by Bella James
I let out a big sigh and tried hard not to start crying. ‘Please don’t start being nice. It might make me throw up again.’
She smiled and said, ‘Actually, I wanted to talk to you about your hair. Don’t start shouting at me just yet, and try to remember that I’ve spent a lot of time with women who’ve been through this so maybe I can help.’
I wanted desperately to tell her to fuck off but I do not speak to people like that, so I said nothing. I stared furiously at a freckle on one of my hands instead.
‘Your hair will grow back, Anna, probably a lot faster than you think, but for the next few months I want you to be able to face yourself and what’s happening to you.’
I felt some consolation that she seemed to think that I might still be here in a few months, until I looked down and saw she was holding a hand mirror.
‘I know that you’ve taken down the mirror in the bathroom, and you won’t let anyone touch your hair, but if you want it to grow back healthy, we need to cut it properly. I’ve brought some lotion that helps regrowth.’
‘Anna, I know you hate me. I’ve brought you nothing but bad news since we met, but please try to let me help.’
She was right. I did hate her, but part of me was curious to see what it was she had in mind. How awful did I actually look? The fact that almost everyone winced when they first came in to see me was not a good sign. A few weeks ago I did take down the bathroom mirror, Barbie was right about that.
I had made the mistake of looking into it after being sick through the night, and never mind the cancer, I nearly died right there and then. My face was unpleasantly gaunt, and there were blue and black circles around my eyes like dark bruises. Eyebrows and eyelashes gone, skin an ashen grey, but worse than any of that, worse than the stranger’s face looking back at me through hollow eyes, was my not so long ago Super Blonde hair.
I only had small tufts near my forehead and round the skull, then some long, thin straggly strands near the nape of my neck and my ears. They had all brought me various bandanas and wigs since then, but I was not in the mood. I had always worn make-up, and aimed for immaculacy. I loved moisturising my skin and highlighting my features. Kohl around the eyes, blusher to the apples of my cheeks, and I have very rarely been seen without lip gloss. It was the part of being female I loved the most. The bubble baths, the body oils, the hair perfume. And now look at me. No, if I was going to look like the walking dead I might as well do it right. I could not see any way back to myself and it terrified me more than the cancer.
I took the mirror from above the wash basin and rested it gently but firmly behind the sink unit, glass facing the wall. I remember going to bed that night and praying to God I would not wake up.
‘I’ve brought you some things.’ Dr Braby’s strident voice broke through my thoughts.
I must admit I was more than a little enticed when she placed some rather expensive-looking bags on the tray in front me. I saw Ralph Lauren and what looked like a Chanel powder compact.
I tried my best to look nonchalant, and sighed dramatically. ‘If you must.’
I felt hugely self-conscious as she snipped away at the sparse strands of hair and cut them short. But she chatted as she snipped and it was starting to feel better. This woman was so bloody sure of herself it was hard to believe she did not know exactly what she was doing.
‘That’s better already,’ she told me, using a huge make-up brush to dust the hairs off me as if we were in a salon. ‘Izzy told me she brought you some toiletries weeks ago but you’ve never even looked at them.’
‘In that cupboard.’ I pointed to where I had stuffed the bag, thinking I was too miserable for my old luxuries. They belonged to another life.
‘Here, have a look.’
I opened the lovely Ted Baker bag and ooh’d and aah’d for a while at its contents. How could I have missed out on this, and have not even thanked Izzy?
All of my favourite things: a bottle of Chloé perfume (almost new), some Max Factor lip crayons, Olay cleansing wipes, and a Clinique moisturiser. There were more treasures in the side compartment; YSL Touche Éclat, and a large tube of Benefit lip gloss.
I was beginning to think this had all been planned. How did Dr Braby know Izzy tried to give me these things and I had all but thrown them back at her?
My hands were a little shaky so the good doctor ordered me to lie back against the propped up pillows, and can you imagine that I actually let her cleanse my skin with the wipes? It felt tingly and fresh against my dry face. She gently massaged and moisturized with Clinique and it felt a little like a spa treatment. I felt relaxed and maybe a less afraid. Who knows, one day I might get better, maybe my hair would grow back and I could find a way to be me again. Dangerous optimism.
She dabbed the concealer around my eyes and finished off with a dusting of her own Chanel powder and a tiny bit of bronzer.
‘You look so different, Anna.’
I didn’t really believe her, but ever hopeful, I found myself smiling back at her.
‘That’s the first time you’ve ever smiled at me properly. It’s so much nicer than being scowled and shouted at.’ She was reaching into the larger bag and pulling out some bronze tissue paper. ‘I bought this in Italy a long time ago. I haven’t worn it – it never suited me – but I was clearing out my drawers and I … Well, I thought you might like it.’
Looking a little awkward, she pulled out a silk Ralph Lauren head scarf, cream with gold buckles and horseshoes. It was beautiful. I let the silky material glide through my bony fingers.
‘I couldn’t,’ I began to say, but she swiftly folded the scarf a few times (she had clearly done this before) and gently placed it over me, covering my forehead, tying it low at the back so the two ends fell over my shoulders. Then she held up the mirror.
‘Maybe you’re ready to look at yourself again.’
I breathed deeply and took the mirror, gasping when I saw the reflection. I still looked very different but there was no mistaking the girl looking back at me. The one I thought had already died.
Dr Braby left soon after, and I almost thanked her as she started to walk through the door. Instead I asked, ‘Do you give all your patients silk head scarves?’
‘No,’ she replied simply. ‘But technically, you’re not my patient. I seem to have adopted you.’
I spent the next ten minutes alone, growing ever more critical of the girl in the mirror. I actually thought I looked sort of pretty. A little fragile, but it suited me. It was the eyebrows and lashes that let me down, that made me look ill, not to mention the fact that under the scarf I had about as much hair as a newly hatched chick. I smudged a little grey pencil around my eyes, applied some lip gloss, and was trying desperately to be positive when Isabel walked back in. She was carrying what appeared to be a market stall worth of fruit. Looking a little taken aback, she dropped the fruit on the table (and floor) and sat next to me, leaning in for a closer look.
I had to ask her the question I would be too afraid to ask anyone else. Doctors, Jules, my parents … I knew she would tell me the truth; she could be brutal and knew I did not need to be patronized. Izzy had seen me at my best and now my very worst. She knew all my secrets. We had always been a little competitive – she was naturally pretty in a way I envied. She envied my flair, and my incessant need to take centre stage had always riled her. We loved and fought each other and I knew as I lay pathetic and spent in that hospital bed, she could make or break me.
‘How do I look?’
Her grey eyes never left mine, nor did they waver for a second.
‘Like Scarlett Johansson.’
And that, ladies and gentleman, is why God created sisters.
***
I had just turned four when Izzy was born, but I still remember the events surrounding her arrival rather well. It began with my parents sitting me down in our grand living room and talking to me about my cousins Cher and Natasha.
‘You know that they’re sisters, darling?
Well, how would you feel about having a little brother or sister to play with?’
Hmmph. This was a tricky one. My young mind whirled around the possibilities of this new concept. For one, I did always feel a little bit of an outsider when we were all together. Tash and Cher had a bond that reminded me of an exclusive club, or a secret that I was not quite privy to. On the other hand, they did spend a lot of time fighting like monsters, and I often became the one to pair up with after such arguments. They always made up though, and we would be back to square one, me desperately trying to join in with their whispered giggling and jokes I did not quite get.
Natasha was the eldest, and she seemed to get the better deal. If there were toys or sweets to be shared, she always got to do the dealing out sixty-forty. She made all the important decisions, like who would be the princess and who the servant, who got to play with Malibu Barbie and which of us was left with a bereft-looking Sindy (usually me).
Of course, with my parents waiting for my answer, these musings flashed by me in a heartbeat. When you are so young, you don’t agonize over decisions, you decide instinctively. The dissecting of every single detail comes much later in life – along with the paranoid fear of making the wrong choices that have often led me to a sleepless night.
‘Will I be the oldest one?’
‘Well, yes, darling, you were born first so you’ll be four years older. You’ll be able to help look after her.’
‘Then yes,’ I decided firmly. ‘We’ll call her Tulip as well.’ My only experience thus far of taking care of something was the tender love and care I proffered to my darling dwarf rabbit, Tulip. She lived contentedly in our garden shed, with an outdoor run when the weather was good.
Apart from my fascination with my mother’s ever-growing bump, I do not remember giving the new baby much more thought until the day she was born.
My mother ended a lovely outing rather suddenly, and took me to my grandparents’ house, telling me to be good and wait for her. Something about buying me ice cream was mentioned, but even then I knew placation when I heard it. I begged her to take me with her, but she left me crying at the front door and never came back as promised.
‘She said she would be back before bedtime,’ I complained to Grandad that afternoon.
‘Well, Anna, Lillian will be home when she’s home, won’t she? Won’t be long now, I’m sure. Run along and fetch Grandad a bottle of beer from Granny, and I’ll help you make Tulip another daisy chain.’
I felt certain something bad was happening and did not like him calling my mother by her actual name, but I went inside to find Grandma anyway. Tulip did need another daisy chain – I think she had eaten the last one.
Grandma looked very worried and sad all evening but if I asked why she had been crying she told me not to be silly and said, ‘Grandmas don’t cry, darling. They’re always happy and if we ever do cry, they are tears of joy. Don’t you worry about that.’
I can’t have looked convinced because she finished her drink and tickled my tummy until I cried lots of happy tears.
The following day, the phone rang and, afterwards, Grandad walked into the living room, beaming, and said, ‘Well, my dear, you have a new granddaughter. Seven pounds and three ounces. Anna, you have a brand new baby sister!’
‘Did she get her at the shops, Grandad?’
He laughed softly and plonked me on his lap. ‘That’s right, my little treasure, she went to the shops and swapped that great big bump in her tummy for a beautiful little girl for you to play with.’ He chuckled again and downed the last of his celebratory beer.
Izzy was born on a Friday, but she was not brought home until nearly a week later. I was excited to see her, but had especially missed my mother, who had thought it was best if I stayed at home rather than going into hospital to see her. I had never been apart from her for so long and when I saw her walk through the front door, I ran straight into her arms.
But something was wrong; she had a huge cut along her forehead and a bandage on her arm. Dad was carrying a baby basket behind her. He looked terribly angry and did not acknowledge me at all.
‘Hello, angel.’ My mother bent down and hugged me as best she could. She held me tightly then stood back while Dad placed the bassinet on the settee beside us. ‘Don’t worry, Anna. Mummy just fell over. Come and say hello to Isabel.’
I was still deeply shocked to see my beautiful mother with bruises, but she did sound OK and I could not resist a peek at my new sister. I leaned over and there she was, wrapped up and pink-faced. I remember looking at her for a long time while the grown-ups fussed and got my mother settled. ‘I wanted to call you Tulip like my bunny,’ I told her, and gently put my hand near hers, a little afraid to touch her just yet. To my absolute delight, she reached up with her tiny fingers and grabbed my hand. ‘Mummy, look! MUMMY! She’s holding my hand!’ I desperately wanted someone to see, to share the moment with me, but when I turned around I saw my dad leaving the house with a suitcase and Grandma with her head in her hands, crying more happy tears.
***
I remember Isabel coming home, but the years following are hazier. I know my father worked away for much of the time. I could often hear Mother crying in her room, so I supposed they had argued and he had left, but she would always give me the same response. ‘Your father and I are just fine, Anna. I don’t know where you get these things. You know he sells antiques all over the world; of course he couldn’t be in two places at once.’ The conversation would end with something like, ‘God, your sister never asks these bloody questions!’
She got more and more bad-tempered as the years went by, and the beautiful, joyful mother of my childhood was a long way from the miserable, bitter-faced shell we had lived with since.
Don’t get me wrong, my mother was still extremely beautiful. She was strikingly tall and fashionably slim – she barely ate so couldn’t really be anything else. She had piercing green eyes which looked striking with her long blonde hair.
Her hair was usually pulled back into a conservative chignon, but the few times I had seen it worn loose, Mother really became exquisite. A little frown line had appeared between her eyebrows over the years, but other than that it was hard to find fault with her appearance. Lillian’s character, however, was far from charming.
Before Isabel was born I remember her laughing so much more. She was always a little reserved but affectionate in her own way. Izzy and I were wary of her mood swings, and although she tried to disguise them, she was short-fused and liked to spend a great deal of time alone. We were often packed off to our grandparents’ for the weekend, even during the rare occasions my father came home.
We never minded going to Grandma’s. During the day we would run wild in the huge garden, and were not told to stay clean and make sure our hair was tidy. There were no designer dresses and ribbons to spoil anyway at Grandma’s. As soon as we got there, Gran would pack them into a drawer and give us the clothes she had made especially for us: fabulous denim dungarees with big, red flower-shaped buttons. She would take our long hair down from its braids and tell us stories about Rapunzel and Sleeping Beauty.
Evenings were exciting. Grandma and Grandad drank little bottles of beer while we watched game shows and Izzy and I would entertain ourselves by building fortresses with the empty bottles. Looking back now I suppose they did drink too much. It came to a head one weekend when Izzy was eight and I was twelve and we helped ourselves to the ‘special juice’ that Gran told us was only for her and Grandad. But it was bright orange and fruity and I couldn’t resist sneaking into the kitchen while they watched their shows and daring Izzy to try some. That was another great thing about having a sister; she was like the queen’s taster. Anything I wasn’t sure of, she tried it first. Izzy scooped a cup into the big glass bowl and took a little sip. She scrunched her cute face up.
‘It’s sort of sweet and funny tasting.’
‘Have some more!’ I egged her on, delighted that she was such a daredevil.
‘OK, baby face. I’ll try it.’ That seemed to cheer her up, and she scooped in to fill the cup up to the brim. I considered pretending to try it by spitting it back into the cup; she was so gullible I knew she would fall for it. But the truth was I wanted to try some. I had noticed every time adults drank, they got louder and sort of giggly. ‘Tipsy’, my gran would say.
‘Bottom’s up!’ I said, and drank the whole cup. I knew I was showing off but Izzy looked so impressed I asked for another. And another. At first I liked the feeling, I was a little light-headed and starting being very silly, making Izzy laugh. Then of course I started to feel unpleasantly dizzy, and eventually began to throw up. I can’t remember how many cups I had drunk when my grandparent’s came rushing in, but I remember the look on their faces was so frightening I began to shake and cry hysterically. Grandad scooped me up and the last memory I have of that evening is being bundled into the back of a car and my little sister’s frightened face at the dining room window, her lips mouthing my name.
I woke up in a hospital bed the next day, and my mother was beside me. Her eyes were red and she looked like she might start yelling, so I started to cry first and said sorry over and over. She held me in her arms and told me it wasn’t my fault. We didn’t stay at my grandparent’s house after that until we were much older. My father started to come home at weekends and Izzy and I got on with our lives as children do.
I sometimes wonder if that could be the reason my mum is so cold to Grandma. But my grandparents loved us so much, and surely everyone is allowed one mistake? They didn’t have alcohol around us again until very recently, so they had learned their lesson. I guessed that our mother was (as usual) looking for another reason to be judgmental and grim.
***
When I look out the window of my hospital room, I wonder how time can pass so quickly. It seems like only yesterday we were children, and Izzy would hold tightly on to my hand as we walked through the meadow to see the dapple grey pony Father had surprised us with one summer’s afternoon. I close my eyes, praying to be returned to those happier times, where neither of us had heard of this illness and our only troubles were making flowers stay in Starlight’s mane.