The Tumours Made Me Interesting

by Matthew Revert

  “Mum!”

  I spilled into the bedroom and flicked on the light. My mother was still alive. My abandonment hadn’t killed her, but she didn’t look good. Her arm/body was entombed in a plaster cast and she dangled from the ceiling in a sling.

  “What happened?” I gasped.

  “They hurt me, dear. I was dropped on the way to the bathroom.”

  I lunged at her helpless body, wrapping my arms around her.

  “Who’s they,” I asked.

  My mother looked at me with puzzled eyes.

  “The people you sent to look after me of course.”

  I slumped onto her bed and curled into a fetal ball. Fiona had tricked my mother into believing this was coming from me. She had tricked me into somehow thinking she gave a shit about my mother’s wellbeing. She had used my mother’s trust in me against her. She had used the love I have for mum against me. I wanted to tear her apart. The tumours growled in agreement.

  “I didn’t send anyone, mum. These people were sent by Fiona.”

  She hung directly above me and craned her neck to look down. It was like we were kids in a bunk bed.

  “Bruce… darling… you look terrible.”

  “I’ve been better,” I said.

  We both remained silent, lost in individual variations of the same thought. I flushed hot with Fiona-induced hate. My tumours fed off the hate and bucked in delight. As much as Fiona wanted to believe my tumours were hers, they were on my side. They responded only to me. They would protect me. They would only stop protecting me when they were no longer inside me, and when that point arrived, they sure as hell weren’t going to want to be slaves to Fiona.

  The house smelled like a train station toilet. My mother was snoring above me, which filled me with relief. She didn’t need to be awake right now. I thought about trying to clean everything up and flushing the horror away. Maybe she’d wake up and dismiss it as a bad dream. I needed to get her down from the sling. I needed to cut away the plaster. I stared at my emaciated hands and wondered how the fuck I would manage such a feat. It was hard enough to move her when I was in (my version of) pristine physical condition. I had never been endowed with strength. I needed one of those ingenious solutions typically found on television. I stood on the bed and tried supporting her weight with my hands. I felt and heard my left wrist crack. I fell down on the bed and indulged in a cathartic writhe. The truth was I didn’t really feel much pain. My hand hung unnaturally from my arm. A slither of bone had pierced through my skin. These were cues that pain should be present, but pain didn’t mean much to me anymore. My body had deteriorated so much that a lousy broken wrist was a mere drop in the ailment ocean. Perhaps the tumours were devouring my pain. More likely, the horrible pain I’d acclimatised to in the last month had simply drowned out everything else.

  I surveyed the debris in the bedroom for a makeshift implement to free my mother. The debris’s bulk was comprised of rusty tin, contorted into abstract sculptures. I theorised that attempting to use the tin to free my mother would result in misfortune. The rest of the debris was nothing more than pebble-sized insignificance. I furrowed my brow into a deep V, willing inspiration to arrive.

  Why don’t you just ask us for help, said my tumours.

  The thought should have crossed my mind, but it simply hadn’t. I longed to overcome the dilemma myself, besides, I didn’t want to lose any more of them. Each time the tumours came to my aide, I lost one. My body was like a genie with a finite supply of wishes. I glanced up at my mother, still asleep in her sling.

  “I really want to do this one myself, fellas,” I replied.

  A warbling sound tickled at my insides.

  Look, Bruce… we don’t want to sound rude or anything, but you really need our help. You’re not going to beat this one on your own. You’re in a pickle and life’s dirty mouth is about to eat you for lunch.

  Their psychically spoken words melted into my brain, coating everything in reason. I stared at my arms again with one wrist pathetically broken and the other begging to follow suit. My mother began muttering something in her sleep about cake.

  “Am I really this pathetic?” I asked.

  You’re not as pathetic as you used to be, but you have a long way to go. Look… we’re not going to lie to you, Bruce. We have an agenda. We want out. We have grown as much as we can within your body. If we want to reach maturity, we have to get out. You’ve been so good to us. Let us return the favour.

  I didn’t have a choice. There was no way I could get my mother down alone. I rubbed my stomach, partly as a way of saying goodbye to the tumours I was about to lose. I flopped to my knees and then let my face fall into the carpet. I jutted my arse out and closed my eyes. The tumultuous swirl of the tumours began.

  We’ll have her down in no time, said the tumours.

  I used my functional hand to work my pants and diaper down. Accumulated slush slopped out. I didn’t look – the sensation was more than enough for me to ascertain how unpleasant it all was. The walls of my bowel started to pulsate like a worm as the involuntary push commenced. I could feel a tumour move, edging its way forward, hungry for freedom, chewing a path like Pac Man. Beads of sweat burnt my eyes and tumbled down the bridge of my nose. An ambiguous moan escaped my mouth that may have been pain and may have been pleasure. I closed my eyes and felt the wet explosion leave my body. I flopped to my side and watched. The tumour was dressed as an old time mountaineer and whistled discordant shards of feedback. The tumours inside me yodeled and cheered their comrade on. It deftly maneuvered its way up the wall toward the anchor point of my mother’s sling and began chewing on the material, compromising its integrity. She remained sleeping, oblivious to the peculiar event unfolding. It didn’t take long for the sling to tear. With the aide of gravity, my mother fell to the bed below, bouncing a couple of times before coming to a gentle rest. The tumour burped and took what looked like a bow.

  I army crawled toward the bed, fighting my own weakness with every slight movement. I climbed atop the mattress, joining my mother and nuzzling into her sweaty neck/wrist. Her eyes flickered open and an emphysema-ridden spray coughed from her mouth. She glanced upward where, only moments ago, her body hung.

  “I’m down,” she said, belief absent from her hoarse voice. “Thank you, dear.”

  “Yeah… you’re down. But it wasn’t me, mum.”

  She cocked her brow and smiled.

  “Then who?” she asked.

  My heroic tumour mounted the bed and crawled onto my chest. It was flashing an unmistakable grin and the proudest eyes I’d ever seen. My mother’s mouth fell open.

  “What… what is that?”

  My mind rehearsed variations of the truth. I had to give her an explanation, but I didn’t know how. The truth of it all was so absurd. I settled for bluntness.

  “That’s one of my tumours, mum.”

  I let my answer hang in the air long enough for her to swallow it. Her face was a contortion of attempted understanding and disbelief.

  “I don’t think I understand,” she replied in a whisper.

  “I can’t begin to tell you how honoured I am to meet you, Ms Miles,” interjected my tumour in a rich, sonorous baritone.

  We both stared at it, completely flummoxed.

  “Bruce, dear… why is your tumour talking?” asked mum.

  “Because I raised it really well. I’m really good at tumours”

  I gave it a little pat. It was coated in pink mucous that clung to my hand.

  “Don’t touch it! You’ll get sick, dear.”

  I couldn’t stop the laughter this advice caused. Each amused heave caused waves of pain.

  “Look at me, mum… I couldn’t get any sicker. I’m about as close as you can get to death before you stop breathing.”

  Her eyes evolved from the usual sadness and became angry.

  “What about the help you were getting?” she snapped.

  “Yeah… I got help, but it wasn’t for me. It was for th
e tumours.”

  The anger in her eyes kept intensifying and joining forces with abject disgust. I felt myself shrinking into childhood.

  “Why the hell would you allow something like that to happen? Why didn’t you talk to me about it? We could have found help for you, Bruce.”

  I scrunched my eyes shut to stop the encroaching tears. I didn’t know what to say.

  “If I may interject,” said the tumour, “your son’s condition wasn’t one that bred optimism. I have been a part of a very pernicious illness. Your son’s body is riddled with tumours just like me.”

  These words did little to soothe my mother. Her breathing quickened to the point of hyperventilation.

  “You’re a murderer,” she gasped, averting her gaze from the fleshy curio.

  “That’s not entirely true, Ms Miles. We’re opportunists. Your son merely provided the perfect vessel for us to flourish.”

  I bit my tongue. This wasn’t a conversation I wanted any part of. It was enough that I had to listen.

  “Like any other biological phenomenon, Ms Miles, we merely exist. I admit… it’s unfortunate that our existence consumes the life of the vessel we inhabit. When our vessel dies, we die, Ms Miles. This isn’t something we particularly appreciate.”

  My mother started to writhe around, her plaster cast bulk rocking left and right. I’d never seen her look so wretched and uncomfortable.

  “Get this fucking cast off of me!” she screamed. “My whole arm itches and burns.”

  The tumour faced me and developed temporary shoulders, which it shrugged in my direction. I gave a slight nod in response.

  “Hold still,” said the tumour. “We’ll get you out of there.”

  She didn’t respond. She merely allowed her body to still while the tumour got to work. It gnawed on the cast, crushing its culinary path into powder that filled the room in a white plume. My mother started to chuckle.

  “I wish that didn’t tickle so much. It’s compromising the emotional weight of the situation.”

  The tumour diligently kept chewing, slowly freeing my mother of her plaster prison. Her giant fingers stretched in relief as more and more of her arm was kissed by the air. With one final chew, the whole cast fell away. The tumour rolled down to the bed and gasped.

  “I’m spent,” it said.

  My mother’s body was scrawled in juvenile tags and profanity. It was slick with sweat and pink with irritation.

  “Who did this to you, mum?” I asked. “I want names!”

  She glanced down at the source of my disgust and exhaled pent up frustration.

  “I couldn’t tell you even if I wanted to. The pills I was given knocked me right out. It doesn’t really matter though. It will wash off. This is nothing.”

  I considered her words carefully before continuing.

  “I’ll make you a deal, mum… I’ll promise not to waste time worrying about who did this to you if you promise to do something for me.”

  She stared, refusing to agree to my conditions, but clearly interested in my proposal.

  “I want you to… umm… I want you to thank the tumour for freeing you.”

  Once again we remained silent. I was letting my words churn in her brain, hoping that somehow she’d find the inherent logic. I didn’t know why it was important to me, but I wanted my tumours acknowledged for the good they did and not just for the damage they wrought. The tumour stared at me like I was crazy and yeah… I probably was. But these revolting little growths were my children. If my mother could, in some small way, accept them, it would make me feel better. It would make me feel like I hadn’t done all of this for nothing.

  “Thank you,” she said suddenly, jolting my introspection. “Thank you for getting me out of the cast. Thank you for getting me out of the sling. Although I will never abide your role in the decline of my son, I appreciate the help.”

  The tumour beamed a ridiculous smile at me before climbing my mother to kiss her cheek. With each fleshy kiss she coughed and wretched.

  “Please get off of me,” she whimpered.

  The tumour obeyed without question and made for the windowsill.

  “I believe my work here is done. If you need any more help, call on another of your little buddies. We all like you – even the queen.”

  With a tilt of his mountaineering cap, he jumped from the window. The tumour was gone. Another of my children had left me. I felt the loss immediately.

  In the time that followed, my mother and I didn’t really talk much. We just sought comfort in the other’s presence. I wanted to tend to her in a desperate attempt to atone for my negligence. But strangely, it was her who cared for me. I watched her move around the house, dragging herself with those spidery fingers. She managed to find a tin of lychees in a cupboard that she chewed open. She garnished the lychees with cumin powder and watched over me while I ate. The cumin and lychees made poor bedfellows, but I struggled them down out of respect. The food did imbue me with something resembling strength. I was made to lie in her bed and sleep while she sat by my side in a chair. She sang me folk tunes from her childhood – something she hadn’t done since mine. Despite not having heard them in thirty years, the words were burnt into my memory, irremovable.

  I tried to buy a bag of wheat

  But didn’t have the time

  To pay for something nice to eat

  I sucked upon a lime

  Lime o’ ye who covets I

  I am all alone

  Lime o’ doth thou have the time

  To listen to a poem

  She sung like the locked groove of a vinyl – ceaseless and beautiful. I stole snippets of sleep and swam through dreams. I used to crave so much. I used to believe I could be all the things I ever wanted. My mother never dissuaded me. She made me feel so capable. When my father left, he took my confidence with him. When my father entrusted his role to me, he did so with all the included baggage. My mother grew too ill to let me flourish. As much as she hated it, she needed me. I never had a fucking chance.

  I was floundering somewhere between sleep and consciousness when I started to hear my name being called. The voice was that of a child and contained such desperation. It grew closer and became familiar.

  “Bruce, darling,” said my mother. “There’s a child here to see you.”

  I forced my eyes open. Belinda stood before me, her faced flushed with heat, tears streaked down her face.

  “Bruce… they’re coming for you,” she cried. “They’re on their way. They want your tumours.”

  Fiona was making her move.

  5.

  My mother looked on in horror after I gratefully accepted one of Belinda’s cigarettes and sucked it down in one strong drag. My whole body buzzed with satisfaction and relief.

  “What are you doing, Bruce? That’s a filthy habit.” She stared at Belinda who, despite the clear panic dancing about her face, still radiated innocence. “And what are you doing with cigarettes, little girl? How old are you?”

  “Mum… this really isn’t the time. We have a situation here.”

  Fiona and my ‘roommates’ were on their way with one objective in mind – get the tumours. Sirens filled the air, which backed up Belinda’s assertion that the police had also been called as a result of the deaths of Rhonda and the man at the Tent Bar. I was so thoroughly in over my head. The only thing I knew was that it wasn’t safe for my mother if I remained here.

  “We’re going to have to leave, mum,” I said. “They’ll be here any minute and I’m not letting you get hurt.”

  My mother tried blurting out several objections, but they tripped over themselves as they left her mouth. Belinda slung me a full pack of cigarettes.

  “I think you’ll need these,” she said.

  I patted her head and made for the door. Belinda followed close behind. There was no way I was dragging her along for this particular ride. I turned to face her, getting down on one knee so our eyes were level.

  “You can’t come, Belinda.
This is really dangerous and I can’t be responsible for you getting hurt. I’m already responsible for so much.”

  She clenched her fists and punched the air, throwing a bona fide tantrum. The squeals that left her mouth sounded like a thousand sharpened nails on a thousand blackboards. I winced in response.

  “LET ME COME,” she screamed.

  “Bruce, honey…” said my mother. “You’re not going anywhere. We’re doing this together. We’ll hunker this place down. We’ll be safe.”

  “But, mum…”

  She made a patronizing ‘shhhing’ sound at me. I wanted to throw a tantrum. My bottom lip quivered.

  “You’re not the boss of me,” I said.

  My mother shook her head, the same way she used to when I was a child.

  “You’re both staying here and that’s final. Fourteen months of labour means I get the final say. Are we clear?”

  I nodded my head. The labour argument floored me. As a baby, I sure had been reluctant to come out. Belinda’s tantrum had been replaced by excitement and she danced around the room with an invisible partner.

  “Okay, you two,” said my mother. “I want you to find anything you can and push it against the doorway.”

  We both obeyed without question. Within minutes the doorway was crowded with bits of gnarled tin, broken furniture and general refuse. I felt a sense of comfort at the thought of keeping whatever was coming for us out, but a much more profound discomfort at the thought of us being trapped in. I suppressed the discomfort with cigarettes (much to the chagrin of my mother) and pressed forward. The sirens had reached a deafening volume. Police lights flooded our window in circular flashes, turning the lounge room into a nightmarish disco.

  “They’re here,” said Belinda.

  “We’ll hide in the attic,” said my mother. “I think your father’s old cranberry gun is up there. We can protect ourselves.”

  Belinda and I each took one of mum’s fingers and made for the stairs. She took every bump with silent stoicism. I hadn’t been in the attic for nearly 20 years. It was a place that had always provoked fear. The last time I was up there, I was attacked by a swarm of moustaches. Ascending the stairs was difficult. Each step collided sharply with my mother’s head. Both Belinda and I apologised each time this happened.