Storm in a B Cup

by Lindy Dale

  “What’s up?” Angela asks.

  “I’m trying to ring Melinda. She’s not answering.”

  “That’s unusual. She’d answer her phone if she was in the middle of fellatio.”

  Exactly. But giving her the benefit of the doubt, I slip my phone into my pocket and join the conversation.

  Next to me, one of the mums, Jodie, is regaling the group with a list of the inadequacies in her nanny. She’s going on and on and on. I really couldn’t give a toss. There are more important things to worry about, though I guess if you’ve nothing else, such things tend to become a little bit important.

  “So, I bought the triplets’ entire new season wardrobes from Pumpkin Patch and what does that retard do?” She waits expectantly for us to guess. Her eyebrows have risen into her hairline and she’s glaring at me like I was the one who did whatever it was. She’s clearly distressed about this state of affairs but then Jodie gets riled about anything.

  “I don’t know,” Angela answers. “What did she do?”

  “She washed them together on a bloody hot wash. Turned the every single piece either pink or shrunken to the size only a Barbie could wear. I mean, honestly.”

  “What did you do?” I ask, if only to shut her up.

  “I had to sack her, of course. Last week she burnt holes in their undies while attempting to iron them. I wouldn’t even have known if I hadn’t spotted Augustus running commando round the back yard. Who irons undies? I’m positive she was doing it to piss me off because I asked her to clean the toilet.”

  “How dreadful,” Angela says, rather mockingly. “Have you gotten a new nanny yet?”

  “Monday. She’s Mormon. They’re meant to be great with kids and they have no life so I’m hoping she won’t be as hopeless as the other four. At least she’ll stay home. Seriously, how these girls can advertise themselves as nannies is beyond me. One of them practically drank the wine cellar dry. If this one’s no good, I have no idea what I’ll do.”

  And that’s when I snap. It’s not like I have any connection to the Mormon faith or any reason to be offended but Jodie’s behaving like a cow. Some of these women are way too entitled.

  “Gosh,” I say, “it might mean you have to do your own laundry.”

  Jodie freezes. “What exactly are you trying to say?”

  “Um, that there are more important things in life than finding a nanny who can wash clothes. Maybe if you weren’t so horrid to them, they wouldn’t be nervous and keep stuffing up.”

  “And you’re so perfect, I suppose?”

  “Of course I’m not. I’m just saying…”

  She puts her hand up in my face, turning her head away like she’s five. I’m fully expecting her to stick her fingers in her ears and begin to sing. No wonder her eldest is such a brat. It’s clearly genetic.

  “I don’t think—” Angela interrupts.

  “Oh shut up,” Jodie screams. “You’re life isn’t so perfect, either. The whole city knows Jeff’s bonking that skinny little secretary of his.”

  Now, I do crack. “Enough! Stop it. I have Breast Cancer and that’s a teeny bit more important that who’s bonking who.”

  They stop fighting and stare at me like the cancer is growing on my face. Jodie goes limp, as if I’ve physically knocked the stuffing out of her. She bursts into fits of tears. “Why didn’t you say something? There I was harping on like a diva and you’re dying. I’m so sorry.”

  I try to be flippant. “We don’t know if I’m dying yet. Look at it this way, it’s a good way to drop a couple of kilos.”

  “Oh my God, don’t be ridiculous. Go for a jog if you want to lose weight.”

  “I was joking, Jodie. I don’t advocate amputating body parts as a form of weight loss.”

  Jodie flushes with embarrassment.

  Angela’s face is filled with sorrow. Or pity. “The feeling you had was right then.”

  “Yep. I have a surgeon’s appointment next week.”

  “Are you still keen to have it off?”

  “Not sure. Guess I’ll have to see how bad it is before I decide.”

  Jodie has rallied. She’s blown her nose and is stuffing the tissue into her handbag. “Well, if you do decide to get fake ones, I know the most spectacular plastic surgeon. The work he did on my sister was unbelievable. Her boobs look like she’s nineteen. Unfortunately, her face still looks forty-three.”

  I can’t help but laugh. Jodie’s a bitch sometimes but she’s also a bit of a crack up. She doesn’t see the problem in calling a spade a spade. And she likes to get what she pays for.

  The bell rings and within minutes the playground is heaving with hundreds of kids under the age of eight. I’d hate to be a teacher. Being a parent is hard enough. I look to the door and see Rory running towards me, his blue school shirt is flapping and his grey school shorts are sporting some type of grass injury.

  “Hey Mum.” He stops in front of us and I bend down to kiss him.

  “Hey sport. You ready to go? Got your homework?”

  “Yep. Miss Reynolds put a note in my diary for you, too.”

  “Have you been naughty?”

  “Nah. Oliver pushed me over and I scraped my elbows. He made me get grass all over my new shorts, too. He said I was hogging the ball but I wasn’t. He always hogs it.” He lifts his elbows for me to inspect the damage and suddenly I feel overcome with motherly protective instincts. That Oliver is a bully.

  “I’ll pop in and see Miss Reynolds.”

  “Mum. No. It’s fine. She said it’s fine.”

  I look at Rory and decide to leave it be. If he says it’s fine, then it is. I only hope he reacts this well when I break the news.

  *****

  After dinner, I sit Rory down on the couch. “I need to have a talk with you,” I say.

  “Is this about my shorts?”

  “No. I don’t care about your shorts.”

  Rory looks at me quizzically. He knows something is up because I’m always on about looking after his school uniform, being proud of it.

  I pull him over to sit on my knee. Even though he’s getting to be a big boy, he still loves a cuddle and I could do with one.

  “Mummy’s sick, Rory. When I said I was going to the dentist the other day, I really went to the doctor. I have Breast Cancer.”

  Rory’s deep pink lips begin to wobble. Two crystals of tears form in the corner of his eyes. “Are you going to die? Like Julia’s dad?”

  Julia Long was a child in Rory’s class whose father suffered from a particularly aggressive form of bowel cancer the previous year. The children had seen him at school during the various stages of his illness and appeared to take it in their stride. But this is different. This is my son.

  “No. I have to go to a special doctor next week. She’s going to help me get better.”

  “Can I come?”

  “Not this time but I’ll write everything down, so I can explain it to you when I get home.”

  Rory seems okay with this. He’s like me. He likes to know where he stands. “Will your hair fall out and grow back curly?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Will you have to go to hospital?”

  “Yes. But Brendan will look after you and it won’t be for long. You can visit me every day after school.”

  Now he pouts. Rory and I are rarely apart. Having lived alone together until Brendan came along, we have strong mother-son bond. I think even Brendan gets jealous of it sometimes.

  “It’d probably be better if I don’t go to school,” he says. “Then I can stay with you and hold your hand. You might get lonely without me.”

  “Nice try, buster. But you’re going to school.”

  “But not when you have the operation.”

  I concede that much. “You can have one day off, then.”

  He jumps down from the couch, accepting of his fate. “Okay. Can we have ice cream now?”

  I take him into the kitchen and as I’m getting the ice cream from the fridge, he’s
getting two bowls from the drawer. He’s telling me about the spelling test he did this morning. I can’t fathom that he’s processed this so quickly but he doesn’t appear worried. Shouldn’t he be crying? I bite on my lip and push back a tear myself. I have to be strong for him. I have to show him I can fight it. I can’t die and leave my little boy alone. Nobody else knows exactly how to put the topping on the ice cream the way he likes it. I scoop one heaped spoonful of ice cream into his bowl and one into mine and as I’m reaching for the Ice Magic, his hand takes mine. It’s warm and comforting and I know he loves me.

  “Don’t worry, Mum,” he says. “Everything will be okay.”

  And that’s when I lose it for real.

  Chapter 7

  The next week, I’m back at the shop. I’ve had my appointment with the specialist. Even after she informed me that the lump is bigger than they first believed and I’ll have to have a mastectomy and follow it up with chemotherapy, I manage to hold my end up. I don’t collapse in a blubbering heap. I merely accept that it’s one of those life things. You get on with it. And I have a lot to do between now and when I go to hospital in a week. Everything has to run smoothly while I’m away or I’ll have a breakdown. That would be worse than cancer.

  As I walk in the door, Lani greets me with a barrage of messages. Everyone right down to the postman wants to know how my appointment went. It’s comforting to be surrounded by such concern at a time like this. I haven’t had this much attention since I broke my ankle doing my square dancing badge at Brownies when I was nine, not that it’s the type of attention one craves. I’d rather be noticed for my ability to cook up a storm or warble out a tune like Rihanna, but I can do neither of those, so I’ll take these little slices of love and store them for later.

  “There’s a message from Melinda, too.” Lani hands me a scrap of paper. “Call me dim but I have no idea what she was on about.”

  Having not been able to reach my friend during the week, I ended up leaving her a voice message, telling her about my diagnosis. I expected she’d be straight on the phone after that, but this is the first I’ve heard of her. According to Angela, people act weirdly when faced with the realisation that we’re mortal and will, therefore, die. Personally, I don’t see it as an excuse.

  I begin to read.

  My prayers go out to you and your family. You are a strong woman and you’ll fight this beast head on. When my mother had BC the doctor advised her to eat lots of carrots. The beta-carotene helps. Massage is good after surgery.

  I read the message again.

  Where’s the ‘Ohmigod’, the ‘I’m on my way with wine’? Why isn’t she asking me if there’s anything she can do? Who is this unfeeling troll?

  “Are you sure you copied this down correctly?” A further squint at the missive does not bring any changes to its content.

  Lani nods. “I read it back to her because I couldn’t believe that was what she wanted to say. It was so weird. What’s with the beta-carotene thing? Did you do something to piss her off?”

  I could wrack my brains for hours and I know I’d never come up with anything. Melinda and I never fight. In fact, over the years, if there were a toss up as to who had the right to get pissed off, it would probably be me. Melinda’s notorious for being late and cancelling last minute. And her excuses are no less than lame. Still, because she’s my friend I’ve accepted it as a quirk of her personality and let it slide.

  Maybe this is her way of getting back at me because I didn’t get along with the guy she was seeing? I know I said he was needy but she asked for my honest opinion. And he was. He waited ten minutes for her outside a public toilet at the market, pretending to scan the pictures on his phone. The market was practically empty. It wasn’t like she wouldn’t have been able to find him. He followed her around the house like a puppy and showered four times a day when we went on a couples weekend. Not to mention the industrial quantities of Listerine he gargled after every meal. Even Brendan, Mr Germs-Are-My-Enemy, was freaked out.

  Surely, it’s not because I reminded her of that.

  “And this was everything she said?” I ask again.

  “Word for word.”

  Shaking my head, I screw up the piece of paper and toss it towards the bin. It hits the rim and bounces onto the floor. Well, isn’t that the story of my day. I suppose I’ll try to catch Melinda later on, when Rory’s in bed. There has to be some reason for her strange message.

  “So when do you go to hospital?” Lani asks, walking back to where she’s been changing the display window. She’s setting up a vintage hat and handbag display, with a bunch of old stock she found floating around in the back room. We’re hoping to draw in a younger crowd. Retro is cool in Perth. Cute vintage shops are springing up right down Hay Street and we need to get on the bandwagon. So Lani says. I’m not denying it. Lani’s good at recognising a trend, despite following none. She’s like a trend unto herself.

  “Next week. And we have a tonne to do to get organised before then. I’ll be out of action for about a fortnight but if everything’s done it should be plain sailing while I’m away. The hospital stay is only a couple of days and I’ll recuperate at home. I might come in a couple of hours a day until I get back on my feet. I can’t leave you stranded.”

  “I’ll be right. Carly’s on Uni holidays. She doesn’t mind doing an extra shift if we need her. We talked about it the other day.”

  I nod, pleased that Lani is showing initiative that doesn’t involve wasting money. “I’ll give her a ring, then. Put the wheels in motion, at least for the fortnight I’ll definitely be out of action.”

  “So after the surgery, it’s chemo?” Lani asks, as she stands back to admire her handiwork.

  “I guess. The doctor said I should start a few weeks after. So that’ll be in a month or so. It’ll mean bi-weekly trips to the clinic but I should be right to come to work the day after each treatment.”

  “You don’t need to do that. I can take care of things. The most important thing is for you to be well.”

  “I think I’d like to be here if I can. Lots of people work during chemotherapy. I want to carry on as normally as possible. This doesn’t have to disrupt our entire life.”

  I think she understands.

  “Play it by ear then. Who knows how you’re going to feel.”

  “Exactly.”

  “What about the boys? How’re they coping with this? Do you need me to take charge while you’re in hospital?”

  I try not to laugh because I know Lani’s joking this time. Brendan would blow a gasket if she were let loose in our house. He goes into convulsions if the cushions are fluffed the wrong way.

  “I think they’ll cope.”

  “Rory’s taking it okay?”

  “He seems to be. Every now and then he runs up for a cuddle out of the blue. Apart from that, he’s behaving the way he always does. I’m prepared for things to change when I start treatment, though. I’ll look a lot different. It’ll have to affect him in some way.”

  “And Brendan?” Lani knows about Brendan’s sudden penchant for retail therapy. During the last week he’s added a new winter wardrobe and the wardrobe to put it in, to his list of purchases.

  “He came home with a kayak last night. A two thousand dollar kayak.”

  “What the hell does Brendan need a kayak for?”

  “To kayak up and down the Swan River. He’s wanted one for ages. Or so he says.”

  “And when does he propose to use it? He’s never home now.”

  “Every night after work. Rory and I had to go with him last night. He made me take photos while he posed in the bloody thing. Then we watched him paddle up and down in front of us for ten minutes. I thought I was going to die of boredom until he fell in the water as he was trying to navigate his way between two windsurfers. Of course, Rory and I got a talking to for giggling but we couldn’t help it. He had a piece of seaweed stuck to the back of his head when he came up out of the water. It looked like Billy Ray Cyr
us’s mullet. ”

  “Wish I’d seen that. I could do with a laugh.”

  At that point, the door opens and the delivery guy comes in. He walks towards me and sits a parcel on the counter while he gets out his electronic clipboard.

  “Sophie Molloy?”

  I look him up and down. Is he serious? You’d think he’d know which of us is Sophie by now, seeing as he’s in here at least once a week delivering things Lani has bought on eBay. The latest purchase was a box set Harold Robbins novels that looked as if they hadn’t been opened since they were written in the 80’s.

  “Yeeees.” I regard the package with suspicion. “Lani, you didn’t order anything did you?”

  “Nope. Well, not for you.”

  I sign on the tiny screen, completely bemused by what is in the package and where it came from. “Thanks,” I say and hand it back to the guy who turns and leaves.

  Lani comes over to the counter. “What is it?”

  “How would I know?” There’s no return address on the back. It’s quite puzzling.

  We stare at the package for a second or two longer before Lani has a revelation. “How about you open it? Then we’ll know what it is.”

  “Good idea, Sherlock.”

  The plastic envelope is not easily undone. As with most items from Australia Post, the wrapping is designed to make you suffer in anticipation for longer than necessary. They say it’s for safety in transit but I think it’s a ploy. I haven’t figured out what for yet but I will one day. Maybe when I’m in hospital. I’ll have a lot of time to think there.

  At last, with the benefit of scissors, which are far more useful than teeth as a cutting implement, I slide the parcel from the plastic bag. A note is taped to the outside. It’s from Mum. I can’t believe it. She hasn’t sent me a care package since I was nineteen but she feels I might need a little TLC in her absence. It’s sweet that she’d think to do it now. Gosh, I love her.

  I rip the paper — appropriately adorned with pink Breast Cancer ribbons — open. Inside I find a pair of Breast Cancer bed socks, a scented lavender candle (for relaxation), a book about surviving cancer by Olivia Newton John, a Kylie Minogue CD (it takes me a minute to connect the dots — Kylie had Breast Cancer too) and the first season of the TV show, The Big C. Apparently Mum decided it was a better choice than a kilo of Cadbury. Chocolate has formerly been linked to cancer, which could explain everything, or so the note says. There’s also a pink smock thing with buttons up the front for ‘ease of access’. It looks like something an effeminate French painter would wear, if he was in drag. Or maybe a blind elderly person. No seeing person would be seen dead in it. I’m apparently to wear it after my surgery.