Storm in a B Cup

by Lindy Dale

  I look at him and, heaven help me, I lie. “I have a dentist appointment later. You know how Mummy hates the dentist.”

  “You’re a scaredy cat sometimes.” Rory goes back to his breakfast.

  “Only about the dentist.”

  I begin to stack the breakfast dishes in the dishwasher, my mind mulling over possible scenarios that could occur later in the day. So far, I haven’t obsessed too much about the cancer. At least I don’t think I have. Sleep has become a non-existent event over the past few nights and I did put the milk in the pantry instead of the fridge earlier on. Plus, I have this insatiable craving for a cigarette, which is very odd, seeing as I’ve never smoked. As I close the door to the dishwasher, I realise I’ve been obsessing subliminally, which is probably more detrimental than having a complete meltdown.

  Shit.

  I give the benches a swipe with the cloth and shoo Rory to his room to collect his things. Oh well, I think, not much I can do about it now. At least I don’t look nervous. Rory would pick up on that instantly.

  The plan — which I’ve formulated in my mind and rehearsed so that nothing can go wrong — is that I’ll drop Rory at school, drive to the shop, grabbing a coffee for Lani and me on the way. By the time I get there, it’ll be past nine and I’ll be able to ring the doctor. What if they say I have cancer? What if I only have months to live? Despite, my subliminal obsessing, the plan hasn’t progressed past the phone call. I have no idea what I’ll do if we reach that stage.

  I grab my keys and holler down the hall in the direction of Rory’s bedroom. I know he’s looking for something to take for Show and Tell. It’s the morning of his weekly turn, and he always leaves it till the last minute. He never lets me help. “Rory. School. Come on, let’s go or we’ll be late.”

  *****

  Unfortunately, the plan does not go according to plan.

  After dropping Rory at the gate, I am the victim of a flat tyre whilst idling in the drop off zone. As a rule, I do not change flat tyres. I do not like grease and dirt that much, but today I am obligated to get out of the car and fix it. With a sigh, I turn off the ignition and pop the back door of the car, stepping into the before-school chaos.

  There’re kids running everywhere and a line of parents with wound down windows behind me who are looking like they want to string me up the school flagpole for having the gall to get a flat in the drive-through. To add to the indignity of trying to figure out which tool will undo wheel nuts in front of the entire school community, I have Miss Butterworth, the Head of Primary, breathing down my neck. Her hair, like a steel wool scourer, is casting a fuzzy shadow on the wheel. Her face looks pinched at this imposition to her orderly queue.

  “Do you need a hand there, Ms. Molloy?” she asks.

  I know she’s not saying it to be helpful. She doesn’t like chaos and I’m creating it. Cars are trying to swerve around me. People are honking. Oncoming traffic is being narrowly missed. There’s cursing but that’s mostly me.

  She taps her foot. “We really should keep the line moving.”

  “I know,” I pant, as I attach the silver thing to the nut. “I won’t take long, I promise. I’m really sorry.”

  “You might like to jack the wheel up before you try to take the tyre off,” she advises.

  Like I didn’t know that. If she weren’t breathing down my neck I would have remembered to do that. I locate the jack and place it under the car. I begin to wind.

  “And you did put the car in gear before you started?” she enquires, as if I am a complete car imbecile. I wish she would shut up and let me finish the job. I wish she would go away before I burst into tears in the middle of the queue. Can’t she see I have things to deal with that don’t involve changing tyres? Not that I’m thinking about that. Because I’m not nervous. My hands are shaking because I’m flustered, that’s all.

  “Yes, I did.” My reply is somewhat terse and I can tell she’s annoyed by it. I pick up the wrench — that’s what it’s called. I try to calm myself but my hands are gripping the metal so tightly my knuckles are going white and I can’t fit it onto the nuts, let alone loosen them. Probably because I’m using the wrong end.

  And at that moment, when I feel like I might be going to have a crying fit over a tyre, Harris Farmer’s dad, Hugh, appears around the side of the car, a saviour in a Volvo and an Armani suit. He rests a large hand on the bonnet and gives me that friendly Farmer grin. All straight teeth and soft lips.

  “Need a hand, Soph?”

  I feel the tension leaving my body. It’s funny how certain people have that ability.

  “Please. The nuts are super tight.”

  Hugh looks over to where Miss Butterworth is drumming her fingers impatiently on the other side of the car.

  “How about you direct the traffic around us, Marg? I’m sure we can get Ms. Molloy out of your hair quite quickly if you do.” He slips his suit jacket off and hands it to Miss Butterworth who takes it in bemusement. His look says he won’t take no for an answer.

  Miss Butterworth steps into the fray and takes up the role of traffic warden.

  “You’re a lifesaver,” I whisper to Hugh, who’s undone the nuts at the speed of light and is now putting on the spare tyre. I bet he has a Superman outfit under that suit.

  “Anything for a damsel in distress.”

  His grin makes me blush and for a second I forget about the thing that I’m not thinking about.

  “Did you get your chocolates sold?” he enquires casually. “Harris and I had to go up and down the street. Nothing like begging with the neighbours to lower your opinion of yourself.”

  The boys’ school is having a chocolate fundraiser and Rory’s class, in particular, has been very competitive. It seems every family wants the title of ‘Highest Sales’ and the prize that goes with it.

  “I didn’t sell any.”

  He looks at me.

  “I ate the lot. Three cartons full. Rory’s going back for another today if they have any spares.”

  Hugh Farmer laughs so hard, he almost drops the wrench. “Three cartons? That’s seventy-two bars of chocolate? It’s a wonder you don’t look like the side of a house.”

  I’m positive I see his eyes cast a meaningful glance at my legs, hidden only by thin, expensive pantyhose.

  “Chocolate is a food group in our house. Besides, it’s good for you. It releases endorphins. And I didn’t eat the lot. Rory had a few. And he sent two in the mail to his Grandmam.”

  “Hmm. That’s still sixty or so bars.”

  I am fully aware that I have taken the term ‘comfort eating’ to a whole new level this past week but I’m not about to tell him that.

  Hugh sits back on his haunches. “All done. Don’t suppose you’ve got a rag so I can wipe my hands?”

  I rush to the back of the car and hand him one of Brendan’s gym shirts. Brendan won’t care. I’m sure he’s forgotten it’s even there. “Thanks so much. You’re a lifesaver,” I repeat.

  “All in a day’s work.”

  Hugh hands the shirt back to me and I roll it in a ball and toss it in the car. I pick up the bits and pieces from beside the car and stow them in the back, too. “Thanks again,” I say, waving as he gets into his car behind me.

  “My pleasure, Sophie. You have a nice day.”

  And that’s when it hits me. I might have had my last nice day for a while.

  *****

  The traffic is steady and somehow I manage to catch every green light — a small miracle in itself — so I reach the shop about ten minutes later. I know they say you shouldn’t play where you work but seriously, the traffic in Perth is so ridiculous, I actually give thanks that our house, Rory’s school and the shop are within a few minutes of each other. When he’s old enough, I plan for him to ride his bike. He can take the backstreets and cross at the lights and I’ll be able to head straight to work. I think he’d like that. Being a big boy. I’d like it too.

  It’s 8.50 a.m. when I unlock the back door an
d dump my stuff in the small space I’ve designated as the staffroom. Lani’s nowhere in sight, so I put down our coffees and get out the price tags and the list I’ve generated for the pricing of the new stock. Lani managed to return those hideous bags from last week and reorder what I actually wanted in the first place, so I perch myself on a stool and sip and tag alternately.

  When I was at school, I never dreamed that one day I would own my own shop. I wanted to design things — well, handbags, to be specific — but that was as far as my future was planned. I didn’t think I’d be selling other people’s bags, but that was how it ended up. I got pregnant with Rory in my last year of Art School. I had to feed a baby. I had no family to help me out. Fluffy dreams were replaced by practicality.

  After the discovery, I put my dream aside and went to work at Heather’s Hats And Bags, a tiny glass fronted shop in West Perth. Heather sold the most amazing hats, some designed by herself, some she imported. People used to stop in the street to look at her zany window displays. From one week to the next you never knew if the hats would be decked out like flying saucers or balanced on top of stuffed parrots or something. They were a talking point up and down Hay Street. And her collection of handbags was enough to make a grown woman drool. I did. Often.

  I loved working for Heather; she was like a second mother to me and, after Rory was born, she let me bring him to work. She set up a playpen and a cot out the back, so I wouldn’t have to pay for childcare. She let me start late and finish early to suit his nap times. She taught me how to order and who to order from. She let me borrow her collection of vintage hats for a promotion idea I came up with. It was fun.

  Then one morning — it was Rory’s second birthday — she arrived at the shop with a battered leather suitcase, a huge smile and a fox fur stole draped around her neck. She announced that the man she’d loved for forty years had returned and wanted her to run away with him. He was going to marry her and take her around the world. They were going to visit the exotic places they’d spoken of when they were twenty. He was hideously rich. Then, she said, if I could keep the shop afloat for six months, without her help, I could have it. I was practically family and she wanted to retire anyway. It was certainly a windfall I never expected. But that was how I came to be here. Not the grandest of starts but among the most interesting, I’ll bet.

  As the hands on the wall clock — a sunburst remnant from the seventies — click over onto nine, I dig in my bag for my phone and search my contacts for the doctor’s number. My knees are trembling, more than the day I found out I was pregnant. I dial and listen to the ring tone. Deep down, I already know what they’re going to say but I’m clutching to that sliver of hope.

  “Good morning, Dr. Jackson’s rooms. Maryanne speaking.”

  The receptionist sounds rather pushed for time. I tell her I’m after my test results.

  “One moment please.”

  I hear her shuffling papers and clicking keys on the computer.

  “Dr. Jackson wants to see you.”

  Shit. They never ask to see you if nothing’s wrong. It’s only when there’s a problem.

  I say nothing because, well, I can’t. My lips feel as if they’ve been welded to my teeth.

  “Are you there?” Maryanne asks.

  “Yes.”

  “I can make an appointment for you next week,” she adds, cool as a cucumber.

  Is. She. Kidding?

  Suddenly, my voice remembers its job. In a really loud aggressive sort of way that’s not me. “No. I need it this week. TODAY.”

  “Doctor has no slots available today.”

  Clearly she’s dealt with a tone like mine before.

  “You have emergency slots.”

  Can’t she throw me a bone? It must be fairly obvious I’m becoming hysterical.

  She sighs. “Yes, but they’re for emergencies. I can do Monday, 9 a.m.”

  Now, I am hysterical. The emotion I believed wasn’t there, that I was hiding so well, comes bubbling to the surface.

  “So Breast Cancer isn’t an emergency? I’ve already waited a week for the results. I’m not waiting another week for her to confirm them. I could be bloody dead by then.”

  There’s a telling silence on the other end of the line. I think I may have made my point.

  “I can squeeze you in at eleven on Friday. Don’t be late.”

  Oh for fuck’s sake. She had to have the last word.

  I hang up and sit for a moment. My mind is racing but it’s racing in a spiral that’s getting tighter and tighter. It’s twisting my brain so hard I can’t think. The only thing that’s making sense is that I have cancer.

  I. Have. Cancer.

  It’s like the world has stopped. Everything is frozen in time. I look out the shop window. The cars have halted. People on the footpath are staring at the lights waiting for them to change but the traffic lights are larger than life icy poles. They flash green, no wait — red? — and instead of saying ‘WALK’ they’re flashing ‘YOU HAVE CANCER.’ That wakes the street up. A man winds down his car window and is shaking his fist at the lights and everyone else frowns at each other in confusion. Then, as if hit by the realisation, they turn and look through the window at me with a look of pity in their eyes.

  The shrill of the phone makes me jump.

  Jesus. I need to get a grip. That was some hallucination.

  I check the caller ID and, even though I know I’m not prepared for this, I take a steeling breath and press the answer button.

  “Hi Mum.”

  “Hello, darling. What’s new?”

  Mum lives in Melbourne. She’s lived there since she and Dad split up, shortly after I turned eighteen. For some reason, they both felt the need for a new start and moved to opposite ends of the country. A capital city with a population of two million wasn’t big enough for the both of them. Neither of them considered I might need them. Not that I did. I’ve always been independent. Mum said I was like that from the moment I could walk.

  I swallow. “Not much. Rory got a certificate at assembly. He’s doing well with his reading.”

  “I can’t believe he’s at school already. Time flies.”

  “Sure does.”

  She talks for a few more minutes about the usual crap. I can’t get a word in but that’s nothing new. Mum could talk a used car salesman out of a job. Then she says, “And how’s things with you, honey?”

  I wonder if I should tell her. I mean, it’s not official; I shouldn’t panic her yet. “I went for a mammogram and ultrasound last week. They found something suspicious. I’m seeing the doctor on Friday for the results.”

  Bum. I hadn’t meant to blurt that out. I don’t even know why I did. It’s like I lost control of my mouth for a second.

  “Oh.” Rather large pause in the conversation. “Well, I wouldn’t worry. There’s no history of cancer of any kind in our family. The women have very lumpy breasts. It’s genetic. And nine out of ten scares turn out to be nothing.”

  This is not how I thought she’d be.

  “Yeah. Maybe.”

  “You’re still concerned?”

  “I guess so. The doctor doesn’t ask to see you if nothing is wrong.”

  “They do like to get their billable hours up though. He probably wants to see you to tell you it’s clear. I wouldn’t put it past him. You know they did that to Colin not long back. He was having terrible problems in the weeing department. Four visits it took for them to decide it was only a urinary tract infection. He was convinced he had prostate cancer.”

  “Mum.” I cut her short. Colin’s privates are not something I like to think about, even when they’re healthy.

  “The poor man,” she continues. “If it wasn’t bad enough that he had to get Viagra, then this. Works a treat now, though. He’s like a bull in bed.”

  “Muuum.”

  “And your cousin Debbie, well if that’s not a case for negligence, I don’t know what is. She went to get results of her pap smear and they told her no
thing apart from the fact that she needed to lose a little weight.”

  “She does weigh a hundred and eighty kilos, Mum. The doctor most likely thought it was his duty to tell her.”

  “Beside the point.”

  “She can’t get out of a chair without a hoist.”

  Mum gives a little chuckle. “Look, I’d best be going. Colin and I have our Morris Dancing class in half an hour.”

  “White outfits and ribbons and bells, Morris Dancing? And wooden sticks and… and skipping?” I stifle a giggle. The picture being conjured of Colin and my mother skipping is priceless.

  “Colin happens to be very good. And it’s wonderful exercise.”

  “I’m sure it is.”

  “Don’t be rude.”

  “Bye, Mum.”

  “Bye, darling. Do ring me and let me know as soon as you find out. And don’t worry. There’s no point worrying till you know for sure. It’ll only give you grey hair.”

  I hang up the phone. I guess she’s right. There’s no point in worrying until I know for sure. But there’s this little voice inside me. And it’s not singing ‘Don’t Worry, Be Happy.’

  Chapter 5

  It’s eleven o’clock, Friday morning. Brendan has taken an hour off work. He and I are sitting in the waiting room at the doctor’s surgery and, surprise of surprises, she’s running late. In fact, the doctor is not even in the surgery. Maryanne, the receptionist, has informed me that she’s still doing house calls. Who does house calls in this day and age? If I’d known that was an option, I would have got her to come to me at work.

  “She shouldn’t be long,” Maryanne says. “She knows she has appointments.”

  We wait for another half an hour. By this time, the other not-so-sick people have given up and gone home and I’m beginning to wonder if this isn’t a ploy to get rid of unwanted patients. Doctor’s offices always seemed to be littered with people who don’t look ill. They have nothing better to do with their day. Well, I’m not one of them. And I’m not leaving until I have a diagnosis and a plan of action.

  Forty-five minutes. The doctor has called in to say she’s delayed but should be back within half an hour.