“I’ll be quiet as a mouse.”
“Don’t even think about it.”
“Well, if they throw you out, you can come and live with me. You pretty much live with me now anyway.”
“Please don’t, Neil. I’ll be too uncomfortable to . . . you know, anyway. It would be pointless.”
“Jesus! What’s happened to you? Show the adult her childhood bedroom and she becomes the child.”
“It’s only a few nights.”
And so Neil behaved too.
I was disappointed that Isabelle wouldn’t be around to meet my first official boyfriend. My lover. I wanted to show Neil off to her as much as I wanted to show her off to him. As luck would have it, though, curiosity got the better of her and she turned up for dinner on our last evening. I loved watching her stare at him when he talked politics, expounding on Thatcher’s deserved downfall and that Major was a moron, as my parents’ faces froze over. I knew Isabelle thought he was impressive even though he wasn’t her type (she was into dating yuppies with fast cars and fat wallets), but what I really loved was the fact that Neil didn’t even give her a second glance. This boosted him in my estimation and my confidence soared.
Turns out, people can be deceptive. Neil did not spend his last night in Isabelle’s florals and frills alone. To rub salt in the wound, my parents didn’t even notice what was happening on their watch. Didn’t question why my sister was at the breakfast table in the morning, all pink and tousled, didn’t doubt her explanation that she’d popped round early to say good-bye. Of course, had it been me, you could guarantee they’d have known and I’d have been sent to a nunnery.
On the train journey back to university, I had to endure two hours in a crowded carriage, listening to Neil declare his undying love for Isabelle, watching him simper like a lovelorn idiot, begging my forgiveness, telling me he was not worthy and I deserved better.
But I could see straight through all the fake remorse. He was no different from the rest. He had won the prize sister. He was loving every minute of it.
My last few weeks of that final term were spent back in my own room, in solitary confinement, sobbing as I prepared for exams, determinedly avoiding my once-true love.
Summer back at home, I finally worked up the courage to tell Isabelle how much she’d hurt me. She looked at me and laughed. “You seriously imagine he would have hung around with someone like you?” she mocked. “It was only a matter of time. If it hadn’t been me, it would have been someone else. Better to keep it in the family, don’t you think?”
She at least had the decency to hide the postcards Neil was sending. (My mother, on the other hand, felt it important to tell me about them.) When Isabelle was out, I’d sneak into her room, find them stuffed under a pillow and cry over the words he’d once reserved for me.
To add to my misery, a mediocre degree when I had been predicted to graduate with first-class honors crushed all expectations of my genius. My parents’ disappointment could not outdo my own. I withdrew to my bedroom, refusing my mother’s offers of food and Valium, preferring to beat myself up listening to Mariah and Whitney; all the romantic tunes I used to think were about “us.”
Naturally, Isabelle went on to discard Neil the way you would a watermelon seed. This did not improve my feelings toward either of them. Neil broke my heart but you can piece a young heart back together. Isabelle broke my trust and once you’ve lost trust, it’s very hard to recover.
Apart from the loss of my babies, the fragile dishonesty of my relationship with my sister is one of the biggest sadnesses of my life. And yet I have never braved admitting this until now.
My mind floats back into the office and I automatically check my phone as though something might have come through from Isabelle while I was thinking about her. But why would we be telepathic when we’re not even on the same wavelength? Come to think of it, I definitely wouldn’t tell her I’d had sex on the heath. She probably wouldn’t bat an eyelid at the idea, but she’d doubtless find a way to ruin things.
Day 75
Days pass uneventfully and I’m painfully aware of the silence that has met my letters. It’s another weekend. What once was a happy relief, a time for friends and relaxation, has become a time of dread. I realize how important a distraction work is, for without it, I am lost. I tend to sleep a lot as a way of hiding from myself, because left to my own devices, the fear overwhelms me.
I feel lonely and isolated although, to a degree, it’s self-imposed. I turned down Olivia’s brunch invitation today.
“You need to get out, somewhere other than your office,” she says. “Dan wants to treat us to a good old trad English breakfast. Come on, Jen! Sausages, baked beans, fried bread. How can you resist?”
“Aw! No thanks, Liv. Thank Dan, but there’s no way I can face the Saturday crowds anymore. The noise gets too much.”
“We can go somewhere quiet.”
“Where’s quiet these days? Coventry—where no one speaks to you?”
She laughs. “But I worry about you, all on your own there. What are you doing?”
“This and that,” I say. “Enjoying the newspapers.”
“Jesus. What’s to enjoy nowadays? Oh, come on. Come out with us.”
“I’m fine. Honestly.” I lie.
“‘I’m fine’ doesn’t wash with me,” she says. “I understand that you don’t want to be around noise and people, but if you want company, phone me and I’ll be right there.”
That’s true friendship for you. Someone who can see through the bullshit.
I spend the evening watching TV, but I’m not really watching. Half of me is inside my head, wandering around my various thoughts, wondering why I’m of so little importance to anyone other than Olivia, wondering how I’m going to feel tomorrow, wondering when this weakness in my blood will finally beat me. Listen, I’m fully aware that being despondent isn’t beneficial, it empowers my sickness, but sometimes I can’t help myself. Sometimes you simply can’t be brave. I grab a cushion and hug it to my chest, try to focus on the telly. The picture floats. Everything is floating.
There’s a noise coming from somewhere. I look around, trying to discern the buzzing, then realize it’s my phone. I can’t be bothered to get off the sofa. Who calls on a Saturday night? At first, I choose to ignore it then decide I might as well speak to someone, even if it’s a robotic person who thinks I’ve been involved in a car accident despite the fact I don’t drive. How do these people get your number? I heave myself out of my cocoon of cushions and follow the sound, eventually realizing it’s coming from my armchair. I must have thrown it down and it slid between the gap. I fish it out. It stops. Typical! I check the screen. My heart lurches. It was not a cold caller. It was Isabelle.
Isabelle! Of all ironies! After days of obsessive checking, I miss her call.
I feel a surge of elation mixed with trepidation. I’ve been longing to hear from her and yet, when it finally happens, I’m panicked. I sit back down on the sofa and stare at my phone’s screen as if it might tell me why she has waited so long to call. Siri! Why has my sister taken so long? Is she angry? Is she sad? Or is she just Isabelle?
Actually, I’m glad I’ve missed her. I need to be prepared before I speak to her. To be calm. To buy myself some time. If only.
My voice mail dings. She’s left a message. She never leaves a message. I listen to my sister’s voice. She’s crying. The only time I heard her cry was at our mother’s funeral. I find myself crying with her.
“Jennifer,” she sobs. “I’ve just read your letter. I’m devastated. Martin does the post. He leaves mine for me in a pile to go through but I’m terrible. Always leave it for far too long. It’s mostly boring stuff anyway, of no importance. But yours is so important. If Martin had put it on the top of the pile, I’d have recognized your handwriting and opened it immediately. But he didn’t, so I have no idea when you sent
it. Oh, God, Jen! Call me back. Martin, sometimes I don’t believe . . .” She disconnects.
I’m moved, immediately desperate to speak to her, knowing that she’s frightened and concerned. I’m relieved that there is a legitimate explanation behind the delay. I wipe away my tears then take a deep breath and dial her number. She answers straightaway.
“I’m so pleased to hear your voice,” she says, then bursts into a torrent of tears. “I can’t believe your news,” she wails. “I’m so sorry. I told you your lips were blue last time I saw you. I knew something was wrong but not THIS!”
“Please don’t cry, Isabelle.”
She chokes back her sobs and stutters, “How are you? If that’s not a stupid question?”
“Strangely fine.” My tone is high pitched. It doesn’t sound like me. I feel as though my heart is breaking for her.
“Oh. I’m so pleased to hear that.” She swallows audibly. Her breathing is fast and shallow. “Jennifer,” she says. “Is it . . . is it . . . you know—”
“It’s definitely terminal,” I say, trying to help her along.
“Oh, that’s so awful.” She sniffs. There’s a long beat. “But . . . is it . . . um . . . genetic?”
You see, this is why I needed to be prepared before I phoned her. It makes you smile, doesn’t it? How some people can be so unashamedly transparent. How their first concern is not for you but for themselves. I’m tempted to frighten her and say, Yes, Isabelle. It is genetic! From our mother’s side. But I’m not the mean one.
“No,” I say. “It’s sheer bad luck. You’ll be fine.”
“Ooof.” She sighs, all too plainly relieved. “I’m not thinking about me, you understand. I’m thinking of the girls.”
“Of course, you are,” I say. “I completely understand.” And even though in a way I do, her relief is an aching disappointment, which confirms my worst fear: that she only absorbed the first part of the letter, the part that mattered to her.
“Well, I’m truly sorry. Jennifer. Honestly. I am. And I’d really like to see you. We need to talk . . . you know . . . about the other stuff. I’m . . . well, we need to talk.”
I can barely contain my shock of delight. She must have read every word. She’s opening herself up to discussion. “Yes!” I say. “I’d like that.”
“Oh, good,” she says. “I was afraid you might turn me down. When can you come round? Now? No, of course not. When? We’ll have time together on our own, but it would be nice for the girls to see you too. I mean, you saw them at the party, but it was only fleeting.” I went to my niece Sophia’s tenth birthday party a couple of months ago. It was when Isabelle told me I had blue lips. I should have listened to her.
“You can get out, I assume?” she says. “Sorry. I should have asked. You’re not bedridden, are you?”
“No. Well, not yet.”
“Excellent. I’ll organize a cab to bring you over.”
“It’s fine. I’ll get an Uber.”
“Don’t be silly,” she says. “It will cost a fortune. You need to allow me to look after you. I’ll use Martin’s account.”
I’d like to believe Isabelle wants to look after me and maybe she does, but if she genuinely wanted to look after me, she’d come over here, wouldn’t she? The truth is she never goes to anyone. You always have to go to her. I’m dying and she still thinks I should go to her.
To be honest, it works for me because even though the last thing I feel like doing is going over to her smart suburban splendor, it’s better than her coming here, to the home she once pronounced as “quite nice” even after Andy and I had finished the refurb. Now returned to a crumbling wreck, I don’t want to be made to observe its faults, knowing she will highlight the long crack under my front windowsill and the pockmarked plasterwork and will no doubt criticize the clunk of the worn-out boiler that never fully heats a room. I’m aware my life is different from her own cozy perfection. I don’t need her to tell me.
So yes. I’m going over to Isabelle’s next Friday. She’s sending a cab and making me supper. It feels like the first positive result.
Day 73
Week two of my new office hours and I’m getting into a rhythm. Fatigue is so constant it has become standard. It’s my new normal. But I’m buoyed by having heard from my sister although disappointed not to have heard a peep from Harry or Andy and Elizabeth. I keep reminding myself I mustn’t expect anything.
I hang my coat on the stand, check my phone just in case one of them has tried me (a new habit), then sit at my desk feeling despondent. As I’m turning on my computer screen, Pattie appears at my open door.
“Knock knock,” she says then walks in, shutting the glass door, which instantly concerns me.
“How are you? You okay?” she says.
“Yes. I’m okay.”
“I’m glad. If you honestly mean that.”
“I do. I’m adjusting.”
She sits down in the chair opposite me and leans forward, her elbows on my desk, her hands rubbing at her mouth nervously. “Listen, I don’t want to worry you, but I think people are beginning to suspect.”
“Oh.” My heart sinks. “Why? Has someone said something?”
“No,” she says. “It’s a gut feeling.”
I lean back. “Pattie, it’s because you know. Knowing makes you suspicious. You’re looking for stuff that isn’t there. Honestly, I’ve been at meetings, I’ve been with people; everyone acts normally around me. No one has spotted the Grim Reaper except you.”
She frowns. “I’m not so sure.”
My stomach flips. “You haven’t told anyone, have you?”
“No, no! And I wouldn’t. Not unless you said.” She sighs and cocks her head. “Don’t you want people to care about you?”
“Of course, I do. But I’ve chosen the ones I want. It’s easier that way.”
“Well, then I guess I should feel flattered.” Her teeth snag at her lower lip. “And obviously I’ll keep schtum.” She pauses and I’m waiting for the “but.”
“But I want you to know I think you’re amazing.”
I smile. This was not the “but” I was expecting. “No, you don’t. You think I’m odd.”
“That too. But amazing odd!”
We both laugh and she grins resignedly. “I’d like to hug you, but I know you’ll just think I’m being overemotional.”
“I’d let you but I might become overemotional and I’m avoiding that at all cost.”
She blows me a kiss. “Take that for now then.”
I reach out as if to grab it. “Thanks.” I blow one back but she’s already turned away, her shoulders hunched, her head down in sorrow. Exactly what I don’t want to see. Exactly why I’m hanging on to secrecy.
I turn back to my screen with a heavy heart. The day has barely begun and already I’m depleted.
I still haven’t taken any of the tablets Dr. Mackenzie prescribed, determined to hold on to my vow for better or worse. And I don’t yet need the morphine patches. I’m seeing him the end of this week, although I’m not sure I’ll tell him I’m avoiding medication even if it’s not unusual for people given months to live.
Having avoided them at all cost, I’m afraid I’ve started to read some blogs about dying. There are so many out there once you start looking. Sometimes they’re helpful, sometimes you’d rather not know, but reading them makes me feel I’m not alone, which gives me the strength to persevere drug free while I can because a lot of bloggers choose the no-drugs route.
For now, while I can still get up, still walk, still make a cup of tea, I’m grateful. Those small things are important. They allow me to get through each day. For the most part, I’m okay, although, given half the chance, negative thoughts will find a way in, whether I invite them or not, so I’m glad to keep working and hold them at bay.
They have their moments, though
; they break in at night when the specter of the letters looms largest. I lie there, stomach clenching at the thought of Harry sneering at my words, binning my letter like an unwanted flyer, or Andy and Elizabeth laughing together, in total disbelief that they are in any way guilty. Imagination can play dangerous tricks when you’re robbed of sleep, robbed of so much.
Day 71
I’ve finally read those leaflets. A couple were about coping with terminal illness. Only one dealt with the disease itself. The symptoms are pretty scary. They include acute spikes of fever, bone pain, vomiting, easy bruising, bleeding gums, bleeding nose, rapid heart rate—I’ll spare you the worst.
But these are yet to come.
For now, I’m just bone achingly tired, and the placebo of positive thinking is winning.
I phoned and canceled my appointment with the doctor. It might seem a bit foolhardy on the basis of something quite so unscientific as positive thinking but to be honest, I can’t bear the thought of sitting in that office again, and smelling that awful clinical smell, knowing what I know. I was perfectly straightforward about it. Told the receptionist—not Eunice this time—that I was doing really well. I said that unless Dr. Mackenzie had any particular concern, then I’d rather leave it until I personally felt the need to see him.
My spirit has definitely been helped by Isabelle’s call. The downside is that hearing back from my sister has raised my expectations. And now, if I’m honest, more than ever, I want to hear from Harry.
I may be reinventing the past for my own self-esteem, but I’ve always felt Harry and I had some destiny to fulfill. That he still loved me. I’ve often gnawed at the notion that if only I’d handled things differently, been a bit less hasty, he would still be here today. Or that we would have gotten back together at some point in the future. The fact that I haven’t heard from him yet isn’t a great sign but then again, he travels a lot. I’m not trying to cover for him. Most of Harry’s work is abroad. What’s more, he was always slow at getting back to me.
Death and Other Happy Endings Page 6