Before I Die aka Now is Good

by Jenny Downham

  Twenty-five

  ‘Where are we going?’

  Dad takes one hand off the steering wheel to pat me on the knee. ‘All in good time.’

  ‘Is it going to be embarrassing?’

  ‘I hope not.’

  ‘Are we going to meet someone famous?’

  He looks alarmed for a moment. ‘Is that what you meant?’

  ‘Not really.’

  We drive through town and he won’t tell me. We drive past the housing estates and onto the ring road, and my guesses get completely random. I like making him laugh. He doesn’t do it much.

  ‘Moon landing?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Talent competition?’

  ‘With your singing voice?’

  I phone Zoey and see if she wants to have a guess, but she’s still freaking out about the operation. ‘I have to take a responsible adult with me. Who the hell am I going to ask?’

  ‘I’ll come.’

  ‘They mean a proper adult. You know, like a parent.’

  ‘They can’t make you tell your parents.’

  ‘I hate this,’ she says. ‘I thought they’d give me a pill and it would just fall out. Why do I need an operation? It’s only the size of a dot.’

  She’s wrong about that. Last night I got out the Reader’s Digest Book of Family Medicine and looked up pregnancy. I wanted to know how big babies are in week sixteen. I discovered they’re the length of a dandelion. I couldn’t stop reading. I looked up beestings and hives. Lovely mundane, family illnesses – eczema, tonsillitis, croup.

  ‘You still there?’ she says.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Well, I’m going now. Acid liquid is coming up my throat and into my mouth.’

  It’s indigestion. She needs to massage her colon and drink some milk. It will pass. Whatever she decides to do about the baby, all Zoey’s symptoms will pass. I don’t tell her this though. Instead, I press the red button on my phone and concentrate on the road ahead.

  ‘She’s a very silly girl,’ Dad says. ‘The longer she leaves it, the worse it will be. Terminating a pregnancy isn’t like taking out the rubbish.’

  ‘She knows that, Dad. Anyway, it’s nothing to do with you – she’s not your daughter.’

  ‘No,’ he agrees. ‘She’s not.’

  I write Adam a text. I write, WHERE THE HELL ARE U? Then I delete it.

  Six nights ago his mum stood on the doorstep and cried. She said the fireworks were terrifying. She asked why he’d left her when the world was ending.

  ‘Give me your mobile number,’ he told me. ‘I’ll call you.’

  We swapped numbers. It was erotic. I thought it was a promise.

  ‘Fame,’ Dad says. ‘Now, what do we mean by fame, eh?’

  I mean Shakespeare. That silhouette of him with his perky beard, quill in hand, was on the front of all the copies of his plays at school. He invented tons of new words and everyone knows who he is after hundreds of years. He lived before cars and planes, guns and bombs and pollution. Before pens. Queen Elizabeth I was on the throne when he was writing. She was famous too, not just for being Henry VIII’s daughter, but for potatoes and the Armada and tobacco and for being so clever.

  Then there’s Marilyn. Elvis. Even modern icons like Madonna will be remembered. Take That are touring again and sold out in milliseconds. Their eyes are etched with age and Robbie isn’t even singing, but still people want a piece of them. Fame like that is what I mean. I’d like the whole world to stop what it’s doing and personally come and say goodbye to me when I die. What else is there?

  ‘What do you mean by fame, Dad?’

  After a minute’s thought he says, ‘Leaving something of yourself behind, I guess.’

  I think of Zoey and her baby. Growing. Growing.

  ‘OK,’ Dad says. ‘Here we are.’

  I’m not sure where ‘here’ is. It looks like a library, one of those square, functional buildings with lots of windows and its own car park with allocated spaces for the director. We pull into a disabled bay.

  The woman who answers the intercom wants to know who we’ve come to see. Dad tries to whisper, but she can’t hear, so he has to say it again, louder. ‘Richard Green,’ he says, and he gives me a sideways glance.

  ‘Richard Green?’

  He nods, pleased with himself. ‘One of the accountants I used to work with knows him.’

  ‘And that’s relevant because…?’

  ‘He wants to interview you.’

  I stall on the step. ‘An interview? On the radio? But everyone’ll hear me!’

  ‘Isn’t that the idea?’

  ‘What am I supposed to be interviewed about?’

  And that’s when he blushes. That’s when maybe he realizes that this is the worst idea he’s ever had, because the only thing that makes me extraordinary is my sickness. If it wasn’t for that, I’d be in school or bunking. Maybe I’d be at Zoey’s, fetching her Rennies from the bathroom cabinet. Maybe I’d be lying in Adam’s arms.

  The receptionist pretends everything’s all right. She asks for our names and gives us both a sticker. We obediently attach these to our coats as she tells us that the producer will be with us soon.

  ‘Have a seat,’ she says, gesturing to a row of armchairs on the other side of the foyer.

  ‘You don’t have to speak,’ Dad says as we sit down. ‘I’ll go in by myself if you want, and you can stay out here.’

  ‘And what would you talk about?’

  He shrugs. ‘Paucity of teen cancer units, lack of funding for alternative medicine, your dietary needs not being subsidized by the NHS. I could talk for bloody hours. It’s my specialist subject.’

  ‘Fundraising? I don’t want to be famous for raising a bit of money! I want to be famous for being amazing. I want the kind of fame that doesn’t need a surname. Iconic fame. Ever heard of that?’

  He turns to me, his eyes glistening. ‘And how precisely were we going to manage that?’

  The water machine bubbles and drips beside us. I feel sick. I think of Zoey. I think of her baby with all its nails already in place – tiny, tiny dandelion nails.

  ‘Shall I tell the receptionist to cancel?’ Dad asks. ‘I don’t want you to say I forced you.’

  I feel ever so slightly sorry for him as he scuffs his shoes on the floor under his chair like a schoolboy. How many miles we miss each other by.

  ‘No, Dad, you don’t have to cancel.’

  ‘So you’ll go in?’

  ‘I’ll go in.’

  He squeezes my hand. ‘That’s great, Tess.’

  A woman comes up the stairs and into the lobby. She strides up to us and shakes Dad’s hand warmly.

  ‘We spoke on the phone,’ she says.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And this must be Tessa.’

  ‘That’s me!’

  She puts her hand out for me to shake, but I ignore it, pretend I can’t move my arms. Maybe she’ll think it’s part of my illness. Her eyes travel in sorrow to my coat, scarf and hat. Perhaps she knows it isn’t that cold outside today.

  ‘There isn’t a lift,’ she says. ‘Will you manage the stairs?’

  ‘We’ll be fine,’ Dad says.

  She looks relieved. ‘Richard’s really looking forward to meeting you.’

  She flirts with Dad as we go down to the studio. It crosses my mind that his shambling protectiveness towards me might be attractive to women. It makes them want to save him. From me. From all this suffering.

  ‘The interview will be live,’ she tells us. She lowers her voice as we get to the studio door. ‘See that red light? It means Richard’s on air and we can’t go in. In a minute he’ll play a trail and the light will turn green.’ She says this as if we’re bound to be impressed.

  ‘What’s Richard’s angle?’ I ask. ‘Is it the whole dying girl thing, or does he have something original planned?’

  ‘Sorry?’ Her smile slips; there’s a flicker of concern as she looks at Dad for reassurance. Is she only
just able to smell something hostile in the air?

  ‘Teen cancer units are rare in hospitals,’ Dad says quickly. ‘If we could even think about raising awareness, that’d be great.’

  The red light outside the studio flips to green. ‘That’s you!’ the producer says, and she opens the door for us. ‘Tessa Scott and her father,’ she announces.

  We sound like dinner party guests, like we came to a ball. But Richard Green is no prince. He half squats above his chair and puts out a fat hand for us to shake in turn. His hand is sweaty, like it needs squeezing out. His lungs wheeze as he sits back down. He stinks of fags. He shuffles papers. ‘Take a seat,’ he tells us. ‘I’ll introduce you, then we’ll just launch straight in.’

  I used to watch Richard Green present the local news at lunchtime. One of the nurses in the hospital used to fancy him. Now I know why he’s been relegated to radio.

  ‘OK,’ he says. ‘Here we go. Be as natural as you can. It’ll be very informal.’ He turns to the microphone. ‘And now I’m honoured to have as my guest in the studio today a very brave young lady called Tessa Scott.’

  My heart beats fast as he says my name. Will Adam be listening? Or Zoey? She might be lying on her bed with the radio on. Feeling nauseous. Half asleep.

  ‘Tessa’s been living with leukaemia for the last four years and she’s come here today with her dad to talk to us about the whole experience.’

  Dad leans forward and Richard, perhaps recognizing his willingness, asks him the first question.

  ‘Tell us about when you first realized Tessa was ill,’ Richard says.

  Dad loves that. He talks about the flu-like illness which lasted for weeks and didn’t ever seem to go away. He tells of how our GP didn’t routinely pick up the cause because leukaemia is so rare.

  ‘We noticed bruises,’ he says. ‘Small bleeds on Tessa’s back, caused by a reduction of platelets.’

  Dad’s a hero. He talks about having to give up his job as a financial adviser, of the way our lives disappeared into hospitals and treatment.

  ‘Cancer’s not a local illness,’ he says, ‘but a disease of the whole body. Once Tess made the decision to stop the more aggressive treatments, we decided to manage in a holistic way at home. She’s on a special diet. It’s expensive to maintain, but I firmly believe it’s not the food in your life that brings health, but the life in your food that really counts.’

  I’m stunned by this. Does he want people to phone up and pledge money for organic vegetables?

  Richard turns to me, his face serious. ‘You decided to give up treatment, Tessa? That sounds like a very difficult decision to make at sixteen.’

  My throat feels dry. ‘Not really.’

  He nods as if he’s expecting more. I glance at Dad, who winks at me. ‘Chemo prolongs your life,’ I say, ‘but it makes you feel bad. I was having some pretty heavy therapy and I knew if I stopped, I’d be able to do more things.’

  ‘Your dad says you want to be famous,’ Richard says. ‘That’s why you wanted to come on the radio today, isn’t it? To grab your fifteen minutes of fame?’

  He makes me sound like one of those sad little girls who put an advert in the local paper because they want to be a bridesmaid at someone’s wedding, but don’t know any brides. He makes me sound like a right twat.

  I take a deep breath. ‘I’ve got a list of things I want to do before I die. Being famous is on it.’

  Richard’s eyes light up. He’s a journalist and knows a good story. ‘Your dad didn’t mention a list.’

  ‘That’s because most of the things on it are illegal.’

  He was practically asleep talking to Dad, but now he’s at the edge of his chair. ‘Really? Like what?’

  ‘Well, I took my dad’s car and drove off for the day without a licence or having taken my test.’

  ‘Ho, ho!’ Richard chuckles. ‘There go your insurance premiums, Mr Scott!’ He nudges Dad to show he doesn’t mean it badly, but Dad simply looks bewildered. I feel a surge of guilt and have to look away.

  ‘One day I said yes to everything that was suggested.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I ended up in a river.’

  ‘There’s an advert like that on TV,’ Richard says. ‘Is that where you got the idea?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘She nearly broke her neck on the back of a motorbike,’ Dad interrupts. He wants to get us back onto safe territory. But this was his idea and he can’t get out of it now.

  ‘I was almost arrested for shoplifting. I wanted to break as many laws as I could in a day.’

  Richard’s looking a little edgy now.

  ‘Then there was sex.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘And drugs…’

  ‘And rock ’n’ roll!’ Richard says breezily into his microphone. ‘I’ve heard it said that being told you have a terminal illness can be seen as an opportunity to put your house in order, to complete any unfinished business. I think you’ll agree, ladies and gents, that here is a young lady who is taking life by the horns.’

  We’re bundled out pretty sharpish. I think Dad’s going to have a go at me, but he doesn’t. We walk slowly up the stairs. I feel exhausted.

  Dad says, ‘People might give money. It’s happened before. People will want to help you.’

  My favourite Shakespeare play is Macbeth. When he kills the king, there are strange happenings across the land. Owls scream. Crickets cry. There’s not enough water in the ocean to wash away all the blood.

  ‘If we raise enough money, we could get you to that research institute in the States.’

  ‘Money doesn’t do it, Dad.’

  ‘It does! We couldn’t possibly afford it without help, and they’ve had some success with their immunity build-up programme.’

  I hold onto the banister. It’s made of plastic and is shiny and smooth.

  ‘I want you to stop, Dad.’

  ‘Stop what?’

  ‘Stop pretending I’m going to be all right.’

  Twenty-six

  Dad sweeps a feather duster across the coffee table, over the mantelpiece and then across all four window ledges. He opens the curtains wider and switches on both lamps. It’s as if he’s trying to warn the dark away.

  Mum, sitting next to me on the sofa, has a face shocked with the familiar. ‘I’d forgotten,’ she says.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The way you get in such a panic.’

  He glares at her suspiciously. ‘Is that an insult?’

  She takes the duster from him and hands him the glass of sherry she’s been swigging and re-filling since breakfast. ‘Here,’ she says. ‘You’ve got some catching up to do.’

  I think she woke up drunk. She certainly woke up in Dad’s bed with him. Cal dragged me along the landing to look.

  ‘Number seven,’ I told him.

  ‘What?’

  ‘On my list. I was going to travel the world, but I swapped it for getting Mum and Dad back together.’

  He grinned at me, as if it was all my doing, when actually they did it all by themselves. We opened our stockings and presents on their bedroom floor while they gazed sleepily down on us. It was like being in a time warp.

  Dad goes over to the dining table now and shuffles forks and napkins about. He’s decorated the table with crackers and little snowmen made of cotton wool. He’s folded serviettes into origami lilies.

  ‘I told them one o’clock,’ he says.

  Cal groans from behind his Beano annual. ‘I don’t know why you told them anything. They’re weird.’

  ‘Shush,’ Mum tells him. ‘Christmas spirit!’

  ‘Christmas stupid,’ he mumbles, and he rolls over on the carpet and stares mournfully up at her. ‘I wish it was just us.’

  Mum nudges him with her shoe, but he won’t smile. She waves the feather duster at him. ‘Want some of this?’

  ‘Just try it!’ He leaps up, laughing, and dashes across the room to Dad. Mum races after him, but Dad protects him b
y standing in her way and batting her off with fake karate chops.

  ‘You’re going to knock something over,’ I tell them, but nobody listens. Instead, Mum shoves the feather duster between Dad’s legs and jiggles it about. He grabs it from her and sticks it down her blouse, then chases her round the table.

  It’s odd how irritating I find it. I wanted them to get back together, but this isn’t quite what I meant. I thought they’d be deeper than this.

  They’re making so much noise we miss the doorbell. There’s a sudden rap on the window.

  ‘Oops,’ Mum says. ‘Our guests are here!’ She looks giddy as she skips off to open the door. Dad adjusts his trousers. He’s still smiling as he and Cal follow her out to the hallway.

  I stay just where I am on the sofa. I cross my legs. I uncross them. I pick up the TV guide and casually flip through the pages.

  ‘Look who’s here,’ Mum says as she steers Adam into the lounge. He’s wearing a shirt with buttons, and chinos instead of jeans. He’s combed his hair.

  ‘Happy Christmas,’ he says.

  ‘You too.’

  ‘I got you a card.’

  Mum winks at me. ‘I’ll leave you two alone then.’

  Which isn’t exactly subtle.

  Adam sits on the arm of the chair opposite and watches me open the card. It has a cartoon reindeer on the front with holly wrapped around its antlers. Inside, he’s written, Have a good one! There are no kisses.

  I stand it up on the coffee table between us and we both look at it. I ache with something. It feels thin and old, as if nothing will make it go away.

  ‘About the other night…’ I say.

  He slides himself from the arm of the chair into the seat. ‘What about it?’

  ‘Do you think we should talk about it?’

  He hesitates, as if this might be a trick question. ‘Probably.’

  ‘Because I was thinking maybe you were a bit freaked out.’ I dare to look at him. ‘Are you?’

  But before he can answer, the lounge door opens and Cal comes crashing in.

  ‘You got me juggling clubs!’ he announces. He stands in front of Adam looking utterly amazed. ‘How did you know I wanted them? They’re so cool! Look, I can nearly do it already.’