The Shape of Us: A hilarious and emotional page turner about love, life and laughter

by Drew Davies

  ‘But… how did you get here? Was that you buzzing before? I thought it was those Mormons again…’

  ‘Yeah, I…’

  ‘Actually, let’s not stand around in the hallway – come inside, Dylan. Come in. We’re letting all the heat out.’

  Janelle quickly shuts the door after him.

  ‘I’m sorry about the state of the place,’ she says, as she beckons him through the short hallway, into a living room. ‘You’ve caught me off guard – I wasn’t expecting anyone.’

  The living room would be crowded enough with the sofa, two armchairs, the plastic Christmas tree in the corner blinking, and the television (the muted screen filled with flying monkeys – Dylan recognises the film, but can’t remember its name), but there are cardboard boxes everywhere, their contents spilling out onto the floor and the coffee table and the window ledges – books and old binders and stacks of papers, jewellery, cables, wires, shoes and piles and piles of clothes. There are clothes on the sofa too, and when Janelle moves to one of the armchairs, Dylan pushes a pile to one side, so he can sit.

  ‘Now tell me,’ she says, leaning forward, still clasping the robe together, ‘how did you even know where I lived?’

  Dylan bites the side of his mouth.

  ‘You said your place always smelt like croissants,’ he explains, ‘because there was a bakery next door. And you mentioned once there was a post office box right outside your flat. I already knew you lived somewhere in Highgate or Archway, so I searched Google Maps until I found a match. It wasn’t difficult.’

  ‘But why did you come?’

  ‘To help you,’ he replies. ‘To make sure you were alright.’

  Janelle turns away as if she’s thinking. When she faces him again, Dylan can see her eyes are wet.

  ‘Why wouldn’t I be alright?’ she asks, her mouth tight.

  ‘Something’s wrong, I can tell.’

  ‘Oh, Dylan,’ Janelle says softly, her eyes beginning to fill with tears. ‘This is so surreal. I haven’t seen anyone for days, and then you turn up out of the blue.’ Sniffing, she arranges her bathrobe to better cover her knees. ‘I feel like I’m imagining this…’

  ‘No, I’m real,’ replies Dylan. ‘You can pinch me if you like?’

  ‘I’ve been cooped up here all week. I’m going stir crazy.’

  ‘Because of your ex-boyfriend?’

  ‘What?’ Janelle frowns. ‘No… why? I haven’t spoken to Justin in months.’

  ‘I thought he was threatening you or something?’ Dylan says quickly. ‘Because of the way he was before, when he grabbed your wrists. And you left Facebook, and you didn’t reply to my emails. And then I got your text message…’

  ‘I know – I’m sorry I sent you that. It wasn’t fair. When I saw the post on your blog… Oh, Dylan, I’ve let you down. I’ve let everyone down.’

  Janelle starts to cry, big gasping sobs.

  Dylan doesn’t know she means – how could she possibly have let anyone down? She’s Janelle…? He sits with his hands tucked under his legs, trying to think what to say next.

  ‘I’ve failed everyone,’ Janelle says through her tears.

  ‘No, you haven’t.’

  ‘I have.’ Janelle wipes her face with her hands – Dylan considers getting some toilet paper, but remembers he doesn’t know where the bathroom is yet. ‘I’m just not strong enough,’ she says, rubbing her wet hands together as if to dry them. ‘I’ve tried to be, but I’m not.’ Janelle gives a sad chuckle. ‘I can’t even say it out loud,’ she says, rolling her wet eyes.

  ‘Say what?’

  ‘It’s come back.’ Janelle exhales deeply. ‘The cancer.’

  Several muscles in Dylan’s stomach contract all at once.

  ‘Oh,’ he says, as if he’s been kicked very hard in the gut. His fingers grip the sofa cushion, and he puts his weight on his toes to brace himself against the wave of sadness coursing through his body.

  ‘It. This thing. This other thing. Do you know what cancer really is, though?’

  Dylan can barely muster a shake of his head.

  ‘It’s your own cells,’ Janelle says. ‘They don’t want to hurt you. They don’t mean to be abnormal and multiply, they’re only trying to help. But you’re supposed to fight cancer – every step of the way. The first time it happened, oh, I did – I fought,’ she wipes her eyes, ‘I fought so hard there was skin under my fingernails, and blood in my mouth and everyone was right there with me. It was almost a relief after my ME, to have a disease people could get behind. You must know what that’s like when people don’t believe you,’ Dylan nods, he does. ‘All my friends and family kept sending inspirational quotes on Facebook, and offering to come to doctor’s appointments, or making sure I was eating right – a couple even went on charity runs to raise money – everyone says we are going to beat this. We’ll make it pay. Kick its butt. That’s how people talk, as if you’re going to jump cancer in some alley. But I did, I beat it. Dylan, I was so happy too. Strangers would send emails congratulating me, my dad took me out for dinner – my feet didn’t touch the ground. I told myself the remission was a sign from God. I might not have the grades to go to medical school, but I could help people like me – children and teenagers with chronic fatigue – so I signed up for the training. I didn’t have any money, but I knew I’d find a way, and then: tax rebate, holiday pay, money from my grandmother, just like that it all fell into place.’

  Janelle wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.

  ‘Do you mind if I have a cigarette?’ she asks Dylan.

  ‘You smoke?’ he replies, shocked.

  ‘Only sometimes,’ she replies, sniffing. ‘Don’t tell anyone.’ Janelle hunts around on the cluttered coffee table until she finds a crumpled cigarette packet, a small black lighter and a used ashtray, hidden under a magazine. ‘Actually,’ she says, taking out a cigarette, ‘more than sometimes now. Most times. My flatmate is going to hit the roof when she gets back from her trip.’

  ‘But smoking is so bad for you!’

  Janelle shrugs.

  ‘It’s not like it’s going to kill me. Won’t get the chance…’

  Dylan does not like this joke.

  Janelle lights the cigarette and inhales deeply.

  ‘I wanted to become a practitioner to help people.’

  ‘You have. You did. You helped me.’

  She smiles, genuinely now it seems, and it’s the first glimmer of the normal Janelle he’s seen.

  ‘Thank you. I appreciate that.’

  ‘I would still be in bed if it wasn’t for you.’

  ‘I know… and that’s wonderful, but what if I was only trying to pay back a debt I felt I owed? If I was only helping people so I wouldn’t get sick again? What if God, or the Universe, could tell I was being selfish? The cancer came back because there’s something malignant in me? Something that was only pretending to be nurturing and kind?’

  She rubs her eyes with one hand, the cigarette in her other hand sending up a plume of smoke.

  ‘I spent so many years being sick – not knowing if I’d ever get better again, stuck in my house with chronic fatigue, while my friends were off getting driving licences and going on dates, or choosing their universities. The cancer was my wake-up call, I knew I had to make a change. This was my chance. I mastered the course, reprogrammed my thinking, and I did get better, step by step. I focused everything on becoming a better person, being a role model, leading by example. I know I’ve told you some things about my childhood and growing up, but it was really tough. My mum was always working, she did her best, but I was alone a lot of the time. I was awkward at school, extremely shy, and being the only brown kid in my class didn’t help. I don’t look like anyone else in my family – for a long time I thought I was adopted. So, when I was fourteen, and the ME started, I wasn’t in the best place. This shadow had formed already: “I’m not good enough. I deserve to be sick. I’m ugly. Useless”.’ She starts crying again, and after putting the ciga
rette in the ashtray, covers her face with both hands. ‘No one would ever love me.’

  She sits back in the armchair, still covering her face, and sobs.

  Dylan doesn’t know what to do. He’s impinged on something he’s totally unskilled for. Above my paygrade, as his dad would say. The pain and sadness of this beautiful woman, who meant so much to Dylan, who he admired so much, who had helped him more than anyone else – it was almost too much to bear. He could feel the emotion building in his chest, but he didn’t know how to express it.

  ‘This is why I’ve been hiding myself away,’ Janelle says finally, ‘I’m so miserable.’ She chuckles again, sniffing. ‘You should have to wear a biohazard suit to come in here, my despair is probably contagious.’

  ‘I don’t mind,’ Dylan lied. ‘Emotions aren’t scary to me.’

  ‘You’re so sweet. Not everyone is so understanding. That’s why I left Facebook, I just couldn’t handle it anymore. All the people with their opinions. Have you tried this? Have you done that? Worse is the deafening silences. No one offers to go on a charity run for you a second time. There’s no rousing calls to “beat it” again. Because maybe, you’re just sickly? Maybe you brought this on yourself? Or perhaps you’re not really a survivor after all?’

  ‘No,’ Dylan says, sitting up straight. ‘That’s the sort of negative stuff you taught me about. I don’t think you have to beat up cancer, but I do think you should stop hurting yourself. Because that’s what you’re doing.’

  ‘I know, I’ve tried to, but I can’t.’

  ‘You must have felt low before – and you overcame it then.’

  ‘My cancer is back a second time, they’re not even sure if it’s operable, or if the chemo would work. They don’t know how far it’s spread.’

  ‘Which means it might not be as bad as you think…’

  ‘Or it might be worse.’ She shakes her head. ‘I know what you’re doing, because it’s what I would say. I can play all those confidence tricks in my mind, but I don’t believe them anymore. They have no power. There’s nothing behind the curtain, Dylan. Nothing. It’s hopeless.

  ‘I wanted to write books,’ she continues, almost wailing, ‘and go to university, and maybe get my law degree eventually – I don’t know, fall in love, have a family. I wanted so much to help people, I really did. I was trying to help the world.

  ‘Now I can’t even sort out my flat. Look at this place… I keep trying to get rid of stuff, but then something triggers a memory, and I can’t touch it. I’m not making any progress. I made you sit on my clean clothes. I should have folded that laundry days ago, and the pile keeps growing…’

  ‘I can fold them,’ Dylan says suddenly. ‘I’m good at folding laundry.’ He springs up and takes the item from the top – a cream cardigan – and starts to fold it.

  ‘No, Dylan, it’s fine. You don’t have to.’

  ‘I want to,’ he says, still folding. A blue t-shirt now.

  ‘Dylan,’ Janelle grabs his arm gently, sending a tingle through his body, ‘just leave it.’

  ‘Please,’ says Dylan in a firm voice, avoiding her eyes, his own brimming with tears. ‘I want to do this. Please.’

  They stand like this for what seems like a very long time.

  ‘Okay,’ she says, at last, letting his arm go.

  ‘Thank you.’

  He puts the t-shirt on the folded pile and starts on a green Puma jumper.

  ‘Can I help?’ Janelle asks after a few seconds.

  Dylan shrugs, keeping his attention on the process of folding, and Janelle joins him, making a pile next to his. They work in silence.

  ‘Do you need some assistance with that one?’ Janelle asks, eventually, when Dylan has an issue with a wraparound top with long ties, ‘I suppose you don’t have women around your place, do you? You’re not used to all our weird clothing?’

  ‘No,’ Dylan replies flatly. He does his best and places it on the pile.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Janelle says quietly. ‘That was too much before.’

  Dylan doesn’t say anything, as he folds a jumper that reads, ‘Out of Office,’ but tears begin to stream down his cheeks.

  ‘I’m sorry too,’ he says, and wraps his arms around her waist, and now they’re hugging – Janelle still holding the t-shirt she was folding in one hand – a deep embrace, both sobbing together, into each other, as if the other person is a vessel for their tears, their shoulders and necks and the sides of their faces soaked wet, as the Christmas lights blink on and off, on and off.

  ‘Shall we stop now?’ Janelle asks, once the tears have run dry, and they’re mostly sniffling, and rocking together, side to side. Dylan chuckles, nodding. ‘Are you sure,’ she teases, ‘there’s more washing?’

  ‘I don’t know how to fold the bras anyway,’ Dylan says, wiping his face and sitting again.

  ‘They are tricky,’ Janelle agrees, laughing as she sits too. And then they’re both giggling through the tears and snot. And crying again. It’s like a weird game of Simon Says. One starts, and the other follows – but it feels good, this flow of spontaneous tears and laughter.

  ‘I don’t want you to give up,’ Dylan says, wiping his eyes with the palms of his hands and wishing he’d brought a tissue. As if reading his mind, Janelle gets up, returning with a large wad of tissue paper.

  ‘I don’t want to give up either,’ she says, back in the armchair, giving him several tissues and then blowing her nose. ‘I won’t, I promise.’

  ‘And you don’t have to hide away like this. There are people that really care about you.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘What about your family – your mum, your step-sister?’

  ‘They’re doing everything they can. They’re amazing really, I have incredible people around me. But they have jobs and lives. No one can be with you in the darkness, in the dread. I think that’s why I lost it a bit, I went too deep down the well. That’s the reason you showed up.’ Janelle smiles again. ‘You’re my Guardian Angel.’

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ he replies, cheeks flushing.

  ‘You’ve come all this way, it’s a long trip from your house…’

  He shrugs, still wiping his nose with a tissue.

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘And you’re so much taller than the last time I saw you. Stand up.’

  They both stand up again.

  ‘Look,’ Janelle says, ‘you’re taller than me now. Shooting up.’

  Dylan stares at his feet and gives an embarrassed grin, before they both sit down again.

  ‘Thank you for the typewriter,’ he says.

  ‘Oh, it arrived? Good! I really wanted you to have it. That typewriter’s been in my family for years. It belonged to my great grandmother – she was a Wren during the Second World War, and she wanted to write a book about her experiences, but then she had a family, and life got busy. She passed it on to my mother – I was never allowed to play with it as a kid – but when Mum gave it to me, I hardly ever used it. Don’t make the same mistake, Dylan. Your writing’s really good. You must keep it up.’

  Dylan smiles sheepishly again, feeling guilty for stopping his blog.

  ‘Do you want a drink?’ Janelle asks. ‘I haven’t offered you anything…’

  ‘I’m okay,’ Dylan replies. He already had three Cokes in the limousine on the way over.

  Janelle watches him for a moment.

  ‘One thing I’ve always wanted to ask,’ she says. ‘You don’t ever mention your mum?’

  Dylan looks away.

  ‘There’s not much to say,’ he says.

  ‘I understand what it’s like when your parents split up – but you were so ill for so long. Your mum didn’t come to visit once?’

  ‘She has her other family now. Other children.’

  ‘So, you have brothers and sisters?’

  ‘Sort of. A half-brother and half-sister in Trinidad.’

  ‘Are they older or younger than you?’

  ‘They’re e
ight and five.’

  ‘What are they like?’

  Dylan squirms in his seat.

  ‘I haven’t met them.’

  Janelle opens her eyes wide. ‘Never? Why not?’

  ‘When I was a baby, my mother had clinical depression. She went to Trinidad for a visit and didn’t come back.’

  ‘But you’ve been so ill? I’m surprised your mum didn’t visit at all.’

  ‘Dad said we’d tell her if they found something serious.’

  ‘But you were in bed for months and months…?’ Dylan can’t explain the rationale to Janelle – it would have been too jarring to have his mother in the same room while he was grappling with his illness, too stressful after all that time.

  ‘You’re getting better now though. I mean, you came all this way from Croydon!’

  ‘Everyone keeps saying I am.’ Dylan stares at the floor.

  ‘But you’re not sure?’

  He shakes his head. ‘If I tell them, I’ll only have to do more tests. Dad can’t take any more time off work anyway. And I’m starting school on Monday.’

  ‘That might be good – you’ll get to see your friends again?’

  Dylan doesn’t reply.

  ‘You’re getting so tall, I bet you’ll be breaking hearts when you go back, what with those babyface good looks.’

  ‘There’s someone I like already…’ Dylan is surprised by his own words.

  ‘Oh really? Who?’

  Dylan shrugs nervously.

  ‘Just someone.’

  He gives Janelle an awkward look. It’s taking his energy to try and hide his emotions, but they’re written all over his face.

  ‘Oh,’ Janelle says, understanding. ‘I wasn’t sure you even liked girls…’ she changes tack. ‘Well, I can honestly say, you are the best man in my life right now, Dylan. I’m very close to marrying you, watch out.’ He smiles and stares at his feet again. ‘It’s true, I’ll marry you if you’re not careful. Then you’ll be stuck with me.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound too bad,’ he says.

  ‘No? You don’t know the half of it. What you saw today was just the taster. You ready for the full-on crazy Janelle experience?’

  She nudges him.