Embellished Deception: A Psychological Suspense Novel (The Crime Files)

by Netta Newbound

Chapter 31

  "You missed a bit." Mum pointed at the corner of the window I'd been attempting to clean for the third time that morning.

  "Thanks, Mum," I murmured grumpily.

  She'd been like a slave driver since returning home from the hospital. She complained about everything I did. I knew she was desperate to get up and do it herself, but she was under strict doctor’s orders and Dad and I were making sure she stuck to them. Which wasn't too difficult.

  The past five days had been hard on her as she'd had to return to the hospital as an outpatient for an intense course of chemoradiotherapy. It would be the same for the next five weeks—the only respite was at the weekends.

  The first week Mum had still been in hospital. She'd cried after the initial fitting of the radiation mask and after each subsequent treatment. She hated to be pinned down, even though she was inside the machine for no more than fifteen minutes at a time. Dad had taken her this past week, and we intended to take it in turns from here-on-in.

  "Oki-doki, Mother. What would you like for lunch?"

  "Nothing for me, thanks. I'm not hungry."

  She'd said the exact same thing at every mealtime for the past eight days.

  I got to my feet and huffed. "Soup it is then." I went to warm some leftover vegetable soup for us both.

  Dad had already eaten and was holed up in his shed. Goodness only knows what he did in there.

  I was in the kitchen, cleaning the dishes after lunch, when I heard Mum go upstairs. I presumed she was going to the bathroom.

  After a while, she still hadn't come back down and so I went to see where she was.

  The bathroom door was locked. I tapped on it.

  "You okay, Mum?"

  She didn't reply.

  "Mum, come on, are you okay?" When there was still no sound from inside the bathroom, I began to panic.

  "Mum, I'm not bloody joking now. You're freaking me out. If you don't open the door right now I'm going to call Dad."

  I heard a noise behind the door so at least I knew she wasn't unconscious. Then shortly after I heard the sound of the lock and the door slowly opened.

  I wasn't prepared for what I saw standing in front of me.

  Mum had chopped off all her lovely hair. It was right to the skin in some areas and stood up in tufts in others.

  "Oh, Mum," I cried.

  She dropped the scissors to the floor, and her shoulders sagged. She was racked with the most heartrending sobs I had ever heard.

  I put my arms around her and walked her into her bedroom where we both sat on the edge of her bed.

  "Why, Mum?"

  They had shaved a large rectangular area on her head while she was in hospital but you couldn't really tell as the rest of her hair could be brushed into a style to conceal it.

  She looked at me with tear-filled eyes.

  "It was falling out."

  The doctor had told us to expect her hair to come out, but I hadn't seen any evidence of it.

  "Oh, Mum. Never mind. I'm sure it'll grow back." I stroked her face. "Let me get the scissors and tidy it up for you."

  I walked through to the bathroom and picked the scissors up off the floor and also swept all the hair into a pile with my foot. When I stood upright, I caught my reflection in the mirror and I don't know what came over me. I took the scissors and chopped into my own curly locks. I didn't stop until it was all on the bathroom floor alongside Mum’s.

  I walked back through to her room and she gasped when she saw me standing in the doorway. She held her arms out to me, and I climbed back onto her bed like a little girl, and we hugged and cried together.

  ***

  The timer on the oven was beeping. I pulled the door down, but the pie needed a few minutes longer. I put the cauliflower on the heat and walked through to the lounge. Mum was sitting on the floor with several jigsaw pieces in front of her on the coffee table. She looked up and smiled at me.

  "A few more minutes till dinner, Mum. Are you hungry yet?"

  "You know what, Geri? I'm famished." Her eyes were sparkling, and she looked more like her old self than she had in ages.

  "I'll shout Dad then, if you’re ready?"

  "I’m ready." The smile left her eyes.

  "Don't worry, Mum. He'll be fine, you'll see."

  I opened the back door and shouted towards the shed.

  "Okay sweetheart. I'll be along in a minute," Dad called back.

  Mum and I were both sitting on the floor by the time Dad came in from the garden. As usual, he was whistling as he washed his hands and came to stand in the lounge doorway, wiping his hands on the tea towel, a couple of minutes later.

  Mum and I looked up at him from our positions on the floor and it took a few seconds for the scene to register on his face.

  "What the ..." His expression was comical, and I looked at Mum and we both burst out laughing at the same time. We'd had a couple of hours to get used to it and, although we had tidied each other's tufty messes, we probably still looked a sight to him.

  The poor thing looked as though he'd stepped into an episode of the Twilight Zone for a few seconds. It was obvious he couldn't work out what could have possibly happened to us both since he last saw us at lunchtime.

  I stood up and put my arm around his shoulder and guided him to the table.

  "It’s okay, Dad. We decided to take control of the situation instead of the situation controlling us. Didn't we, Mum?"

  "Well, I did, yes, but I don't know why you had to lose your lovely hair too."

  "It’s hair, Mum. It'll grow back, and it's about time I had a change anyway. I've had the same boring style since I was at school."

  Dad still hadn't said a word, but he was clearly traumatised. Mum came over to the table and bent to kiss him on the cheek. I left them alone for a few minutes while I went to bring the dinner through.

  Once I was in the kitchen, I stood at the window where I could see my reflection. I buried my face in my hands and fought to hold back the tears. I felt immense sadness for my beautiful mum who didn't deserve any of this, and also for my poor dad who was trying his best to be brave, but was barely getting through each day.

  I looked at my reflection again and stroked the wispy spikes of hair. It wasn't too bad, just different, and it had altered my entire face.

  I'd always had long hair as far back as I could remember. In fact, my mass of messy curls was like my trademark.

  Well, not anymore.

  Chapter 32

  I found it shocking to discover the way people stare blatantly at anything or anybody slightly different.

  I'd always been lucky to fit in in the past, but I couldn't stand to look anybody in the eye lately for fear of seeing that dreaded look of curiosity seeped in sympathy. I really couldn't imagine how Mum felt because although I looked like a fully-fledged cancer victim, all I had was the hair-do.

  I stroked my head and smoothed down the bandana, or head scarf as Mum liked to call it. Simon had sent a boxful of them, in all different colours, for us both to share once he'd heard about our new styles.

  I raced into a parking space as a red Micra pulled out. I'd been circling three huge car parks that surrounded the hospital for twenty minutes. Mum would think I'd got lost. I was still a good ten minutes’ walk away and I was relieved I'd dropped her off at the entrance. She would never have made it.

  ***

  Crossing the road in front of the hospital, I noticed Mum sitting uncomfortably on a bench at the side of the main doors.

  "Mum, I'm so sorry," I called as I ran over to her. "I couldn't find a parking space and ended up on the other side of the hospital. Why didn't you go on in?"

  "I couldn't face it without you, Geri. And my legs feel quite wobbly, so I thought I'd sit and wait a while."

  A guy sitting on the other end of the bench was staring at us both hard out. I eyeballed him back, making a face.

  Mum giggled at that.

  "Come on, Mum. Do you feel okay to walk, or should I get
a wheelchair?"

  "You won't catch me in a wheelchair," she snapped, and then, almost immediately backed down. "Sorry, love. I should be okay to walk."

  But I could tell by the look on her face that she was exhausted. She'd been trying to act as though the treatment wasn't affecting her. I don't know why. Maybe because she didn't want to cause a fuss, but she had lost a ton of weight and didn't look at all well. This was her third week of chemoradiotherapy.

  "Wait there, Mum." I dashed off into the main entrance and, almost immediately, returned with a wheelchair. She opened her mouth as though she were about to protest.

  "Mum, do it. For me."

  She reluctantly got into the chair, but I could tell she was grateful.

  It almost killed me to get Mum up to the Oncology department—I was terribly unfit.

  She had to have the chemotherapy first and then, after an hour, the radiotherapy.

  Mum headed straight to the bathroom, and I went inside.

  The reception area was mostly like a large lounge room with a circle of armchairs. A young boy sat on a red plastic fire truck, and he was hooked to a drip. His beautiful, big hazel eyes broke my heart.

  "Hello." I smiled.

  "Hi," he said shyly.

  His mum stirred at the side of him where she'd been dozing. She smiled at me, but the smile didn't reach her eyes. Her face was etched with grief and suffering. I couldn't imagine the torment of caring for a child with cancer. I stroked my tiny bump and the child within.

  A nurse came to the front desk so I stood up to alert her that Mum had arrived, although by now we were twenty minutes late.

  I sat back down next to the gorgeous little fireman.

  "I like your fire truck."

  "So do I. I'm going to be a fireman when I grow up." It was as though a light had flicked on behind his beautiful face.

  "Wow! That would be an exciting job."

  "What do you do?" he asked.

  "Nothing at the moment, but I used to book holidays for people."

  "My dad would think that was a cool job, wouldn't he, Mummy?"

  "He sure would, love." She smiled and raised her eyes to the ceiling.

  "Have you got some cancer?"

  "Toby! You can't go about asking people questions like that," his mum said. She looked horrified and giggled nervously.

  "He's okay." I smiled at her. "I don't have cancer, but my mum does."

  "But why have you not got hair then?"

  "Toby!" She scolded him and turned to me. "I am so sorry."

  I was properly laughing now. "Because I think it's a really cool look, that's why!"

  Mum had returned and was standing by the desk.

  "It’s okay, Mum. They know you're here. Come and meet Toby. He's going to be a fireman when he grows up."

  "Hello Toby. My name is Grace." She shook hands with Toby and then his mum.

  "Hi, I'm Susan." She smiled.

  "I like your bandana," Toby said to Mum.

  "What about mine?" I feigned hurt.

  "Yours is pink." He laughed.

  "Oh yes, so it is. I'll let you off then." I teased.

  The nurse came back out with a tray full of stuff and proceeded to hook Mum up to a drip. She attached it to a line that had been fitted into Mum's chest.

  "I've got one of those too," Toby said. "I'm not allowed to go swimming—am I Mummy?"

  "No, sweetheart, not at the moment. But you should be able to soon."

  "That's a bummer," Mum said, surprising us all with her word choice. "I can't go swimming either. But I bet none of your mates have a cool blue bandana like this one."

  She took off her bandana and handed it to Toby, exposing her bald head.

  "Can I have it? Really? Can I, Mummy?" he asked, looking at his mother longingly.

  "Well, only if you're sure." Susan looked tearful. "Erm, would you mind if I just popped outside for a puff of a cigarette?" She was asking the nurse, but Mum answered before the nurse had a chance.

  "Course not. We'll be fine won't we, darling?" She nodded at Toby.

  "Yeah." He beamed, trying to put the scarf on his head.

  "I'll come with you for a bit of fresh air if you don't mind?" I said, standing up.

  Toby and Mum were chatting like old mates before we'd even left the ward.

  I followed Susan through the maze of corridors she seemed to know like the back of her hand.

  "You been coming here for a while?" I asked.

  She nodded. "A year or so. You?"

  "A few weeks. Mum had an operation to remove a brain tumour."

  "Toby has a brain tumour too. He's just had his third and last operation."

  "Last?" I could have kicked myself as the word left my lips.

  Susan nodded and held a swing door open for me.

  I ducked under her arm and found myself in a small courtyard that had two small benches and a large sand-filled ashtray in between them.

  She lit up a cigarette and inhaled deeply. "You want one?"

  I shook my head. "No, thanks. I don't smoke."

  "I shouldn't really, but it's hard to quit when all this is going on."

  I nodded.

  "Toby's got a rare type of tumour that only affects children under the age of eight. He's seven. They removed it and he's had massive doses of radiation and chemo but it keeps coming back faster and more aggressive than before." She took another deep drag on her ciggie.

  I was shocked at her words. I couldn't comprehend how the gorgeous little boy I'd just been chatting to could be so sick.

  "Is there nothing else they can try? Surely they can't just give up?" I said.

  She shook her head. "His body's had all it can take, and it makes him so bloody ill every time. It's cruel to put him through any more, even if they wanted to—which they don't. I know it probably sounds callous to you, but I know Toby will die soon, and with the speed at which the tumour has been growing, we probably have three months at best."

  My breath caught in my throat, and I felt the tears flood my eyes. I tried to blink them away—if this poor woman could cope without crying, what right did I have to start blubbering all over the place?

  She took one last puff and stuck the dimp into the sand before rubbing my shoulder. "I'm sorry to worry you—just 'cos they can't do anything for Toby doesn't mean they won't cure your mum’s cancer."

  "I—I know. I wasn't thinking about that. I was thinking how fucking unfair this illness is."

  "Tell me about it," she said.

  When we returned, Toby was telling Mum all about his recent trip to Disneyland, Paris. He had tired a lot since we'd left, and was slumping down in his seat quite a bit.

  When he had finished his medication, he gave us both a huge hug. "Will you be here tomorrow, Grace?" he asked.

  "Every day for a few weeks. You?"

  He nodded, "Uh-huh."

  "Then I guess I'll see you tomorrow."

  The tears were flowing freely down my face once they had left, and I looked across at Mum who was exactly the same.

  "What a special little boy," she said.

  "You're right there. He and his mum certainly taught me a lesson in bravery." I passed her a tissue out of my handbag, and then I removed my bandana and placed it on Mum’s head.

  I was so proud of her. I knew how hard it must have been to take off her scarf in front of people.

  "Thank you, Geri," she said, still crying.

  I held her face in my hands. "No, Mum—thank you. For everything. But most of all, for just being you."

  Chapter 33

  I didn't tell Mum what Susan had confided in me about poor Toby. However, she'd already picked up on the fact that he was a very sick little boy. She commented several times how unfair it was—that it was different for her, she was old.

  I don't know how she'd have taken the news that as far as the experts were concerned, there was no hope, short of a miracle, for him.

  Our mood hadn't lifted by the time we eventually arrived
home. Dad seemed to sense that something had changed and immediately thought the worst.

  "What's happened? What did they say?" he asked, a hint of panic in his voice.

  "Nothing, Dad. It's okay. Mum didn't even see the specialist today. She just had the treatment. Didn't you, Mum?"

  She nodded and shrugged out of her jacket, hanging it on the banister, which was normally a no-no.

  I took her jacket and hung it in the cupboard underneath the stairs.

  "Are you sure?" he asked.

  "Yes." Mum slid her hand to the small of his back and rubbed in a soothing way.

  He visibly relaxed, and I realised that he was so tightly wound he was in danger of snapping. His usually jovial face was etched with fresh, deep lines, and gaunt. Dark circles surrounded his pale blue eyes and I was certain his fair hair, which normally had a sprinkling of grey, now seemed to have gone entirely grey overnight.

  "Are you alright, Dad?" I asked once Mum had headed upstairs.

  "Of course I am, lass. Don't you go worrying about me."

  I followed him into the kitchen. "Are you sleeping at night?"

  "Are you?" he snapped.

  "I'm not getting at you, Dad, but the last thing we need is for you to get sick too."

  "I'm sorry, lass. I know you mean well. And, to be honest, no—I can't seem to get more than an hour's sleep at a time."

  "Oh, Dad. That's no good. Maybe you need a trip to see Doctor Jessop. He may be able to give you something to help you sleep."

  He shrugged. "I'm not taking any of that stuff that messes with your head. I need my wits about me while your mum's ill."

  "But you'll be of no use to anyone—least of all Mum—if you end up having a breakdown. You've lost weight, and to be honest with you, Dad, you look sicker than Mum does."

  "I'll mention it to the doc next week. I have a routine appointment booked and I'll see what he says—will that do you?"

  "If that's all you're willing to offer, it'll have to. But promise me—if he suggests medication to get you by, you will accept it."

  "Okay, I'll think about it, lass—I'll think about it." He patted my hand. "Now, tell me—what happened at the hospital? Your mother looked done in."