The Last Laugh

by Tracy Bloom

  There is a moment’s silence then I can hear her pulling herself forward in her chair. There’s huffing and puffing and the tinkling of multiple bangles as she inches herself forward. I can’t look up. I can’t look up because then I will see the look on her face. Pity, sympathy, heartache, anguish. Whatever it is, it will be the end of me. The look of someone who might care will undo me. I wait, head bent low until she makes it to me, and then I will look at her as she puts an arm around me. Then I will let go.

  ‘Arrgh,’ is the next thing I hear. I jerk my head up and watch as Maureen falls to the floor, glasses, magazine, self-propelling pencil scattering everywhere.

  ‘What the…’ I gasp as I lunge forward to try and save her but it’s too late. She’s in a heap, looking a bit pale.

  ‘I couldn’t quite reach my stick,’ she gasps, clutching her arm.

  ‘Why didn’t you ask me to get it?’ I say, reaching over to press the emergency button dangling from the arm of her chair.

  ‘Because of the cancer,’ she replies with a grimace.

  I kneel down next to her and grab her hand, hastily wiping away tears, knowing the nurse will burst in any minute.

  ‘I can still pass you your stick,’ I tell her.

  ‘Thought it would ruin the moment if I said, “Can you pass me my stick before I come and put my arms around you.”’

  ‘And this is such a better moment,’ I say. ‘Me with my arm around you whilst we wait for Nurse Hagrid to arrive and give me a severe telling-off for letting you fall.’ We both shudder at the thought of the arrival of the towering six-foot-two nurse with eighties rocker hair and a slight moustache. We secretly call her Hagrid, though never to her face, for obvious reasons.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll sort her out,’ says Maureen. I can see her wincing in pain and I reach over and press the button again.

  ‘Is that arm okay?’ I ask, feeling guilty that my cancer trumps her fall for sympathy.

  ‘I’ll live,’ she says. ‘Oh shit, sorry,’ she gasps, realising immediately what she has said. Then she looks at me, tears suddenly flooding her eyes.

  ‘Please don’t cry,’ I manage to whisper, failing to hold my own tears back.

  ‘But my arm really hurts,’ she mutters, and thankfully Nurse Hagrid arrives to take matters in hand.

  Thirteen

  Bingo passes by in a blur. I stare blankly back at Harold, distracted by the grey hairs dangling out of the ends of his nostrils as he bitterly calls foul over the winner of the third game. The less I respond, the more agitated he gets, calling on his fellow white male sympathisers to back up his claim that I called thirty when actually the number on the ball was twenty. I have no idea. I might have done. My brain is actually not connected to my body at the moment and so he could well be right.

  However, I am with it enough to recognise that this is a common complaint whenever Rita wins. It’s possible that this is their silent protest against the fact that Rita insists on pointing out that Clare Balding is a lesbian every time she appears on the TV. I’m sure the less enlightened residents would prefer to ignore Ms Balding’s sexuality, but Rita is determined to remind them in a tone that makes it clear she believes it makes Ms Balding even more magnificent than all of them already believe. I suspect Rita would have been a lesbian had there been more openly gay TV presenters around when she was young, to pave the way. But now nothing will stop her celebrating her existence, even low-level prejudice on bingo night.

  The prize for winning is a small bar of Dairy Milk. After Harold has ranted for a good five minutes, I walk across the room and hand the chocolate over to Rita. I can feel him pursuing me at a distance (sadly his sprinting days are over); he reaches me just as I turn away from congratulating her and I come face to face with his straggle of nose hair again.

  ‘For you,’ I say, pushing another bar of chocolate at him.

  He looks down, shock and disappointment written all over his face. This was not the result he was after. He looks up at me in dismay that his protest has not led to the decommissioning of Rita’s win. I raise my eyebrows, challenging him to take the chocolate. He doesn’t, so I walk away, putting the bar in my pocket as I hear him mutter in disgust behind me.

  * * *

  This time I knock on Maureen’s door before I enter. Earlier, Nurse Hagrid had called an ambulance after she’d checked her over, then her six-foot-two wrestler frame had stood looking at me accusingly.

  ‘She found me like this,’ Maureen had gasped as soon as Nurse Hagrid had entered the room. ‘Stupid me was reaching for my stick and I fell. It was a good job Jenny came in or else I could have been lying here for ages.’

  She’d gripped my hand tightly as she’d come out with this lie and I’d gripped it back in thanks. Nurse Hagrid would have had me up in front of Sandra for assault or something if she caught even a whiff of me being in the same room when a resident fell. She hates me. She once told me I was unprofessional because I hadn’t done a risk assessment before taking everyone outside for Pimm’s and a sing-song on a glorious summer’s evening.

  I peer around the door now and see Maureen sitting up in bed, her arm in a sling, watching something on TV.

  ‘Oh, no!’ I groan, walking in. ‘You haven’t broken it, have you?’

  ‘No,’ she says. ‘Just a sprain, said Doctor Pinder. A wonderful man. He told me his father was a butler to Princess Margaret. I could have sat there for hours.’

  As she speaks, our eyes search each other’s faces. The conversation is white noise as we both battle to know how to start where we left off earlier.

  She reaches forward to grab my hand but I am just out of reach.

  ‘Whoa,’ I say, pushing her back upright. ‘We don’t need any more accidents today. You stay where you are.’

  ‘But you need me,’ she says decisively, like she has thought about it and actively come to a decision. She sighs in frustration. ‘And I’ve gone and done a stupid thing like this so I can’t even put my stupid arms around you.’

  ‘It’s okay.’ I shrug. Though it isn’t.

  ‘Let’s get rid of these idiots,’ she says, clearing her throat, picking up the remote control and switching off the TV. She has added a layer to her outfit. A pink shawl rests over her shoulders. It looks good against the bright blue wall she insisted on being painted when she moved in because she couldn’t bear the abundance of beige.

  ‘Beige will be the death of me,’ she’d told Sandra, who tried to stop the decorator halfway through the first coat. ‘Do you want that on your conscience?’

  Somehow Maureen has managed to hold onto doing things her way in an environment that encourages, even demands, conformity. I am in awe.

  ‘So the first thing I need to ask you is, are you sure?’ She leans back and pushes her glasses up her nose. She looks like she means business, like she is prepared and she is going to take charge. I feel a flood of relief.

  ‘Am I sure about what exactly?’ I ask, determined to answer her questions accurately.

  ‘Are you sure about the cancer?’

  I swallow.

  I’ve been thinking about this very question a lot over the past twenty-four hours. Had the doctor really said what I thought he’d said? Had I really taken it in? Had the strange buzzing in my ears and the utter distraction of imagining my life with cancer caused me to miss a vital piece of information such as him saying, ‘Just kidding, you haven’t got cancer and you are going to be absolutely fine.’

  But as I tried to retrace every step of the conversation I knew this not to be true.

  ‘He said I have probably eighteen months to two years.’ I concentrate on not letting this sentence undo me as I study Maureen’s face for her reaction. A slight nod of the head is all that comes. She holds firm her composure but she blinks more as she processes my answer. She knows as well as I do that it is pretty impossible to misinterpret those words.

  ‘He gave me a time frame,’ I reinforce to Maureen.

  She nods ever so slightly
again.

  ‘So what are you going to do?’ she asks firmly, brushing away the emotion to get straight down to the practicalities. I like this. I can handle this.

  ‘About what? The cancer or the affair?’ I bat back.

  ‘Jeez, I’d forgotten all about the affair,’ says Maureen, raising her good hand in wonder and shaking her head vigorously. Don’t lose it now, I silently request. Hold it together. I need you to hold it together. Her earrings stop swaying and she gathers herself.

  ‘Shall we start with the cancer?’ she says.

  ‘Yes,’ I nod. She looks at me expectantly. She wants me to answer.

  ‘Well,’ I falter. What should I be saying? I have no idea, so I say the first thing that comes into my head.

  ‘I’ve Googled it, how to die, and it was full of climbing this mountain, swimming that sea or becoming a marathon runner and raising millions for charity!’

  A look of horror spreads over Maureen’s face.

  ‘Sounds like bloody hard work! You can make it more fun than that surely?’ she replies.

  ‘It’s true,’ I tell her. ‘A lot of people in my situation seem to raise a huge amount of money for a cancer charity by taking up marathon running or even becoming a triathlete.’

  This time I note a minute shake of the head. She looks at me for a long time, unsure how to proceed. She doesn’t know if I’m joking. I don’t know if I’m joking.

  ‘What kind of bloody ridiculous idea is that?’ she eventually says, her eyes wide in wonder.

  ‘I know!’ I gasp, relieved she has decided I’m joking. ‘It doesn’t make sense, does it? Who wants to run a marathon with cancer? Surely the fact I have cancer means I have a free pass where exercise is concerned. And why would I raise money to research something I already have? It can’t help me now, can it?’ I’m gabbling, I know, but I can’t stop. ‘Besides, do you remember what happened when I did a fun run?’

  ‘I don’t remember you doing a fun run.’

  ‘I did. With George. I ended up in A&E with a broken toe because I tripped over at the start-line. Some people demanded their sponsorship money back.’

  ‘So anything athletic is out then?’

  I nod. ‘Or fundraising. Call me selfish but I don’t really feel like being generous to others right now.’

  Maureen nods. ‘I don’t think just because you are dying that you should feel like you have to.’

  As she says the ‘you are dying’ bit our eyes lock. Now she has said it out loud. Someone else apart from Doctor Death. Things are progressing.

  ‘According to Google,’ I continue, ‘cancer should give me a sudden desire to become an amazingly generous philanthropist, a bit like the nesting instinct when you are pregnant. That didn’t happen to me either.’

  ‘Did Doctor Google come up with anything helpful?’ asks Maureen.

  ‘Well, I should really write a blog,’ I say.

  Now Maureen might encourage this. She writes a blog. Mainly reviews on books and TV shows, stuff like that. Whilst travelling around the world with her Elvis-impersonating husband she started writing travel pieces and managed to get some published. She doesn’t travel any more so she reviews from her armchair. She says the only reason she chose Shady Grove was because they would let her have Sky in her room.

  ‘Would you want to write a blog?’ she asks. ‘I could help you with that if you like?’

  ‘No,’ I declare. ‘I’m struggling to tell my nearest and dearest, never mind the entire internet.’ This is really hard. ‘What would you do?’ I ask her. Maureen would do this well, I know she would. Better than me.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she replies, taking her glasses off and rubbing her eyes. ‘Well, actually that’s a lie. I do know. I know exactly what I would do but I’m not going to tell you because I’m not you and you’re not me. You have to decide.’

  I want to cry now. I’d been relying on Maureen for something. I’m not sure what but something.

  ‘And then there’s Mark,’ I say. ‘I don’t know what to do about that. In some ways it’s good. The affair stops me thinking about the cancer and the cancer stops me thinking about the affair.’

  Maureen nods. ‘That’s something,’ she agrees.

  ‘And I’ve totally stopped worrying about George’s anxiety and Ellie’s bitchiness,’ I add.

  ‘Good, good, that’s good,’ agrees Maureen again.

  ‘But… but… my kids,’ I gasp. I suddenly feel as though I can’t breathe. The moment thoughts of my diagnosis collide with thoughts of Ellie and George, my mind goes into some form of anaphylactic shock. I can’t put the two together. The two repel like two opposing magnets. My brain refuses to make any connection between what is happening to me and what that means in terms of my children, because I know the minute I make the connection the conclusion is too dire, too desperate, too heartbreaking. So for now I avoid the connection like the plague.

  ‘And I no longer feel any guilt at deleting my mother’s texts,’ I plough on, trying to block thoughts of Ellie and George from my mind. ‘I’ve always wanted to be able to do that.’

  ‘So there are some positives,’ says Maureen, grabbing my hand and squeezing it.

  ‘Oh yeah. Could be the best thing that has ever happened to me,’ I say as I loll forward onto Maureen’s good shoulder and let the tears come.

  * * *

  ‘I also Googled how to tell people,’ I say to Maureen about half an hour later when the sobs have abated and she has handed me a real-life hanky, with lace!

  ‘And?’ she asks, dabbing her own eyes. I hate that I have made her cry but I’m also really morbidly grateful to see the first set of tears about what is happening to me.

  ‘I started typing it in and I got to “How do I tell someone I have…” and it automatically predicted I was asking, “How do I tell someone I have herpes?”’

  Maureen screws her face up.

  ‘You know, the sexually transmitted disease,’ I add.

  ‘I know what herpes is,’ she replies. She shuffles, bristling her shoulders. ‘I went round and handed over a bottle of bleach and told him never to come near me again. I think he got the message. Was that on Google?’

  I stare at her.

  ‘What?’ she asks. ‘I used to have sex, get over it.’

  ‘Bleach?’ I say.

  ‘Serves him right,’ she replies. ‘Perhaps you should try it with Mark.’

  ‘The thought of pouring bleach over his…’

  ‘Penis,’ adds Maureen helpfully.

  ‘…penis, does have some appeal at the moment,’ I admit.

  ‘Well, do it then.’

  ‘It would kill his penis.’

  ‘So, what have you got to lose? What’s he going to do? Prosecute? You’ve got cancer, the ultimate get-out-of-jail-free card.’

  I nod. It’s tempting but we both know Maureen is just trying to cheer me up with the thought of dissolving my husband’s adulterous penis in bleach.

  ‘Well, it doesn’t sound like Google came up with many answers for you,’ she announces, folding her good arm over her bad arm.

  ‘No,’ I admit. ‘It was full of other people’s way of dying.’

  ‘Not your way?’ she asks.

  ‘No,’ I murmur.

  She looks at me for a moment then leans forward and grasps my hand.

  ‘We’ll find it,’ she says.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your way to die. We’ll find it.’

  Fourteen

  I know even before I put the key in the lock that Mark isn’t home. He would have drawn the curtains and switched the downstairs lights off in a huff by now, shouting at the kids for being so wasteful.

  There is silence as I close the front door behind me. I pause, holding my breath. Nothing.

  I shout, ‘Hello?’

  Nothing.

  Ellie and George are there but they are not. I have no doubt that George will be commanding some military operation out on the world wide web, fighting some terr
ible enemy but protected from the real world by headphones blasting adrenaline-surging music into his ears, oblivious to the comings and goings of number three Cheviot Lane.

  Ellie will be juggling a multitude of social media channels, sharing her wit and grit with the universe, fuelled by the fleeting reactions of her friends, and strangers who pretend to be friends. The Wi-Fi automatically goes off at nine in this house. Mark and I thought this would encourage family interaction; perhaps we would come together as a unit and communicate before bedtime, but no. The Wi-Fi curfew merely causes a daily panic over the imminent wireless drought, thereby encouraging over-consumption in the hours leading up to it, when no personal communication takes place whatsoever. Other solitary activities are then reserved for after nine. Homework, hair practice, outfit selection for the following day, Call of Duty strategy thinking time. This is not a family home, it’s more like a student house full of dysfunctional adults who meet in communal areas only to pass on messages or criticise each other’s food choices before retreating to the sanctuary of their own rooms.

  I throw some pizzas in the oven. We don’t normally have pizza until Friday but the thought of cooking, of peeling carrots and potatoes, is too mundane and depressing. My head is so full of drama and despair that adding preparing vegetables to that is likely to tip me over the edge.

  I set the timer and sit at the table, staring around me at the kitchen. The kitchen that I have been wanting to re-do for about five years now but Mark keeps telling me to wait until the next stage in his career, when he takes Brancotec to the next level. Then I can have any kitchen I want, he says. Maybe even one in a completely different house. So I’ve made do with the heavy oak, slightly dated units, the extractor fan that makes a noise like a helicopter taking off, and a single oven.

  Occasionally I take a trip to B&Q and run my fingers across granite worktops and pull open silent sliding drawers and marvel at the amazing ways in which you can make an awkward corner cupboard accessible. My favourite features, however, are the multiple ovens. I’m no great chef but the thought of being able to display at least three ovens in a kitchen seems like the ultimate in domestic sophistication to me. It screams successful wife and mother. Something I would have really liked to have been.