Do No Harm

by L. V. Hay

  But a mum was the very least a child should have.

  When we were in the last year of primary school, Triss always introduced me with: ‘This is Lily. Her mum is dead!’

  It was always like I wasn’t even there. Instead there was a red mark on me I couldn’t rub off and everyone could see it.

  ‘How come?’ the other kid would say.

  ‘Cancer,’ Triss would reply, eyes wide. ‘In her guts.’

  Then, when the other kid inevitably drifted away, alarmed at the description, Triss would put her arm around my waist, holding me tight to her.

  ‘They don’t understand,’ she’d say. ‘But I do. You’ve got me. Forever.’

  It was a comfort back then. And it was now. I knew Triss was there for me – I knew at some point later today she would be hugging me close like she always had.

  I sat back on my heels and looked at my watch. It was half-five. Denny would be back at the maisonette soon. I could smell the cleaning products in the air, not just lavender but lemon-fragranced, plus the sharp tang of bleach. It was enough to make my eyes water. I wondered how many of these man-made chemicals contained carcinogens. How was that for irony?

  From across the hall, Sebastian, mop in hand, must have seen me check the time. Before I even asked, he said: ‘I’ll drop you back in the car.’

  ‘It’s okay, I can walk,’ I said. ‘I’ll just about make it if I go now.’

  ‘Mum will be okay for ten minutes, I’m sure…’ he began, but as if on cue, his mother’s panicked voice cut through from the living room.

  ‘Sebastian! Come quickly!’

  He dropped the mop and went running.

  Thirty-one

  ‘Mum? Oh, God!’

  Sebastian appeared in the doorway to see Fran sitting forwards, a hand clamped over her mouth. He dithered. What would his proud mother hate least: shuffling to the toilet, or being sick into a receptacle? He didn’t know what to do!

  Lily appeared and made the decision for him. ‘I’ll get a bucket.’

  Fran shook her head, vigorously. ‘No! I can make it.’

  She held out a hand for her son to help her up. Sebastian grasped her forearm, pulling her towards him, his other arm gripping her shoulders. Lily hovered behind them, hopping from one foot to the other.

  Sebastian chivvied his mother along, his body tense, expecting her to suddenly lurch forwards and vomit on the floor. She didn’t. They picked their way over the fallen mop and made it through the hallway, to the downstairs toilet.

  Fran broke away from Sebastian, pushing her way through the door. She shut it after her and turned the lock, preventing him from coming in after her.

  ‘Mum!’ Sebastian pounded on the wood. ‘What if you faint?’

  ‘It’s okay,’ Lily muttered. ‘It’s one of those safety locks. We can open the door from this side if we have to.’

  But Sebastian still pounded on the wood. ‘Mum!’

  ‘Sebastian, don’t,’ Lily said quietly. ‘Just let her get on with it.’

  The sound of retching and spitting filtered through the door. Then the thick, fluid sound of vomit hitting the water. Sebastian looked at Lily, then shuddered, casting his eyes skywards, unable to believe what they were hearing. Lily gave him a sympathetic smile and gave his shoulder an It will be okay squeeze. But they both knew it wouldn’t be.

  Finally, Fran gave a loud sigh, as if she’d finished.

  ‘I’m okay.’ Behind the door, Fran’s voice sounded tiny and vulnerable. ‘I just don’t want you to have to see me like this, Sebastian. Just … go drop Lily off. She needs to see to Denny when Maxwell brings him back.’

  ‘No, I’m not leaving you.’ Sebastian was outraged at the thought. He turned to Lily. ‘Do you mind…?’

  Lily’s voice was apprehensive. ‘No, of course not. But I’ll have to get a taxi. It’s ten to, now. I won’t be back in time.’

  ‘Take a cab then,’ Sebastian replied, knowing he sounded gruff.

  But he didn’t care. His mother’s need was greater right now. He heard Lily’s feet as she walked across the hall tiles, into the kitchen.

  He was still keeping vigil by the toilet door when the taxi arrived and the front door closed after her.

  Fran finally opened the door and allowed Sebastian to help her back to the living room. As he turned the television back on for her, he noted she was shivering, teeth chattering after her vomiting ordeal. Though it was late July, the weather had taken a turn for the worse, as if autumn had already arrived. The skies were white and oppressive; a harsh breeze rattled against the window pane.

  Sebastian retrieved a quilt from the spare room. ‘There you go,’ he said as he tucked it around his mother’s knees like she was an octogenarian.

  The cold reality pierced him like a dagger through the heart. She was only in her early fifties; no age at all. This wasn’t fair!

  ‘I do wish you wouldn’t fuss.’ Fran stifled a yawn behind her hand.

  Sebastian couldn’t help smirking. His mother had always liked fuss, no matter her protestations to the contrary.

  ‘How about a cup of nettle tea? I got some for you from that health-food shop in town. The internet says it’s good to settle the stomach after chemotherapy.’

  ‘It sounds ghastly.’ Fran gave a heavy sigh, both hands held to her midriff. ‘But go on, then. I’ll try anything.’

  Sebastian shuffled into the kitchen and flicked on the kettle. He looked at the clock: it was barely six o’clock, but it felt much later. Days seemed to be longer now. Time always seemed to slow down around serious illness. There was a sense of marking time: day by day; hour by hour; minute by painstaking minute. Sebastian felt trapped, as if a force field had formed around his mother and all of them were orbiting around her. Life had suddenly shrunk: when once Sebastian might have been concerned with the world around him – work, politics, religion, sport – now it all seemed to be suspended. There was only the spectre of death, waiting to make its claim, to spirit his mother away.

  Fran was right: the nettle tea did look ghastly: a deep brown-green colour, like seaweed in liquid form. It didn’t smell much better. Sebastian brought the tea through in one of Fran’s best cups and saucers, a shining teaspoon balanced on it. In his other hand he carried the sugar bowl, in case she wanted to add some. He had no idea if you were supposed to or not.

  Sebastian placed both in front of his mother then glanced up and found her gaze upon him. ‘What?’ he asked.

  Fran’s eyes were glassy with tears, yet a small smile pulled at her thin, bloodless lips. She averted her eyes, uncharacteristically exposed. ‘Oh, nothing, darling.’

  Sebastian forced a smile. ‘Go on,’ he prompted her.

  Fran rolled her eyes as if exasperated, but it was just a front. Sebastian could always tell when his mother was play-acting. Then she leaned forwards and grasped his hand.

  ‘Just … this. I’m so grateful to be spending my last days with you.’ Fran brought two of her fingers to his cheek, pinching his flesh. ‘You’re my boy.’

  A ball of pain appeared in Sebastian’s throat; it barely allowed him to force three small words out.

  ‘Me too, Mum.’

  Thirty-two

  The taxi pulled up near the bank, dropping me a few doors down from the maisonette. As the car stopped, I could see both Denny and Maxwell up ahead, waiting on the street just beyond the side alley that led through to our home. Maxwell carried a plush soft toy in his left hand: a sheep. That was new. Denny was on his father’s shoulders, looking out to the junction.

  Someone else was with them.

  Triss.

  Denny held up both hands, counting on them. I recognised what they were doing immediately: the yellow-car game. You got a certain number of points for red, green, blue or black cars, with yellow the highest (being one of the most rare). It was a game that Maxwell and I had introduced to Denny when we took him on our last family holiday to Center Parcs. Now, here was Triss playing the same game with Denny a
nd my ex … like happy families? My brow furrowed as I took in the odd scene. Triss had always struggled to be in Maxwell’s company.

  ‘That’s four sixty,’ the taxi driver prompted.

  I passed a five-pound note to him and without waiting for change, pulled open the door and spilled out onto the pavement.

  The three of them turned to look at me.

  ‘Sorry, sorry.’ I hated being late, especially when Maxwell was likely to hold it over me.

  ‘Don’t worry. Triss has been keeping us company.’ Maxwell indicated to his left.

  ‘I can see that,’ I said, careful to keep my tone neutral.

  Even so, it felt awkward. ‘Found them on the doorstep.’ Triss shrugged. ‘Thought I’d come over for a catch-up?’

  She had a rucksack over one shoulder and a bag dangling from the other hand. I could guess what was inside: wine, crisps, chocolate. My heart plummeted. We hadn’t arranged this. I’d wanted a quiet one tonight, not a booze-up and heart-to-heart. But I smiled, anyway.

  ‘Well, I’d best be getting off. It’s a school night for some of us.’ Maxwell leaned down, letting Denny hop off his shoulders.

  I felt the familiar resentment curdle in my stomach. Typical Maxwell, going on as if teaching was a dosser’s profession just because we got a summer holiday. If he spent his time in the classroom too, he’d soon need it. Besides, though he might have done his time in the trenches as a junior doctor, he had a pretty cushy number going on up at the Cromwell these days, what with half days, picking his own hours, his own patients…

  ‘Can’t Dad come in?’ Denny pulled on my arm.

  ‘It’s fine, Denny. Your mum’s had a long day.’ Maxwell handed over the new sheep toy.

  Denny grabbed it, a pout on his round little face. ‘Pllllleeeeeease, Mummy!’

  A look passed between me and Triss. My heart sank. I could sense we were perilously close to the tantrum danger zone.

  ‘No, I don’t think so,’ I said firmly.

  ‘But I want to show Dad my room,’ Denny whined.

  I could sense how exhausted he was; Maxwell had told me by text that he was taking him out to a local farm park. That meant Denny had spent the whole day getting what he wanted. He’d also undoubtedly had sugar galore, as well as that new toy. Denny was a good boy, but when he tantrummed, he went nuclear. Unlike some kids, who go in fast and hard and blow out quickly, Denny’s infrequent tantrums were epic and could last hours.

  I made a split-second decision. ‘Oh, go on, then.’

  I ignored the triumphant grin on my son’s face and led the small procession down the side alley to our front door. I slid the key in the front door.

  ‘Five minutes,’ I warned Denny.

  He and Maxwell traipsed up the stairs ahead of Triss and me. As they disappeared out of our sightline, Denny chattered nineteen to the dozen about his posters and his new cabin bed. I knew Sebastian would hate the idea of Maxwell being in the maisonette when he wasn’t there, but I was exhausted and I just needed a quiet life. If Denny went off on one that night, I might just start screaming and never stop myself.

  As we made it into the kitchen area, Triss set her bags on the table. I found myself welcoming the clink of bottles, after all.

  ‘Wine?’ she asked. ‘You look like you need it.’

  ‘Is it that obvious?’

  Triss pulled open a drawer, selected a corkscrew, then plunged it into the top of the bottle. ‘I could just put a straw in it for you?’

  ‘Don’t tempt me!’

  As we touched our glasses together, I could hear Denny’s giggles from the other room. Despite Maxwell’s faults – and he had many – our son sounded so relaxed and at ease with him.

  Denny liked and looked up to Sebastian, that was not in question. And Sebastian would never let Denny down or leave him waiting. Even so, I recalled Maxwell’s words to the psychologist: Lily remarried recently. Sebastian assured me before we married he would treat Denny like his own child. And I’d had no reason to doubt him on this – before or now – but suddenly I felt like I’d failed to consider Denny’s own feelings towards Sebastian. Could Denny love Sebastian like he loved Maxwell? Probably not. It hadn’t been long enough. But would he? How long did it take for a child to love his stepfather?

  I had no clue.

  ‘I’m starving,’ Triss announced. She opened a big pack of wasabi crisps and the fridge at the same time. Inside were my yoghurts, a load of vegetables, milk for Denny’s cereal. All healthy stuff. ‘You never have any food!’

  ‘You mean I have no food you want!’ I corrected her. I opened a drawer, pulling out a selection of takeaway menus. ‘Pizza or Chinese?’

  ‘Neither. I want fried chicken.’ Triss shoved a crisp in her wide mouth. ‘Or Indian. Actually, maybe both…’

  I took in my skinny friend, her red hair a mad contrast to her milky-white skin. She had barely any breasts to speak of; she was just elbows and knees and shoulders. ‘How the hell are you not the size of a house, with the amount of crap you eat?’

  ‘Natural talent.’ Triss affected a pose, then strode across the kitchen, as if she was on a catwalk.

  Maxwell appeared in the kitchen and Triss’s demeanour changed instantly. She turned her back on him, giving her attention to her crisps instead: a snub so obvious it was schoolgirlish – and seemed completely at odds with the friendly little scene I’d witnessed on the street just a few minutes before. Much as I loved her, sometimes Triss was a complete puzzle. But I didn’t have the energy to solve it right now.

  And Maxwell was unconcerned. He had his hands in his pockets, arms drawn towards his body.

  ‘Well, I’ll be off, then,’ he smiled.

  As Denny slunk in behind his father, I suddenly felt that I was being horribly churlish. Denny looked so disappointed his dad was leaving. Would it really kill me to let Maxwell stay?

  I sighed. ‘Look, why don’t you stay? We’re having takeaway. You can do bedtime with Denny, if you like.’

  Denny’s little face lit up, but he stopped himself … It was not confirmed yet. Triss looked from me to Maxwell to Denny, a crisp halfway to her mouth. I could almost see the cogs spinning in her head as she waited to see how this would play out. But I wasn’t doing this for me, or even for Maxwell, but for Denny. He should have at least one memory of his biological father tucking him in at home, of his parents being able to speak to each other. It was not much to give a kid.

  But Maxwell looked undecided. He shifted from one foot to the other. In that microsecond, I actually willed him to stay, to not let our boy down. Then he smiled and a feeling of relief flooded through me; I found myself grinning back as Denny jumped up and down on the spot, emitting a squeal.

  I glanced at Triss, expecting the usual sour expression she reserved for anything to do with Maxwell. But she simply dug in her carrier bag for another bottle. ‘Well, we’ll be needing more wine.’

  I shrugged at her and presented my glass for a top-up.

  Thirty-three

  As August rolled in and the initial shock of Fran’s diagnosis wore off, so did the numb feeling that had marginalised all the other considerations in Sebastian’s head. He began to notice the strained look in Lily’s eyes when she came over, the plastic smile pinned to her face. A dull ache rolled around the pit of his stomach as he realised how hard this was for her, seeing someone wither in front of her a second time.

  Each time, Lily brought treats to tempt his mother: handmade dark chocolates, topped with salted caramel; plump Brazil nuts; salt-and-vinegar kettle chips. On every visit, Fran thanked Lily for her thoughtfulness, but then put the gifts to one side, leaving them untouched. She claimed nothing tasted right; or that there was a metallic taste in her mouth; or of waves of nausea. Though both Sebastian and Lily tried their best to cajole her, Sebastian knew it was pointless: even before the chemo, her appetite had seemed to be shrinking dramatically. For the umpteenth time, Sebastian wished he’d paid attention to the signs of illness earlier. Per
haps they could have done something.

  Sebastian and Fran fell into a daily routine. She rose at seven and showered. Sebastian prepared her a light breakfast of black coffee and dry toast, which she usually nibbled at before leaving it to go cold on the plate. If she felt well enough, they might walk to the common and back. In the afternoon, she might look at her iPad, or watch a film, while Sebastian saw to the chores around the house. In the evening, he would make a light supper – pasta, beans on toast, tomato soup – something his mother’s poor stomach could cope with. She was usually in bed again by seven, watching her soaps from under the duvet.

  Fran was on weekly cycles of chemotherapy, but just like the first treatment, she didn’t want Sebastian to go in with her. He drove her to the Cromwell each Tuesday, dropping her off outside, so she could shuffle in at her own pace. Sometimes Maxwell would wait outside for her, that bright-white tombstone grin on his face. Sebastian would find himself curiously resentful as he watched his wife’s ex-husband take his mother’s hand, placing an arm around her slight shoulders. It seemed so unfair that Fran should allow Maxwell to see her vulnerable, yet not him. But he arrested these thoughts each time. His mother had always been a fiercely private woman. It was not Maxwell she was favouring; in her mind, it was Sebastian. Fran would never want her precious only child to see her like this.

  Each morning, Sebastian would go back to the maisonette to spend some time with Lily and Denny as a family, alone. But it never seemed to work out that way. Outside of the cocoon of his mother’s home, he was always fetching and carrying, racing from one place to the next. His wife and stepson would fill him in on what had been going on during his absence. Lily put a brave face on, but Sebastian felt stretched between two roles, two lives: son and husband. After a couple of weeks of toing and froing from his mother’s, Sebastian realised that Triss was now ensconced almost permanently at the maisonette.

  ‘Here again?’ he couldn’t help saying, when he arrived one morning.