by Lindy Dale
Then it dawns on me.
“Lani?”
Lani has mysteriously disappeared into the toilet. Given that the shop is so small, it’s the only spot one can be guaranteed a hiding place. Though, she did try to hide under the counter once.
I knock on the toilet door. “Would you like to explain what I just found?”
“Are you going to yell?”
“Only if I look through the rest of the box and find those bags are as hideous as the two on the top. Geez, Lan. I thought we were past this.”
The lock on the door clicks and Lani pokes her head around. “They’re not hideous. They’re retro.”
“So’s big hair but that doesn’t mean I want it.”
Lani appears from behind the door and we go back to the stack of boxes. I pull out the first example. It’s a Rubic’s Cube handbag, straight from the 80’s. It would have been a very quirky selling item had it not been entirely made of wool. Knitted squares of wool sewn into a cube pattern. I hold it up in front of her. “Well?”
“It looked nicer in the picture.”
I roll my eyes and take out a particularly dreadful purple vinyl clutch. Even Madonna wouldn’t have been seen dead with this baby. “And this?”
“They said it was leather.”
If it had been leather we might have been able to swing it, but the vinyl is peeling off the bag and the clasp is so tarnished it makes plated jewellery look expensive. “Please tell me we can return these,” I say, pulling a few more pieces from the box. “Because you know very well, I can’t put them on the shop floor. People will laugh at us. We can’t even pass them off as ‘bad taste’ accessories.”
Lani bites her lip. She looks so upset and I feel horrible for being mean but this is my hard earned money. Decisions like this could mean neither of us get paid for a very long time.
“I’ll ring the guy I bought them off,” she says, sadly. “I’m so sorry, Soph. Really I am. I assumed that Rubic’s bag was genuine. It would have sold itself if it was.”
I know she’s right but this isn’t the first time she’s done something zany with our stock order. A couple of months back we got stuck with a whole batch of peacock feathers, she wanted to fashion into necklaces. I mean, really.
“Can you promise me you won’t buy any more stock without my approval? As in I want to see certificates of authenticity and talk to the distributor myself?” I ask.
“Promise.” She takes up the Rubic’s bag and hangs it over the crook her arm, admiring the look. “I might keep this one, though. If that’s okay with you. I, sort of, like it.”
Oh God.
At least she’s taking my mind off the cancer thing.
****
Later that evening, I sit on the couch swirling a glass of wine between my fingers. Should I be drinking if I have cancer? I wonder. Shit, maybe I’ve caught cancer because I drink too much. Not that I really do anymore. A glass with dinner is hardly an alcoholic. I haven’t been a binge drinker since before Rory was born. That was part of how he got born, I think. A drunken night and a one-night stand with a guy I’d been crushing on for years. The sex hadn’t lived up to my fantasies but the result has been worth every minute.
“Rory tucked up?” I ask, watching as Brendan hangs the tea towel over the oven rail and smooths it so that it hangs exactly in the middle.
He picks up his glass of wine from the counter and walks around the back of the sofa to sit beside me. He puts a hand on my shoulder and snakes it around, drawing me to him so I’m leaning against his chest. “Out like a light. He was so tired after swimming today, I was lucky to get him out of the bath without him falling asleep. He wouldn’t go to bed without reading his reader first, though.”
“Thanks for doing it. After what happened earlier, I don’t think I could have held it together in front of him.”
“It’s fine. You’ll be fine.”
“If I die, you will take care of him, won’t you?”
Rory, my six-year-old son, is my world. I love him with all my heart and while his father has gone on to discover he preferred men to women and moved to Los Angeles with his new partner, I still send him photos of his son and he often rings to inquire after him. There are no hard feelings. And it makes me feel better to know I wasn’t that crap in bed. It was just because he was gay.
“Of course I will. Rory’s like my own kid. But you’re not going to die, Soph. This’ll blow over.”
I wish I could be that certain.
“So what exactly happened at the doctor’s today?”
“I told you. When they did the ultrasound they detected a shadow. Then they gave me a core biopsy. The doctor said it was pointless doing the fine needle aspiration because the G.P. would only send me back for a biopsy after they saw the results anyway.”
Brendan’s body stills. “And they think it’s cancer?”
“Well, obviously they can’t say that without the test results, but it seemed that way to me. They don’t go around poking needles into you without reason.” The hot sting of tears prick my eyes again at the memory of what that man did to me.
“Shhh, Soph. It’ll be okay. You’ll see.” He leans over and kisses the tears from my cheeks. He cuddles me to him and soothes me.
“But it hurt. It hurt so much. You should see the massive bruise on my boob.” I pull my top aside so he can look.
Eyes like saucers, Brendan sits up, pulling his arms away. He reaches for the drink he’s left on the coffee table and takes a very large swig. He even wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, which is unheard of. He’s a bit of a germ-a-phobe. So much so, that when he washes his hands, he uses the paper to open the toilet door.
“Jesus.”
“Do you believe me now, when I said it hurt?”
He wraps his long arm around my shoulder. His hand is warm as he rubs gently on my upper arm. He drops a contrite kiss upon the top of my head. I feel comforted, at last.
“When do you get the results?”
“Wednesday. I have to ring the doctor.”
“Okay. So until then we sit tight and assume a positive attitude.” He gives me a tight sort of smile. “The odds of this being cancer are low, you know that. Let’s not worry about it until we have to.”
I try to take comfort in this but, hey, it isn’t him who potentially has a life threatening disease.
Chapter 3
Saturday. For some, a day of rest and relaxation. I, however, am standing on the sideline at Rory’s weekly Auskick fixture, rugged up and drinking an extra large latte from the coffee van at the ground to wake me up. I’m daydreaming about other things I could be doing — like sitting in bed eating crumpets and reading the weekend papers. Don’t get me wrong; I’d do anything for my child. I support him. I merely wish he’d chosen a sport where the children are not miniature bogans with rat’s tail haircuts. I also wish they began these sports at a time more suited to when real people, who work for a living, want to get out of bed.
In a flurry of screaming and clapping — from the woman next to me — I watch as Rory zooms along the wing, bouncing the ball towards two witches hats that mark the goal. I see the excitement on his face as he kicks and scores. His teammates rush to jump on him; like they’ve seen their idols do on TV. It’s very cute. Then my heart melts as he turns and gives me the thumbs up and blows me a kiss as he’s running back to his spot. Where in the world would I ever find such unadulterated devotion? How am I ever going to tell him? How do you tell your child you have a disease that could take you away from them at any time?
I return his salute and go back to sipping my coffee. I don’t even notice when the milk burns my tongue.
“Your Rory’s a wiz,” the woman to my left comments, after releasing a whoop and congratulatory fist pump at his goal. Anyone would think we were at a real game, the way she’s carrying on. This is only the modified version of the modified version of AFL. We’re not in the big league. There aren’t even winners and losers. At this age, every child ge
ts a prize.
“Yes,” I remark, absently.
“He has talent. You need to nurture that.”
A massive Michael Kors bracelet watch is dangling from her wrist and it almost takes out my eye as she lowers her arm. She’s wearing a faux fur vest that hangs to her hips and suede wedges in the same tone as her winter white jeans. Her hair is so blonde you could mistake her for a polar bear.
“I suppose. If he wants to,” I say.
The woman looks at me like I’ve lost control of my faculties; like every parent wants to push their kid into being an AFL player but seriously, I don’t give two hoots. What I want is for Rory to be happy, no matter what he decides to do with his life. And I want to be here to see it. I don’t want to have cancer.
“My Austin is in the Junior Development Squad already,” the woman continues. “It’s a nightmare keeping up with extra training and the diet regime but it’ll be worth it in the long run.”
Diet regime? He’s only six. Next thing she’ll be putting him on a weights program.
“I was thinking about a personal trainer. Do you know of any?” she asks.
“For yourself?”
“No, for Austin. If he wants to stay at the top of his game he has to be in top condition.”
And again I think to myself, he’s only six!
“Personal trainers don’t deal with children this young, do they? Isn’t it bad for children to be lifting weights when their muscles are still developing?”
“Then how’s he supposed to be better than the rest of the competition? There are a million boys out there who want to be AFL stars.”
I can’t keep my mouth shut this time. “He is only six.”
Her mouth opens into a chasm the size of the football field in front of us. The gasp I receive is forceful enough to suck the paint off the boundary lines. Luckily, I’m saved from her scathing retort by the hooter marking half-time.
The woman bends to the ground, picking up a huge Tupperware container filled with oranges. She hoists them aloft and sprints onto the field. Well, clomps, actually. Platform wedges and mud-clogged grass aren’t exactly conducive to sprinting.
“So, here we are again.”
Angela, another mum that I’ve made friends with, sidles up behind me. She nudges my arm with her elbow and jerks her head towards my companion who is now sharing out the orange wedges and giving the boys tips on how to improve their game. She’s jumping in the air, pretending to mark the ball, but none of the boys are listening. She’s dodging and weaving imaginary opponents in the name of coaching. I think she’s forgotten they’re children. I think she’s forgotten Caleb’s dad, the real coach, who is standing with his arms folded, trying not to look pissed off at her intrusion.
“You look like you needed saving,” Angela snickers.
“She’s on a roll today,” I whisper back.
My other friend, Melinda, comes to stand with us, too. “Has she given the ‘nurturing talent’ speech yet?”
Melinda and I go way back. We met at the pre-natal group and clicked instantly over a love of wine and our inability to have it whilst pregnant. Having searched for the love of her life for the past ten years, she gave up and had Oscar via sperm donor.
“Yep. I’m waiting for her to offer me some steroids.”
Angela digs into the pocket of her coat and produces a white paper bag. She holds it in our direction. “Shortbread?”
I look into the bag and take a heart-shaped biscuit. It’s buttery-coloured and drizzled with icing that bears an uncanny resemblance to the woman’s hair who was standing beside me. “Yum.”
Angela munches for a minute. “Loving these 8 a.m. starts,” she says, swallowing.
“Ditto on that.”
“The hangover doesn’t help. Jeff and I went to this cocktail thing for his work last night. I spent the first part of the evening keeping him away from that skanky little secretary of his and then I got stuck with the partners’ wives.” She lets out a groan to let me know the gravity of the matter and takes a gulp of her coffee. “God, those women are so boring, drinking was the only way I could cope without killing myself. Jeff had to stop the car on the way home so I could throw up on the side of the road. Talk about embarrassing. A carload of twenty-year-olds honked at me — I’m sure one of them was the boy from down the road — and a police car did the slow drive by while I was wiping the spew from my sandals. I’m never doing it again. I’m way too old for this.”
She takes another glug from the mug and looks me up and down. “You look pale. Everything okay?”
That’s one thing I’ll say about Angela. She’s observant. She might never shut up, but she’s observant.
“Fine. I think I have Breast Cancer.”
Angela’s coffee mug drops onto the grass. Splatters of golden brown seep into the leather of her boots. She looks down at the boots and then at me. Her mouth has opened so wide, I can see she has no tonsils. She seems stunned, which is understandable. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Wish I was.”
Angela turns to face me. The half-eaten biscuit is held, suspended between her fingers, like a moment frozen in time. “Are you sure? How did you find out?”
“I had a test. Results come in on Wednesday. I have to ring the doctor.”
“But you don’t know for certain?”
“I think I do.”
For some reason, I like that Angela’s concerned. Nobody has been concerned yet. Everyone’s trying to pretend it’s not happening. Like Melinda, for instance. She’s standing there, staring at the oval, pretending to watch the boys playing footy. I know she’s not. I can see her biting the corner of the inside of her lip; a dead giveaway. Why doesn’t she say something? She’s supposed to be my friend.
“So what are you going to do?” Angela asks.
“If it is cancer, I’ll have my boob chopped off. Maybe even both. I haven’t decided yet.”
Now Melinda decides to butt in. “Isn’t that a bit extreme, I mean, there’s lots of other ways they can get rid of it without losing your breasts.” Her voice sounds judgemental though, not like her at all.
I shrug. “I don’t care. Better gone than dead.”
“You’re so upfront about it. I don’t know how I’d react if it was me but I don’t think I’d like having no breasts.”
I take a bite of my biscuit. I chew and swallow. “It’s not like I’ve got much choice, is it?”
*****
After footy, we make a stop at McDonald’s in Jolimont. Rory looks at me quizzically as I pull into the car park, get out of the driver’s side and unlock his door.
“What’s up, Mum?”
“Nothing. You played well. I thought a treat might be in order.”
His little eyebrows draw to a frown like he’s unsure what this is about. Has his mother been abducted by aliens and replaced with some other lady who doesn’t care what he eats? He knows that stopping at McDonald’s for no reason is about as likely as telling him he can have a day off school for the hell of it.
“Yeah?”
I ruffle his hair and take his hand. “Yeah. And you can have whatever you want.”
“Even Coke?” Coke is the Holy Grail of junk food to Rory.
“Even Coke.”
“Can I play on the playground, too?”
I push open the heavy glass door and we walk and stand in front of the counter, looking up at the menu board. “Don’t push your luck, buster. It’s not your birthday.”
Rory smiles up at me. “You’re the best Mum ever.”
I squeeze his pudgy, little-boy hand. Just the reaction I was hoping for. “And you’re my favourite son.”
“But I’m your only son.”
“Guess that’s why you’re my favourite then.”
Rory gives me a shoulder in my hip and laughs. I’ve been making this joke since he was born. It’s a thing we do.
“I want nuggets and fries and a Coke. And can I have one of those ice creams with the M&M’s?”<
br />
Instantly, my mother hat is on again. “It’s eleven o’clock in the morning, Rory. You’ll make yourself sick.”
“You said.”
“All right. But you’re not eating the ice cream now. We’ll take it home and put it in the freezer. You can have it for dessert tonight.”
We place our order and a few minutes later are back in the car, front seat piled high with brown paper bags and cardboard drink trays. There’s two huge tubs of soft serve ice cream sprinkled with chocolates and plastic straw spoons to eat it with. In the back seat, Rory is chomping on his nuggets, something else I never let him do. Eat in the car, that is.
“You know what, Mum?” he says, his cheeks bulging with fried food.
“What?”
“I’m the luckiest kid alive.”
I smile at him in the rear view mirror. How am I going to tell him?
That night, for the first time in years, I have a nightmare. The images of my body turning coal black and disintegrating into a blob of jelly-like skin are so real I wake up bathed in sweat, my lungs heaving for breath. Sitting up in bed, I stare out into the darkness of the bedroom, trying to dispel the vision, the one where Rory is sad and alone, wandering an empty street crying out for me. What have I done to deserve this fate?
Why me?
Chapter 4
Wednesday comes around in a flash. Brendan is up early today; he has a meeting in East Perth and attempting to navigate the city in its current state of disarray requires a packed lunch and a passport. The council is ‘beautifying’ or ‘improving’ or some such thing. Personally, I think they have no idea. Perth is already beautiful. What we need is a decent freeway that can get people from A to B and a train system that will carry more than twenty people at a time. Anyway, I digress. He’s up early and off to work, kissing Rory and me as he swoops his keys from the bench and heads for the door.
“Good luck,” he calls over his shoulder. “Not that you’ll need it.”
At the breakfast bar, Rory stops mid-bite of toast. “Good luck for what, Mum?”