Day 87
Monday morning. I drag myself into the office intending to tell my boss, which procedurally seems like the right place to start, but when it comes to it, I simply can’t say the words. Frank is the least sympathetic of anyone I know, so hardly the best choice for first disclosure.
“Spit it out, Jennifer,” he says.
“Um . . .” I’m literally trying to spit it out. His expression is making me so nervous I want to turn on my heels, come back through his door, and start again; find my usual confidence. Instead I’m rooted to the spot, my mouth dry, my tongue having forgotten its purpose. “I . . . I don’t want to worry you . . . but I’ve been quite tired recently, unusually tired in fact.”
He throws me a classic Frank scowl that says We’re all tired. Get over it.
It freezes me. I’m having an out-of-body experience, looking down on my own performance, and hearing myself going off-script. “I . . . I think I’m in need of a holiday, Frank.”
He folds his arms over his chest. “Well, book it in. You know the procedure—you wrote it.”
“Yeah . . . but . . . no! You’re right. I’ll book it in. I just thought I ought to warn you.”
I scuttle out of his office feeling sick and hopeless. I had no idea I was such a coward.
I wonder whether to break myself in more gently and tell Pattie, my best workmate. We joined the company on the same day sixteen years ago, which feels like both yesterday and a lifetime ago. Pattie’s divorced, too, only she has a son at university. We’ve spent many an evening together, ostensibly to discuss company grievances that, after a bottle of wine or two, would segue into our personal relationship woes. We’re definitely work buddies, but like wine, sometimes things spill over.
I pass her office and hover momentarily outside her door, noticing she’s on the phone. She catches my look and waves me in, signing tea? But there’s an invisible barrier holding me back and I can’t move. Instead, I check my watch somewhat overemphatically. Later, I mouth.
Back in my office, I pace the floor and decide I’m not a coward as far as Pattie’s concerned. It was the right thing not to tell her. She can’t bear the weight of my secret alone. It would be too hard for her to keep it to herself (everyone has to share a secret with someone, it’s human nature), and if word got out, particularly before I’d told Frank, it would be wrong. For now, while I don’t have any obvious signs, I might as well keep the news under wraps. And maybe if I behave normally, I’ll believe I’m normal and stave off my symptoms simply by snubbing them.
I sit at my desk, staring at my computer screen, wondering what normal is now. I try to think about what would usually concern me.
“Jennifer?”
I look up, snapped out of my daze. “Deborah. Sorry! Miles away.”
Standing in my doorway is Deborah Peevor, Ethan from IT’s assistant. Been with us for two and a half years. Straight from university. Nottingham. An undergraduate degree in sociology. Broken engagement, to Paul, childhood sweetheart, but to be honest she was too young anyway. At least my mind is still working, I think, even though I’m embarrassed I can retain this stuff. It runs through my head like the news ticker on a TV screen. Then again, it’s quite an asset if you’re in HR.
“Am I interrupting anything?” she asks. “I mean, I know we haven’t scheduled a meet, but would it be okay if I come in?” The poor girl’s face is bright red, and her shoulders seem to be hugging her neck. “It’s a personal emergency.”
“Of course,” I say, a touch too brusquely. “That’s what I’m here for.”
She hesitates. “Are you okay? I mean, if it’s the wrong moment . . .”
I realize that it’s going to be the wrong moment for the rest of my time here, so I might as well find out what her personal emergency is and hopefully put one of us out of our misery. “It’s fine, Deborah. I was immersed in a document. Tell me all.”
She comes in, sits down in front of me, then bursts into tears.
“Take your time,” I say. I push my box of tissues toward her. She grabs one and her face dives into it. I want to hug her—I can’t bear to see anyone cry—but it wouldn’t be appropriate. My job denies you the ability to respond in the way you would if it were a friend. I have to stay in my seat, swallow my feelings, and respect company rules because in my job you can never afford to be compromised.
“I’m so sorry,” she sobs.
“Don’t apologize.”
She looks at me with a downturned mouth. “I want to lodge an official complaint against Ethan. He totally lost it with me. Became abusive.” She shudders.
Seriously? Ethan Webber? Been with us seven years. Three promotions. Quiet type. Geek. Head of Chess Club. Wouldn’t have thought he had it in him. “Can you describe abusive, Deborah?” I’m taking notes. “Physical?”
“Verbal.”
“Can you tell me what he said?”
She gives an agonized growl. “He called me something unrepeatable.”
“You need to tell me what he said Deborah.”
“I can’t.”
“Can you spell it?”
She takes a deep breath and her mouth stretches around the letters with distaste. “C-U—”
“Got it!” I say. Wow! Ethan. What were you thinking?
Okay. So when I said I’m in HR your eyes probably glazed over, but truthfully it’s quite an interesting job. You get involved in people’s lives, you get an insight into their psychology. You see the good and the bad. And you need to be strategic. It’s more complex than you’d imagine. Plus, when the situation allows, you get to fight for justice. That’s the bit that matters to me most. Justice in a world of unfair.
And now I care about justice for Deborah. I care that her feelings have been hurt because hopefully that’s all this amounts to.
“Listen, Deborah. I’m not absolving his insult, but it’s so unlike him. Do you have any idea why he might have said that to you?”
She coughs. “Yes.”
I wait.
She gulps down some tea, coy now. “I deleted an important file and then I panicked and blamed it on him. I mean . . . it’s retrievable, for God’s sake. We only need to get one of the specialist techies down.”
“I understand, Deborah, really I do. It didn’t warrant that kind of reaction,” I say sympathetically. Then I explain the various ramifications of lodging an official complaint. It’s not something you do blithely—not under any circumstances.
She listens, throws in a few buts, casts me a doleful look, and shrugs. “Yeah. Sorry, Jennifer. I guess I just needed to blow off steam. It was either the ladies’ washrooms or you. You won.” She cracks a smile.
“Thanks,” I say.
“So . . . I guess I should let it lie?”
“No! Not at all,” I say. “We absolutely need to deal with this. Letting it lie is not what I had in mind. No, I’ll have a word with Ethan.”
“That’s so embarrassing.”
“Trust me, it’s going to be a lot less embarrassing than lodging an official complaint. You deserve an apology. I’ll deal with it. And maybe, if you feel this is the way forward, I can get the two of you in a room together to talk it out. So that he can make his apology official. To be honest, I’m sure he’s already feeling remorseful, but that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t have words with him.”
She sighs. “Okay then. If you think that’s best.”
“I do. Now, why don’t you take the rest of the day off? I’ll speak to Ethan. Then both of you can sleep on it and we’ll get it settled tomorrow. I’m assuming he’s never spoken to you like that before?”
“Never.”
“It’s going to be fine. Go home.”
“You’re right. Thanks.” She presses her hands on her thighs and stands up. “And I’ll be happy to see him tomorrow. I’m sorry I provoked him. I guess I must be tired
.”
“Honestly, Deborah, I totally understand.”
“Yeah,” she says, oblivious to the irony. “And thanks for talking this through, Jennifer. I know how busy you are. I really appreciate it.”
I watch her leave and think how “cunt” doesn’t sound quite so bad compared to “rare blood disease.” I wonder whether everyone else’s traumas will seem trivial to me now. Still, for a short moment, immersed in Deborah’s problems, I’ve forgotten about my own and it occurs to me I should work for as long as is physically possible. I need to try and forget about me. But it’s hard, I think.
“You’ll get used to it,” I say out loud.
I recoil. Oh God! I’m talking to myself. I’m going mad. I have to tell someone. There’s no way I can keep this to myself any longer. I need to exorcize this darkest possible of secrets.
Poor Olivia. What a thing to do to your closest friend. I’m so sorry.
I text her before giving it any further contemplation, so that there’s no turning back.
Had some tricky news. Have you got time to pop round tonight?
I pace. Constantly checking my phone screen. Making sure my phone isn’t on silent. Ten minutes feels like ten hours.
Ping!
Sure. How tricky? Should I bring cake?
Yeah ☹
Ohhhh. Got a meeting which should finish at 6:30 then I’ll be straight by. Cheesecake?
To be honest, cake is the last thing I want, but I reckon Olivia might need it.
Nice
I can’t get out of it now.
* * *
—
Back home, I stare at my reflection in my bedroom mirror as if I’m checking this is really me. The same person I saw yesterday and the day before and the day before that stares back. But I am not the same. Everything has changed. The truth is I still don’t accept it. I’m clinging to denial because it’s safe. Who can blame me? But I have to open up to someone, and at the end of the day, when you’re single, that’s what a best friend signs up for: for better or worse, in sickness and in health.
* * *
—
Olivia stands in my doorway, breathing sharply, as though she’s run all the way from the office. Her dark red hair is tied back loosely, showing her flushed cheeks. She’s dressed in silk khaki trousers with red trim down the sides accentuating her long slim legs, a white untucked shirt, and an open trench coat. Olivia works in fashion, which had always been useful because I got to go with her to all the trade sales. So even though I’m stuck wearing office suits, at least they were beautiful ones. Note I’m already using the past tense.
She hands over a ribbon-tied box. “Cheesecake,” she says. “What’s wrong? You look like shit. No offense.”
“None taken. Do you want a drink?
“Yeah. Tea. Builders, please.”
“I mean a real drink.”
“With cheesecake?”
“I’m having one.”
She appraises me with suspicion. “This is not a cheesecake moment, is it?”
“Not exactly.”
“You’re scaring me.”
“Oh, don’t worry. It’s nothing too awful.” I lie because her anxiety is instantly palpable. I’m not sure if I am properly prepared for this revelation. But then maybe I never will be. “Whiskey?”
“Shit, darling! We don’t drink whiskey! What’s going on, Jennifer? Have you been fired?”
“First the drink,” I say. “But I haven’t been fired.”
We move with our inch of single malt from the kitchen into the sitting room and sit down next to each other.
She’s staring at me, bug-eyed. “Do we chat about the weather or can we dive straight in?”
I feel my cheeks spasm. My lips won’t move. I sip the whiskey for Dutch courage. What on earth does that mean? Dutch courage? My mind lingers over the definition.
“Jennifer?”
“Sorry. Sorry. Let’s dive straight in.” And here I go. Diving from the highest board, my heart fluttering, stomach full of butterflies. I’m in free fall, waiting to feel the smack of water.
“You remember I went to the doctor the other day.”
“Yeah . . .”
“Well, I got the results of my blood tests. I thought he was going to tell me I was iron deficient or something like that but turns out I have an unusual blood disorder.”
Olivia draws her chin into her long neck. “Oh,” she says. “I’m so sorry.”
“And it’s terminal.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I wish I was.”
She stares and waits. I can’t think how to react. Is there some kind of etiquette for helping friends through this moment?
“Oh my God, Jen! You are serious!” She grips my hand and we look at each other in a stunned silence, like someone’s hit the pause button. Then someone presses play. “I’m so sorry, Jennifer. I’m not sure I know what to say.”
“I’m not sure I do either.” I say. I let go of her hand and pick up my drink for want of something less awkward to do.
“You need a second opinion,” she says, straightening her back, like she’s preparing for battle. “We need to find you the best blood specialist in the country. In the world!”
“Honestly, I’d do that but Dr. Mackenzie has looked into it extensively. It’s incredibly rare. And if it’s any reassurance, my mother called him our ‘gold dust’; the best diagnostician you could hope for and you never doubted my mother. Besides, I’m not sure there’s time.”
She scowls. “Of course there is. How long are we talking here? Has that even been discussed?”
“It’s months, Liv. Three. At best.”
She clamps her hand to her mouth. “NO! Seriously? But this is from nowhere.”
“From nowhere. Well . . . I was tired.”
Her forehead furrows and she presses her lips together. “Jennifer . . . ?”
“Yes?”
“Have you . . . cried?”
I point at my eye bags. “The whole weekend. I think I’m all cried out. I’m so over crying.”
“Why didn’t you call me? Why did you do this on your own?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. I was frozen in panic. You think you’d do that—you know—reach out to your best friend. Pick up the phone . . . But you don’t. At least, I didn’t. I couldn’t.”
She finally gives way to a body-racking sob. “I’m so sorry. So, so sorry. Ohhh, Jennifer. What will I do without you? I shouldn’t be crying, not with you being so brave and—”
“Liv?” Her name comes out of my mouth in a choked whisper. “You know I said I was over crying . . .”
She shoots me a damp, question mark face.
“Well, I lied. Will you hold me, please?”
She gives a tacit nod, shuffles her bottom toward me, opens her arms, and draws me in. Finally, I am wrapped in love and I let it all go. We cry together, me into her perfumed neck, her into my stale grief-stricken hair, shaking and shivering as one. “Life is so unfair,” she says. “I’m not going to lose you. I’m not going to allow this to happen.”
“And I love you for that, Liv,” I say, staring into her watery gaze. “But let’s face it, there’s no such thing as fair or unfair. Death is not discerning. My parents were good people who had horrible drawn-out deaths. At least mine will be quick.”
“Oh, Jennifer! That’s awful. You mustn’t say that! You can’t just roll over.”
“No, no. That’s not what I mean. It’s not a question of rolling over. Trust me, I’ve thought long and hard about this one. There may be treatment, but Dr. Mackenzie said it’s not a cure. It just delays the inevitable . . . for what? To be sick for longer? To be given a few extra months of feeling lousy? No. That’s not going to be my path. I’d rather enjoy what little time I have left.”
“Of course. But—”
“And I don’t want to squander it on a hunt for some alternative nonsense that will give me false hope . . . like Andy Kaufman in that film we saw. Don’t you remember what we said afterward? We thought it was so sad.”
“But that was a film. That was some guy we didn’t know. This is YOU!”
“Yes! And that’s why I need to do what’s right for me.” I take a deep breath. “This is my choice. I don’t know how bad I’m going to be or how quickly it’s going to take hold, but for as long as I can, I want to play normal.”
“God, that’s so brave. What the heck is normal now?”
“Beats me. I guess we’ll find out. But while I can manage, I don’t want to be covered in morphine patches and pumped full of the drugs Dr. Mackenzie’s prescribed me either. I’m going to stay positive for as long as possible without chemicals. And you need to help me. No more crying. Okay?”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have,” she snuffles.
“No, no! I’m glad you did. I’m glad we can cry together. But now we have to agree to a deal. Stiff upper lip.”
She shudders. “Okay. It’s your call. We do exactly what you want.”
“Thank you. More?” I hold up my empty glass.
“Under the circumstances, yes,” she says. “Even though it’s disgusting.”
“True. But it’s numbing. I think that’s why it was invented.”
I bring the bottle in from the kitchen and top us up.
“So what do you want to do?” she says, sweeping blindly at the trail of mascara staining her cheeks.
“How do you mean?”
Death and Other Happy Endings Page 2