by L. V. Hay
‘She was with it enough to request to come here; so that’s good, don’t you think?’ Lily said.
It was apparently a throw-away comment, But Sebastian felt its significance like a punch to the stomach. ‘What do you mean? Do you know something?’
Lily seemed to shrink away from him. She could barely hold his gaze. ‘You should talk to the doctors.’
This was enough to make Sebastian jump up. ‘What room’s she in?’
They sped down the corridor together and into his mother’s private room, Lily putting a hand on Sebastian’s back as he stopped dead.
Fran was sat up in bed, a painted smile on her face, brave and stalwart. She regarded her son with watery eyes. Sebastian’s shoulders slumped, knowing somehow, straight away, that he was about to hear bad news. He didn’t want to. Yet he knew they all had to go through the motions anyway, beat by beat.
‘I’m so sorry, darling,’ Fran said. ‘We … I … have something to tell you.’
Fran patted the bed beside her. But Sebastian did not move. He hovered on the threshold, as if not sitting by her would stave off what was coming next. His eyes alighted on Fran, then the man standing by the bed, an iPad in his hands.
Sebastian rounded on Lily, who was standing beside him now. ‘What’s he doing here?’ He couldn’t keep the accusation from his voice.
Lily took a deep breath. ‘He works here, remember?’
Standing beside the bed, Maxwell proffered an unconvincing smile. Though he was as immaculately turned out as ever, he lacked his usual, easy-going swagger. He looked as wary as Sebastian.
‘Yes, I know.’ Sebastian’s voice was clipped, harsh. ‘What … what kind of doctor – I don’t recall.’
Lily closed her eyes, as if she did not want to say it. ‘Oncologist.’
‘Right.’ Sebastian cleared his throat, as if something was stuck there. Tears sprung into his eyes. A flickbook of images seemed to pass through his mind – all the times he’d thought Fran had looked weak and brittle recently, older than her years.
‘I wish we could have met again under better circumstances.’ Maxwell was careful to keep his tone neutral.
Sebastian seemed to snap out of his reverie. He took a seat on a chair near the bed and grabbed his mother’s hand, staring at her hard.
‘Don’t worry, Mum. It will all be fine. We’ll get you the best treatment. Whatever needs doing, let’s do it. We’ve got the money.’
Fran smiled sadly. ‘I’m afraid it’s a little late for that, sweetheart.’ She looked to Maxwell, giving him a tiny nod.
Maxwell sighed and turned the iPad around, presenting the picture to Sebastian. Lily moved sideways slightly, placing her hand on Sebastian’s shoulder, as if to help him brace for impact.
He stared at the screen momentarily, not taking in what was displayed there. Then his eyes began to discerning the black-and-white image: a grey ribcage; the faint outline of lungs.
The huge, dark shadow on the right.
Maxwell’s manner was awkward. ‘I’m afraid it’s much too large … It’s, um, inoperable.’
Sebastian emitted a low moan as his brain finally allowed him to process this news.
Fran gripped her son’s hand. A single, valiant tear made its way down her pale cheek. ‘He means it’s terminal, son.’
‘How long?’ Sebastian murmured.
‘It’s difficult to say, every case is different—’ Maxwell began.
‘Your best guess?’ Sebastian interrupted, meeting Maxwell’s gaze. ‘Please?’
Maxwell sighed, as if going against his better judgement. ‘With chemo? Perhaps we could hold it off a year or so. Without it … weeks, I’m afraid.’
‘Then chemo it is!’ Sebastian clutched both his mother’s hands now, nodding and blinking, trying to sound positive. ‘Right, Mum?’
Fran nodded. ‘Right you are, darling. That’s what we’ll do.’
ME: We’re all set
OUR MUTUAL FRIEND: Oh, you’re talking to me now?
ME: Don’t be like that.
OMF: Like what? Sometimes I think you’re just using me.
ME: Don’t be silly. I couldn’t do this without you, could I?
OMF: That’s true. I just feel you sometimes take me for granted, that’s all.
ME: Absolutely not. I adore you. You know it, really.
OMF: So, what next?
ME: We wait.
OMF: This is taking too long!
ME: I know, I know. I hoped we’d have made more progress by this point too. But this part of the plan is bound to take us to the next level. How can it not?
OMF: Yes. It IS a great plan.
ME: When I’m not tied up here, why don’t you come over to my place?
OMF: Maybe.
ME: Aw, you’re still sulking.
OMF: Maybe. I’ll let you know.
ME: Wear the blue, I like you in that. I’ll see you at the usual time, then.
OMF: Maybe…
ME: I will.
Twenty-nine
‘It doesn’t make a lot of sense, moving her into the maisonette with us.’
Sebastian looked across at Lily. He took in the worry lines on her usually blemish-free forehead; it was obvious she didn’t want to fight him on this. Behind them, there was a red car hugging their bumper as they made their way to the hospital again. Uncharacteristic rage flowered in his chest, though whether it was directed at Lily, the car, or his mother’s situation, he was unsure. Maybe all three.
Sebastian gritted his teeth and flicked the indicator. It started to tick, like a metronome or a countdown. ‘I want to look after Mum.’
‘I understand that, but…’
Sebastian gripped the steering wheel. ‘She can’t go through chemo on her own! What if she faints, or is sick? I’ll clear out my study, make her a bed in there.’
Lily pursed her lips, clearly choosing her words carefully. ‘Yes, of course. I just mean the maisonette is poky. She’d be more comfortable in her own home, her own bed. Plus, think of the stairs, Sebastian. It’s the only way in … It won’t be long before she can’t get up them.’
Her point landed. Sebastian felt a weariness fill his bones, as heavy as concrete. Lily was right; it made no sense to move Mum into the maisonette with them. Sebastian realised Lily probably meant they should go and check on Fran every day at her own place. But a better idea bloomed in his brain.
‘I’ll go and stay with her. Keep an eye on her.’
Sebastian watched the red car finally overtake them, resisting the urge to flip the driver the finger.
He glanced over and saw Lily’s eyes bulge. ‘Wait, that’s not…’ She stopped herself, took a deep breath. ‘Yes, of course. If that’s what you want.’
Sebastian removed his hand from the gear stick and placed it on her thigh. ‘Thanks. Look, I know this is difficult, especially with us not being married that long…’
Lily forced a smile. ‘Don’t be silly. This is your mum. Besides, I know what all this is like.’
Of course she did. Lily hadn’t shared the whole story about her mother’s death with Sebastian, but she’d told him enough for him to recognise it had been a defining aspect of her childhood. How could it not be? All those moments, watching friends and classmates taking pictures and cards home to their mums; meeting them at the school gates. Lily had told Sebastian once that her dad had always been working, so from age nine onwards she was a latchkey kid, taking herself home and putting noodles on to boil, or baked beans in the microwave. It was one of the reasons she and Triss were so close. With Triss’s parents so neglectful and Lily motherless, at that young age they’d turned to each other. And had been like the closest of sisters ever since. If he hadn’t known their history, he might even have felt threatened by their tightness.
‘I won’t neglect you and Denny,’ Sebastian promised. ‘I’ll see you every day, just like I do now. I’ll just be sleeping at Mum’s, so I can stay on hand … In case she needs me.’
Lily smiled back at him. It did not reach her eyes though. ‘Of course,’ she said.
Inside the Cromwell, Fran was sitting on the bed, ready to go. She was fully dressed, her small case beside her, hands folded on her lap. She looked tired and small, but visibly brightened as Sebastian rounded the corner and appeared in the doorway, Lily and Denny beside him.
The little boy trotted into the room. ‘Hi, Mrs Fran.’ He flashed her a gap-toothed grin.
Fran laughed. ‘Well, that’s an improvement on Mrs Adair, at least.’ She dug in her handbag and brought out a bar of chocolate. ‘I’m afraid this is just from the vending machine. Is it okay if he has this, Lily?’
Denny regarded Lily with pleading eyes. She’d already told him back at the maisonette there were to be no sweets before lunch today. Sebastian was relieved when she made no mention of this.
‘Yes, of course,’ she said.
Denny’s smile widened as he took the chocolate. Fran sighed happily and ruffled his hair. The boy’s attention was short-lived, though: movement behind Lily drew his notice.
‘Dad!’ he bellowed.
Maxwell came in, leaning down and catching Denny as the little boy barrelled straight at him. ‘Hey, sport! You ready for some fun this afternoon?’
Denny nodded his little head energetically. Sebastian took in his wife’s ex-husband, the rivalry returning even as he stood next to his dying mother. Shame blossomed inside him – he couldn’t help appraising Lily’s ex. Maxwell’s teeth were impossibly white. He was dressed casually, his collar open, exposing the dark hairs underneath. His lightweight jacket was draped over one arm. Studied chic, effortlessly cool. That was Maxwell.
As if remembering what he was really there for, Maxwell held something out towards Sebastian. But did not meet his eye; instead he winked at Fran. ‘Home today then, Fran!’ he said.
Fran closed her eyes in affected bliss. ‘At last.’
‘And the pharmacist has come by?’
With a visible effort, Fran held up a bulging plastic bag. Inside were a variety of pills and potions.
Sebastian peered at what Maxwell had given him. It was a clear folder of leaflets and helpline numbers. As Sebastian smoothed a thumb across the plastic, he could read the top one: What To Expect when on Chemotherapy.
Sebastian indicated the folder to his mother. ‘I wish you had let me sit with you during your first treatment.’
Fran shrugged. ‘Oh, it sounds worse than it is. The cannula was a bit painful, but that was it. I just sat in a little room, with all the other brave souls.’
Maxwell hoisted Denny onto his hip. ‘Well, if that’s everything, then?’ He looked to Lily, expectant.
Lily regarded him with a stony, impassive expression. Sebastian could read the loathing and suspicion in her stance. An old saying sprang into his mind: There’s a thin line between love and hate. He blinked, banishing the thought. That was playground bullshit.
‘Back at six o’clock, please,’ Lily said, her arms folded.
Maxwell gave her a mock salute, swung Denny onto his back and piggy-backed him out the room. Sebastian breathed deeply at last, letting his unease go. Lily believed in him, not Maxwell. Besides, they had to put all that aside now for his mother’s sake. Cancer trumped rivalry, for God’s sake! Even Maxwell realised that; he’d not made a single dig at them since the diagnosis. Sebastian was being juvenile. He had to follow suit and let it go.
There was a lull, as if none of them knew what to say. Sebastian tried to inject some positivity back into the room. ‘How about we go out to lunch on the way home? Somewhere quiet, of course.’
But Lily gave him a barely discernible shake of her head. ‘Your mum probably just wants to get back, Sebastian…’
Sebastian felt out of his depth. He floundered on. ‘Okay, well maybe we could get some nice meats and cheeses from that deli in town? Have a quiet one, back at the house.’
But Fran sighed. ‘To be honest darling, I’m feeling rather the worse for wear. I don’t think I’m up to eating much. I just want to get back, have a sit down.’
‘Of course.’ Sebastian took his mother’s arm. It felt bonier than ever under his grasp. But now, there was something else. Knowledge of her illness made her seem frail, old. Fran had always been such a big personality, a huge presence. To see her reduced like this created a hard ball of pain in his throat. Once again, he recalled all the times he’d noticed how fragile and feeble she’d become in recent months. Why hadn’t he insisted she have herself checked out? He forced it down, fixed a smile back on his face.
‘Let’s just get you home, then.’
Thirty
I sat Fran down on the sofa and plumped up some cushions around her. Fran sighed, closing her eyes and patting my arm. ‘You’re a good girl.’
I was absurdly touched. I remembered my own mother saying the exact same words when I had done the same thing for her. Tears welled up. I blinked them back. Fran was old school. It wouldn’t do to break down in front of her. It would alarm and pain someone like my mother-in-law and the last thing I wanted to do was bring her more discomfort.
As I looked around the palatial living room with its chrome and glass, I couldn’t help but compare it to the two-up, two-down terrace I’d grown up in. We hadn’t been exactly poor, but we weren’t well off, either. My school uniform and books had been second-hand, and Mum and Dad had had to save all year round for a holiday to Padstow in Cornwall. After Mum had died, Dad and I hadn’t gone again. It was like that part of our lives had disappeared with her.
I shrugged the thoughts away. ‘Can I get you anything?’
Fran proffered a weak smile. ‘Just the remote, please.’
I leaned over the shining coffee table to hand it to her. There was an awkward pause as both of us dug for something to say. When she turned her head to the side as she pointed the remote at the television, I realised I was standing in her way.
‘I’ll, er, just be in the kitchen.’
The theme tune of Deal or No Deal was my answer.
Unsure what else to do in the pristine house, I washed up the cafétière and the tiny espresso cups. I wondered when it became normal, rather than a treat, to have such things at home? Perhaps the likes of Fran had always had them, but back when I was a girl, we’d just had instant, served in a motley crew of mugs with the names of chocolate bars on them – the ones that came free with Easter eggs.
The front door slammed and a moment later Sebastian appeared. He had three or four bags with him and a slightly crazed expression. He dumped the carriers on the counter top and started to pull items out.
‘We need to sterilise this house,’ he declared.
‘Remember what they said at the hospital?’ I prompted.
Maxwell had taken us through all this, already. Though he’d recommended Fran stayed away from pet faeces, he’d stressed that we didn’t need to take any other special precautions. Deep-cleaning or sterilising the house were not necessary. He’d even said that if Fran felt like eating, she should eat whatever she wanted, no matter how odd it might seem. Food wouldn’t taste the same, now, he’d warned: what she’d loved, she might hate and vice versa. He had told us about a cordon-bleu chef who’d eaten nothing but McDonald’s when he was on chemotherapy.
Sebastian blinked at me. It was clear he didn’t remember. Or that he’d decided what was best, regardless of what the professionals said. Or maybe because it was Maxwell who had said it. I couldn’t blame him.
‘I’ve been reading up on the internet. Her white-blood-cell count will come down with the chemo, which means she’ll be more susceptible to infections,’ he insisted.
I took a deep breath, not bothering to argue. It would be a cruel reminder that whatever he did would not influence the outcome of his mother’s treatment. I recognised Sebastian’s need to feel like he was doing something for his mother. I remembered my nan doing exactly this for my mother, nearly thirty years ago, before anyone had the internet. She’d descended on our home, vacuum
ing and scrubbing in bright yellow rubber gloves and pink fluffy slippers.
So I gave Sebastian a hand.
As I scrubbed at the carpet and aired rugs, my thoughts tumbled around my head, making me clench my teeth. Bloody cancer. It felt like it was everywhere, sometimes. There was always a mum, gran or guardian at the school gates, every single year, wearing a headscarf and a pained smile. Now it was our turn, it seemed. And my turn again.
This wasn’t fair, we’d only just got married. Horror followed this thought. I was being selfish, just like the parents at the school gates who avoided people with cancer, anxious not to hear the prognosis. I’d always made a point of talking to the parents who were going through this, taking an interest in the child whose mum was ill. No one had with me, so I felt like I was giving something back, balancing the universe somehow.
Though cancer had been a death sentence for my mother and history was repeating itself for Sebastian, people did recover. I’d seen more than one mum reappear at the school gates, pale but enduring, the fuzz of her hair growing back on her scalp. She’d leave it uncovered, a badge of honour. The other parents would relax enough to approach her at last. She would be showered with congratulations, even by parents she’d never spoken with before. Well done, they’d say, you beat it! They would call her a warrior, pat her on the shoulders, or even hug her.
Other times, though, that mum would simply disappear from the crowd at the school gates. The gathered parents would make murmured enquiries or speculate, then someone would finally confirm the truth.
She’s gone, they’d say.
As if she’d turned to vapour and been filtered away, to be spat out again into a new body at some point.
Those poor kids, they’d follow with; then: How’s the father holding up?
They’d suck their teeth: Not good.
Being the kid whose mum was dead was a hard cross to bear. Dads, you might take or leave. Your mum might have chucked him out, or perhaps he went of his own accord. Perhaps you never had one. These things happened.