified with concrete resolve. But even as this resolve took hold, she witnessed Ed’s return from the bar with a cocktail in either hand.
“Drink with me, brother,” Ed said as he perched a full glass on the table in front of Ron before sitting down to his untouched meal.
“What is it?” Ron asked.
“It’s scotch…”
“And water?”
“…and scotch,” Ed said, as he charged his glass.
To Jane’s surprise, Ron followed suit and downed the contents, of which she decided must have been at least four standard shots.
“I can get the bottle, if you like,” Ed said with an animated expression of mock jest. “I’m sure they make concessions for the terminally ill.”
“He has to drive,” Jane warned. “And after what he just drank, my guess would be that he’s already over the legal limit.”
“Bahh… Always taking the fun out of things, aren’t you? When are you going to throw caution to the wind and live a little, sister in law?”
“You’ve lived a little. Look where that’s gotten you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
She opened her hands in his direction. “As you see it,” she said.
Ed stood, sharply. “I think that’s my cue to leave. I bid you all good night,” he said.
“You haven’t touched your food,” Ron said.
“I’m not hungry. Give it to the boy.”
“At least let us finish first. I’ll drive you home afterward,” Jane said.
“What? You want me to sit here and listen to you lecture me for another half an hour? No thank you. I’ll walk home.”
She opened her mouth to protest, but Ed had already walked away.
“Now why did you have to go and do that?” Ron said.
“Do what? Speak the truth?”
“This is a family dinner. The least we can do is keep the peace for that time.”
“You should be saying that to him,” she said, stabbing a finger through the restaurant window in the Ed’s direction.
“He’s sick.”
“He’s a weakling.”
“Jesus Christ, Jane, the man has been through Hell. The least you can do is give him a little wiggle room to make his mistakes. He’s my brother, for Christ sake.”
It was the same argument they’d covered so many times before. She wanted to pursue the matter further. It was the one area where she wholeheartedly disagreed with Ron. Everything else in their marriage had been perfect, the envy of all. However, when it came to Ed, her Texas blood boiled; she could not tolerate him. Weakness had no place in her family. And now she faced the impossible situation where she had to be around weakness by default. She despised Ed with every ounce of her being. As far as she was concerned, Darwin had it right—let the weak die. But here she was with the strong dying and the weak flourishing.
“Can we drive around the bays after dinner?” Abn asked.
Jane welcomed the interruption and looked to Abn. “Of course, we can. So long as Ron is up to it,” she said.
Ron smiled. “Of course. We can get ice cream at that place on Oriental Parade,” he
said.
CHAPTER 3
Three months later…
“Hey, Rag head! Where you going to?” yelled a voice.
Abn would have preferred to ignore the insult and push past Jeremy. But Jeremy barred the exit and he happened to be flanked by two of his favorite cronies.
“I’m going home,” Abn said, as he came to a halt in the school hallway.
Jeremy chuckled. “Home… I didn’t know sand niggers had homes.”
“There’s a lot of things you don’t know,” said another voice.
Abn turned to find his friend Michael stepping to his side.
“You stay out of this,” Jeremy said. “This is between us and Ali Baba there.”
“Ali Baba was Persian. I’m Iraqi,” Abn said.
“No matter. You’re all the same in my eyes.”
“Jeremy Thompson! Step into my office,” echoed the voice of an adult.
Abn turned and found the principle standing at the other end of the hallway, displeasure saturating every aspect of his stance, his eyes afire with authority. Turning to the exit again, Abn watched as Jeremy’s cronies melted from view.
“We’ll pick this up later,” Jeremy said as he pushed by, bumping Abn’s shoulder as he went, his expression bursting with frustration.
Abn turned to Michael. “Thanks,” he said.
“Don’t mention it.”
“I do not know why he does not like me.”
“I don’t either. Looks-wise, he could be your brother.”
“Get out of here.”
“It’s true. Everyone says the same thing. You two could be twins. Same height. Same build. Same coloring. Same hair. Your eyes match. Heck, you even ride the same bike,” Michael said.
“No, we do not.”
“It’s true. You have a blue Giant and so does he. It’s like he’s trying to be you.”
Abn raised his hands in defense. “I do not want to hear that,” he said.
“Okay, okay. No offence intended.”
As they exited the school, Abn inwardly admitted that Michael was right. He and Jeremy did look the same. Maybe that was the reason Jeremy disliked him so much. It must be infuriating for a racist to look so similar to a race he hated.
A large BMW sedan waited at the curb in front of the school. As they neared the car, a driver leapt out and opened a rear door. Abn smiled at Michael. “See you tomorrow,” he said.
“Do you have time for a study session later?” Michael asked.
Abn shook his head. “I have to get home. Thursday is still good though.”
“Thursday it is then,” Michael said as he leapt onto the back seat of the car.
As the car sped away, not for the first time, Abn felt superbly grateful that he had made at least one friend while at school.
* * * * *
Jane looked from the corner of her eye as she ate her dinner. It was the third night in a row that she’d noticed how slowly Ron was eating. He sat next to Abn, opposite her, clearly using his elbows to support his bodyweight. She’d noticed that lately too. He appeared to be getting weaker by the day. The doctors had said six months, but it had only been three. He had always been a big man; not fat, but muscular, solid and heavy boned. That look had now all but vanished. She could see the bones in his shoulders straining against the fabric of his shirt with coat hanger effect.
Dinner in their home had always been a jubilant event, filled with chatter, life and laughter. Tonight, hardly a word had been said. This silence pained her more than anything. This silence said so much more than words ever could.
“Did you remember to take your medication before dinner?” she asked.
“Yes, Dear, all sixteen pills. The same as I do every evening,” Ron said.
She could hear the frustration in his voice. It was unlike him. She tried to reach for something positive. “How’s that new pain pill working?”
“Like aspirin.”
“Hmm, we can take a trip to the specialist tomorrow, if you like. They may have to up the dosage.”
“And turn me into a zombie? No, I’ll manage for a while longer yet.”
“You don’t need to be in pain,” she argued.
Ron’s remaining resistance to contain his mood fell away as he answered, “I can manage! I can barely eat as it is. Taking those pills just makes my appetite worse.”
“Have you thought about trying medical marijuana? I am sure they will give you a prescription. And it will help with your appetite,” Abn said around a spoonful of meatloaf.
“I’m not going to be some pot head for the remainder of my days. And make sure you stay clear of that stuff too, Son. I’ve seen what it does to people.”
“Oh please,” Jane said. “What exactly does it do to people? Half the world has legalized it.”
“I won’t touch the stuff. Don’t ask me to again.”
“So, you will suffer instead?” Abn said.
“I’m not suffering. I’m dying. People have been doing this successfully for some time now. I’ll be okay.”
Jane could see that Abn was going to present further argument. He’d never been one to hold back his thoughts. But she somehow managed to stall his tongue with a warning glare and their meal continued in silence for a while. She also noticed that Ron made a better attempt at eating, as if to further cement his argument.
After watching Ron spoon down several more mouthfuls and swallow, she began to believe that he wasn’t as sickly as he appeared. But in that same moment, his body heaved forward and the contents of his stomach emptied onto his plate. This on its own wouldn’t have been so bad. It was the mixture of blood with the half-digested food that really rattled her. In fact, if she hadn’t witnessed him eat, she would have insisted that he was vomiting nothing more than blood.
“Dad!” Abn cried.
Ron failed to answer between heaves. Jane could see that he was having trouble breathing, let alone talking. She sprang to her feet and retrieved a wet towel and dustbin from the kitchen. As she made it back to the dining room table, Ron was still going. She quickly swapped his plate for the dustbin. At this point, all she could do was stand there with a comforting hand on his shoulder as he convulsed back and forth. She didn’t have the heart to stop Abn as he stood and fled the scene.
Several minutes passed like this. She could feel Ron’s energy fading with each heave he made. Perspiration poured from his body and his shirt had become soaked. She imagined she was comforting an ultra-distance runner as he completed the last stretch to the finish line. Surely, it was impossible for someone to exert themselves so heavily while sitting down.
The acid stench of vomit now filled her nostrils. The dustbin liner had been colored red by the offence. Her own stomach began to protest at the sight, but somehow, she managed to maintain her composure.
Soon enough, it ended.
She felt Ron’s body relax beneath her hand as his breathing settled into shallow pants. She waited a couple more minutes before removing the dustbin from the table and placing it aside. Without speaking, she began cleaning as he settled further. She could feel him watching her as she removed his plate and dumped its contents into the dustbin.
Still, he didn’t speak. He just watched.
Only when the area had been completely cleared did she return to the table and confront Ron. “Come on, I’ll run you a bath,” she said.
* * * * *
Abn heard the noise the moment he stepped through the lobby doors of Mary Potter Hospice. At first, he imagined that a machine of some kind was running; some critical piece of the hospice infrastructure. But after a couple of minutes waiting at the reception desk, he decided otherwise. This noise came with a random audibility no machine could ever make. He could only compare the sound to a muffled Gatling gun, echoing through the hallways; rattling, resounding, pausing and then repeating the performance again and again.
“Sorry to keep you waiting. Can I help you, young man?” said a voice.
Shaking off his agitation
, Abn turned to find a nurse looking down at him from behind the reception desk. “Oh, I am here to see my father. He was admitted on Monday,” he said.
“Of course. Can you tell me his full name?” asked the nurse.
“Ron Morrison,” Abn said, still fighting the urge to look around for the source of the infernal racket.
“Aha… Ron. If you walk down the hallway to the end and turn left through the doors, you will find him in room six.”
“Thank you.”
As he moved in the direction of Ron’s room, he realized that this was the first time he’d set foot inside a hospital since Mosul. Although technically this was a palliative care clinic, it still had many of the hallmarks of a hospital. Medical staff hurried in all directions. A sterile scent floated in the air and the polished vinyl floors reflected light with baffling effect.
Something in the scene unnerved him. Most of his early life had been spent amidst such surroundings. Though the last year he’d spent in Mosul had been nothing like this. The continuous bombing from the coalition forces had guaranteed that. Sterility, in the basement carpark had been reduced to a swept patch of concrete. Nurses there were nothing more than local volunteers wearing bloodstained coats. And toward the end, they had been down to one last doctor. All of the others had either fled or been killed. In contrast, Mary Potter Hospice was a veritable paradise.
As he turned left and moved along another hallway, he was greeted by the back of a wheelchair, bearing a large hand-scrawled sign, hung from its rear handles. In oversized capital letters, the sign read…
THIS IS WHAT TWENTY-SEVEN YEARS OF SMOKING DID TO ME.
“Jesus!” he breathed aloud, as a particularly long rattle resounded from the man who occupied the wheelchair.
It mystified him that a man in this condition still lived. He tried not to look at the man as he walked by, partially because he didn’t want to appear impolite, and partially because he dreaded what he’d see if he did look. He decided, right then and there that he wouldn’t smoke when he came of age.
As he stepped into room six, his previous shock escalated further when he saw Ron’s condition. Somehow, he felt sure that the man in the wheelchair sounded like Ron looked. Life had literally been sucked from Ron’s body since they’d last seen each other only days before. Jane had warned him of Ron’s state, but he didn’t expect this. His head looked like pale painted cellophane had been stretched over an empty skull, with a wig of short dark hair placed on top. The hair certainly didn’t look real. It looked completely out of place on his head.
THE LIFE LEFT: A GRIPPING PSYCHOLOGICAL THRILLER Page 3