by HC Michaels
“Nice of you to dress up,” he said.
“I’m a plumber.” George screwed up his face. “What do you expect? A tuxedo? Some of us have real jobs.”
George hauled himself out of the armchair, opting instead for the sturdy metal seat on the other side of the desk. This was where Theo’s clients normally sat. Many a worried man had squirmed in that chair as they wove the elaborate stories they wished to use as their defence.
Theo yawned. He didn’t have the energy for brotherly banter about which one of them worked the hardest. They worked equally as hard. It was just that while Theo spent his days up to his armpits in the shit of society, George was up to his armpits in actual shit. Theo couldn’t help it if figurative shit paid more than literal shit.
The news of Skye’s cancer had sapped all his energy. For the first time, he understood what people meant when they said they were bone tired.
He looked out his window. The city of Melbourne loomed in front of him. Skye was out there somewhere. He hoped she was feeling better than he was.
“Earth to Theo.” George clicked his fingers in front of Theo’s face.
He blinked, bringing his brother into focus.
“Sorry, boofhead,” said Theo.
“Don’t call me that.” George crossed his arms and huffed.
“Sorry, boofhead.”
He knew this nickname annoyed him, which was precisely why he’d been calling him it for over three decades now. It’d started when George’s first girlfriend dumped him, telling him he was a boofhead. Some names just stuck. That wasn’t Theo’s fault.
“What’s going on?” asked George, seeming to decide to let the boofhead argument simmer for now.
“Nothing.” Theo waved a hand dismissively. “It’s fine.”
“Bullshit. Are you forgetting we shared a womb? You can’t hide anything from me.” George leant back in the chair. “Now, spill it.”
Just because they’d shared a womb, didn’t mean they needed to share their every thought. Theo was too busy and confused to want to talk.
As fun as it had been growing up with an identical twin, it was far less enjoyable as an adult. Despite their competitive banter, he and George had a sixth sense about each other. While Skye had been telling him about her cancer, George was buzzing on his phone wondering what the hell was going on. He’d texted George back rather than call, knowing he’d never be able to hide it from his voice and not wanting to tell him about Skye until he had time to process it.
Which was precisely why George was making this appearance at his chambers. He should’ve just taken his call last night.
“I said, spill it,” repeated George, waving his hand in front of Theo’s glazed eyes.
Maybe it was better to just come out with it. George was going to keep probing until he came clean. He might even shut up for a moment if he told the truth.
“Skye’s got cancer,” he said as plainly as he could.
George stood up as his hand flew to his mouth. “You’re fucking joking with me!”
Nope, looked like he wasn’t going to shut up.
Theo fought the urge to cry. He hadn’t cried in front of his brother since they were eight years old. He wasn’t going to start now. It would only result in George calling him a pussy for as long as he’d been calling George boofhead.
“You’re not joking, are you?” asked George.
What a stupid thing to say. Nobody would ever joke about their wife having cancer. Unless they hated their wife, which he most certainly did not.
“No, I’m not joking.” Theo rolled his eyes.
“Fuck.” George shook his head slowly. “Where is it? How bad? How long’s she got?”
“Ovaries. Bad. Hopefully a long time yet. Cancer’s not always terminal, you boofhead.” He grimaced at the lack of filter between his brother’s brain and his mouth. Sometimes he wasn’t just a boofhead, he was a fucking dickhead.
George let out a long whistle. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.”
“She only told me last night.” Theo held up his palms. “I haven’t told anyone.”
“What about Amber?” George sat back down, seeming to have absorbed the worst of the shock.
“Well, Amber knows, of course,” he said. “She was there when Skye told me.”
“Did she chuck a party?” George asked.
Theo resisted another eye roll. “Come on, it’s not that bad. Amber likes Skye deep down.”
“Yeah, six foot deep down.” George chuckled at his own joke.
“Enough, George.” There was that lack of filter again, only this time he’d really hit a nerve. He could think of nothing worse than the two people he loved most not being able to stand each other. It was easier to just pretend they got along, like they did when he was around. Besides, it looked like Amber had been really affected by Skye’s news. Maybe this cancer would bring them closer together. Something good had to come out of it.
“Mate, I’m sorry. I’m in shock, you know. I can’t believe it. She’s so young. I mean, if it was anyone it should be you or me or Sophie, god forbid.” He made the sign of the cross three times, as was their mother’s habit before she died.
Theo and George had gone to school with Sophie. She’d been married to George for over thirty years, longer than Skye had been alive. She was like a sister to Theo. Well, not quite. You didn’t date your sister. Sophie had originally been his girlfriend, but when things didn’t work out, she’d drifted over to George, who’d been more than happy to help mend her broken heart.
How different his life would be if he’d married Sophie. He could’ve, too. She was hot for him in those early days. She probably still was. Really, she couldn’t be attracted to George and not him when people apparently thought they looked exactly the same. Strangely, he’d never really thought about it the other way around. Was Skye attracted to George? He pushed the thought from his mind.
Anyway, that thing with Sophie happened a very long time ago and they all told each other it was completely not weird. Although, if Theo was honest it was weird. Very weird. How many blokes could say they’d slept with their sister-in-law? Not that he could reconcile Sophie’s solid fifty-year-old body with her sixteen-year-old small-breasted self.
“Will she still be able to have kids?” asked George.
Theo shook his head. “No.”
“Not to worry. You’ve got Amber,” George said warmly. “Besides, kids are overrated. Always taking your money, keeping you awake worrying until they get home, answering back.”
“You know I wanted kids with Skye,” Theo reminded him. “A son, perhaps.”
“No idea why, mate.” George wasn’t letting it go. “If I had a woman like Skye, the last thing I’d want is to knock her up and ruin that tight little—”
“Enough!” He hated it when George spoke about Skye like she was a piece of meat. He’d always been jealous he earnt more money than him and now he was jealous of his wife. It was pathetic. They had the same DNA, for goodness sake. The same opportunities handed to them in life. It wasn’t his fault if he’d made more out of what he’d been given than George had.
“You don’t need to have a son.” George sat forward in his chair. “Lukas will carry on the Manis name. Don’t worry about it.”
That was exactly what he was worried about. This was the one thing George had over him—he’d been the one to produce a child with a penis. He never bragged directly about it, but it was comments like these that showed just how proud he was.
Smug bastard.
“Yeah, whatever, little brother,” he said reminding him who was the older twin.
“You know you were only born first because I pushed your dumb arse out of my way.” George smirked at his comeback.
“Keep telling yourself that.” He glanced at the clock, wondering how long George was going to stay. He had work to do. If George were a client, he’d have billed him hundreds of dollars for this visit so far.
“Look, you know conversation’s not my stron
g point,” said George, realising he was losing his twin’s interest. “You’re the fancy talker out of the two of us. Forget everything I said. I’m sorry to hear Skye’s sick. I’m here for you.”
“Thanks, boofhead.”
“Given everything that’s going on, I’m going to give you one free boofhead.”
Theo grinned at him. “Gee, thanks mate.”
“So, is she having chemo?”
Theo tried to remember exactly what Skye had told him. He really needed to write some dates down. “Surgery first, then chemo.”
“Fuck. How are you going to cope with that, you big nancy boy?”
George was well aware of Theo’s phobia of needles. He’d fainted a couple of years ago when Amber had to get a blood test.
“You know why I hate those things,” said Theo.
George nodded. “Yeah, but we both saw Mum hooked up to those machines and you’re the only one left having nightmares about it.”
When their dad died of a stroke ten years ago, neither of them had known how lucky they were to lose him so quickly. Their mother had taken five long and torturous days to die from acute pancreatitis. She was hooked up to so many machines they could hardly get near her to kiss her or hold her hand. It would’ve been easier to cope with if she were at peace, but she was writhing in pain trying to rip the tubes from her body. A few times she succeeded, sending blood spurting all over her bed.
At the time, Theo had coped—he’d had to—but afterwards he’d gone into some kind of shock. Every time he saw a needle now, the memories came flooding back. It was too much to take.
He knew he had to get on top of his fear if he was going to support Skye through her treatment.
“I’ll figure something out,” he said, glancing at the lion tattoo poking out of the sleeve of George’s tee-shirt. He’d gotten it the week after their mum died as a mark of respect, claiming she’d battled her disease with the courage of a lion. In that case, Theo thought he should’ve gotten a lioness tattoo. Or spent more than a hundred bucks and gotten an actual tattoo artist to do the work, instead of the no-hoper at the hepatitis factory down the road. It looked like some kind of kindergarten drawing.
“Maybe I’ll get hypnotised,” Theo said, only half-joking. He had to do something about his phobia eventually.
“Well, if you start quacking like a duck, I’ll know what’s happened.” George tucked his hands into his armpits and flapped his arms.
“Very funny.”
“I’ll get Sophie to ring Skye and see if there’s anything we can do for her.” George let his arms fall. “Chicks are better at that kind of stuff than we are.”
As the conversation dragged on, Theo casually pressed a button on his desk phone to signal Jane that he needed an interruption. This was usually reserved for clients. George was special today.
His phone beeped and Jane’s voice came through a speaker. “Excuse me, but I have Mr Klein on line one. He says it’s urgent.”
“Tell him I’ll be with him in a moment.”
George took the hint and stood, punching Theo playfully on the arm. “I’ll get out of your hair.”
“Sorry boof. I appreciate your visit, but I have to take this call.” He got up and hugged his brother. They slapped each other on the back to make sure it was a manly hug.
“Love you, mate,” said George. “I mean it. I fucking love the shit out of you.”
“Get out of here, you poof.”
George walked to the door.
“Hey, boofhead,” Theo called after him.
George turned to look at him, eyebrows raised.
“I fucking love you, too.”
The truth was, he did.
Even if he was a first-rate boofhead.
47 Days Before the Break
“The Skye has no limit.”
Skye Manis announces deadly cancer battle.
This isn’t easy to write. You joined me on my journey when I was at my lowest point, stuck at the bottom of a mountain wondering how I would ever get to the top. With your help, I managed to not only climb to the summit, but I did the samba when I got there. I learnt that when it comes to me, the Skye really has no limit.
The last few years of my life have been wonderful. I have an adoring husband, a beautiful house and a career I love. I must also tell you that I have cancer.
That last part really sucks. I only just got the news recently, so forgive me for not announcing it sooner. I needed time to share it with Theo. As you can imagine, he’s been very upset, but he’s also been so supportive and understanding and I love him for it. He really is my knight in shining armour.
The cancer is in my ovaries. My treatment will mean I’ll not only lose my hair, but the ability to have children. My heart is broken. I would have loved nothing more than to have had a baby with Theo.
Part of me wants to throw a tantrum, shake my fists in the air and declare to the world how brutally unfair this is. But ... I can’t do that. Not to me and not to all of you who held my hand as I pieced my life back together when my first husband, Dean, was taken from me. I’ve thought a lot about Dean lately. His life ended so abruptly. One minute he was driving his car and the next he was gone. Just. Like. That. He was never given the chance to fight for his life. I have that chance. And fight is exactly what I intend to do.
I’m going to fight and I’m going to win. I’m going to do it for Dean. And Theo. And you. But most of all, I’m going to do it for me.
I know once again I’ll be inundated with offers of help, but if I can ask one thing of all of you, it’s this...look after yourself, get in touch with your body and learn what feels normal and what doesn’t. Please visit your doctor if you suspect anything is wrong.
Ovarian cancer is a silent killer. Look out for feelings of bloating or pressure in your abdomen, pain during sex, changes in bowel habits, indigestion or bleeding outside your normal period. None of these symptoms are sexy, but neither is death. We need to talk about these things in loud voices instead of hushed, embarrassed tones.
So once again my life has taken an unexpected turn. Last time this happened, I was blind with grief. This time I’m going to stop and take in the view.
Hold your loved ones close. Live the life you dream of. And remember to smile. Life is beautiful.
Skye xx
Skye hit send on the email to her editor. She’d done it. It’d taken her three days to draft but she’d finally sent her cancer news out into the world. She felt like the bravest woman on the planet. She smiled so spontaneously she forgot to hide her gums.
It really was the most difficult story she ever had to write. Apart from the very first story she wrote about Dean’s death—a brutally honest account of what it felt like to lose your partner.
Dean had been driving home from a work trip to Adelaide late one night and fell asleep on a particularly notorious stretch of Dukes Highway. It was unclear whether he died when his car struck the tree or if he’d managed to hang on while his ruptured fuel tank atomised the gasoline, leaking it into the crumpled cabin before it ignited on the cigarette he’d been smoking at the time. Smoking really was a health hazard.
Cars didn’t normally explode into fireballs like they did in the movies, just as newlywed husbands didn’t normally drive off roads and die. But the car had. And Dean did.
The body of the man she’d loved with all her heart was so burned and mangled in the car accident the coroner had to use dental records before he was prepared to issue a death certificate.
The story of Dean’s death was the story that not only got Skye the job but made her famous. She quickly gained a huge following of women keen to hear updates on her journey. Just as quickly, she left her job in that putrid call centre. Each story she posted would receive thousands of sympathetic responses. The fact she’d only been married a month when Dean died was what seemed to fascinate people. She went from newlywed to widow before the moon had the chance to cross the sky.
She reflected on how the worst
event of her life had directly resulted in the best thing to have ever happened to her. It launched her career. Maybe this time it would be the same.
Her success led to an independence she’d never had when she was married to Dean. It’d also led to a new husband.
Her destiny was sealed from the moment Theo choked on his muesli. He was a man who was used to getting what he wanted in life and he’d decided he wanted her. His private investigator tracked down her phone number and given that Theo had undergone extensive training in winning arguments (otherwise known as a law degree), it didn’t take him long to convince her to go on a date with him. He didn’t really give her much choice. Not that she’d wanted to say no. He was everything she’d been looking for, with the added advantage of being much older, which meant he worshipped her, complying with her every wish in order to keep her mouth smiling and legs open.
There weren’t many men his age with a washboard stomach, a full head of dark hair and teeth so white they could light your path in a blackout. And he loved that she was so independent. The hot blood that thrummed through his veins had other ideas that didn’t involve listening to her complain about being bored.
They were a match made in heaven.
Now, life was about to take yet another turn. Her waning popularity had been a direct result of her perfect life. Dramas were what interested people. Not mundane happiness.
Despite the horrible news contained in the story she’d just written, her editor was going to love it. It would be a hit. There was a whole new fan base out there who’d join her following. Women who’d also struggled with their health and could relate. Others who desperately wanted children, only to discover they weren’t able to have any.
She’d cried as she wrote it, going through half a box of tissues as she wiped the tears from her eyes, but it expressed exactly what she wanted to say.
Now she’d submitted it, it was only a matter of time before her phone started ringing. The media would want to do interviews, her editor would want her to write follow-up pieces, and friends and fans would be offering their sympathy and support. It was all very overwhelming. At least it would keep her busy, leaving her no time to mope about being sorry for herself.