by Zee Monodee
On the threshold of the front door, he heard his father calling him again, so he turned in that direction.
“The Daimsbury shop,” his dad said. “It’s yours to run until Ms. Saran is back on board.”
For the first time in his life, he didn’t hear a do not disappoint me left unsaid in words his father addressed to him. That felt strangely enlightening, like a weight being lifted off his chest and allowing him to breathe with more ease.
“I won’t disappoint you,” he replied.
Behind his father, at the top of the stairs, he thought he saw Nammy standing there, looking down at them with her self-satisfied smile.
Had she concocted this meeting, planning in advance how she’d let it slip that he’d been entrusted with the cottage and the money? All so his father could then see he wasn’t a sad case simply out to sponge the family money, and that he could actually be trusted?
If yes, then he owed her even more now.
Chapter Four
Two months later
He hadn’t seen her at the shop today. Thursday—she should’ve been back by now after having had her third chemo cycle on Monday. The first time she’d gone, she’d been at work the very next morning, looking a little pale but revving as usual. The second time, she’d asked to take the Tuesday off, and she’d seemed a bit tired on the Wednesday when she’d come back. With that kind of progression—they did say chemo got worse the more it went on—he had expected her to take two days off after this past cycle, meaning she should’ve been at work today.
Magnus’ steps took him to Ben&Jari’s in town. It wasn’t a long walk, so he’d left his Ferrari in front of the shop and legged it there. He liked ‘shocking’ people this way, making them see he wasn’t entirely the stereotyped idea they had of him as a lazy, good for nothing playboy. It didn’t happen often, but since coming to Daimsbury on a daily basis for the past weeks, the place had started to grow on him. Instead of perplexed stares, he was met with soft nods by the blokes and gentle smiles from the ladies, a few of the younger girls turning outright flirtatious around him.
Strangely, yes—it felt like he belonged here, no longer a fish out of water.
The pungent whiff of spices on a wave of chippy grease smell hit him head on when he pulled open the door to the restaurant. The girl with the scarecrow black hair—what was her name? Missy!—stood hunched over the booking register at the hostess pulpit, her whole body jerking up when the little bells on the door tinkled. In the process, she even managed to move the pulpit, which he’d assumed to be bolted to the floor. Guess not. With a goofy smile, she righted herself and the standing desk. Yes, she was a calamity, indeed—he remembered she had seemed to trip over her own feet the other day at the bakery. He had righted her just in time with a hand on her arm so she wouldn’t fall flat on her face.
“Can I help you?” she asked in that lilting Southern US accent of hers.
He nodded. “Megha here?”
It must seem odd for him to be setting foot in this place without Megha as an escort. She’d invited him over a few times for lunch, but he’d never come here on his own, let alone to seek her out. It should feel awkward, but it didn’t, and that feeling got compounded when Missy whipped her head towards the far end of the room.
“She in the kitchen?” he asked.
“Uhm, no. Uh … she …” A wave of her hand directed him to the swinging door at the back.
A trickle of cold sweat slithered down his back. From what he’d gathered from Megha, Missy could talk the hind leg off a donkey. To have her tongue-tied spelled nothing good.
With long steps, he strode to the kitchen’s door, pushing the panel and being met with a cloud of spicy steam.
Strong hands settled on his shoulders and turned him around.
“Let’s get you out of here before Ben’s chili hummus cloud asphyxiates you,” Jari Saran said as he pushed Magnus back into the restaurant.
Indeed, his eyes had started to water, almost like being doused with pepper spray. “What the …” he muttered.
Jari gave a bark of laughter. “You don’t want to know. We’re catering a South Indian wedding in the next town, and they asked for the heat to be through the roof.”
His throat seized up when he took a breath, forcing him to cough. A big hand slapped him in between the shoulder blades.
“That’s it. Cough it out. Will do you good,” the other man said, his tone sounding as if he were suppressing a laugh.
When Magnus had finally righted himself again, he looked up into the mature face. Strange how Megha didn’t seem to have taken after her father at all. Jari was definitely a looker, but she must’ve gotten her beauty from her mother. He’d heard she had abandoned her daughter and Jari a long time ago; no one really spoke of that anymore.
“Is Megha here? When she didn’t come to work today …”
Jari’s face grew shuttered. “She’s in London. I thought she asked for the week off?”
“She said she’d be back ASAP, and I assumed— Wait, what do you mean, she’s in London? Is something wrong? Her chemo was supposed to be Monday, right?”
“She had a bit of an infection on Monday, something about her leukocyte count not being right for chemo. They moved it to today.”
She didn’t tell me … But then again, who was he for her to tell him about this? He liked to think they were friends, but maybe Megha saw him simply as the boss. She had surrounded herself with people who cared about her, forming a protective circle that had her back and everything else.
And speaking of that—Jari and Ben were here, so who had gone with her to London?
“One of the twins took her?” he asked. The twins were Finn and Patrick Burley, the local hairdressers and Megha’s best friends.
Jari’s face grew even more ashen. “They’re over in the next town for the same wedding we’re catering.” A sigh escaped him. “Megha didn’t want us to cancel and come with her. Said she had it under control. You know what she’s like by now, I suppose.”
Magnus nodded. He did know. Megha held onto her pride and independence something fierce; it wasn’t cancer that would bring her down.
Still, a niggling thought settled in his mind and refused to leave. She shouldn’t be alone …
“I … Think I could go see her?” he asked after taking a deep breath. This would be crossing a line; he wasn’t even her friend by her definition.
Jari blinked. “Would you? I know it’s a lot to ask. You don’t have to—”
“Trust me, I want to,” he said, placing a hand on the older man’s shoulder to calm him down. Despite accepting him in town, they all still saw him as an outsider, someone above their stations. It shouldn’t be that way, because he was just a regular bloke. Unfortunately, his name and pedigree always preceded him and muddied the perception waters.
He threw a glance at his watch. Two o’clock. She usually finished her cycles around three, from what he’d gathered. He had just enough time to make it into London and get to her.
“I best get going,” he said.
Jari gave him a nod. Permission? Blessing? He didn’t stop to ponder as he turned on his heel and marched out and to his car. A few taps on his phone and he’d reached George, the family driver. Well, more like the head driver in the Mayfair house staff, but who was keeping tabs? A few short sentences ensured George would pick him up at his flat in Kensington—best be driven into the city where he would be hard pressed to find a parking space for his Ferrari. George could drop him off, circle around, and then pick him and Megha up once she’d be done. He’d make it there right on time, so this should be a walk in the park.
The only Bentley in his family’s extensive stable dropped him at the hospital on the dot of three. Inquiries directed him to the cancer ward, and as soon as he stepped foot there, he just knew something was wrong. Megha seemed to be the only person in the chemo room, and a quick glance at the I.V. pouch showed it was still full, the bright orange-red liquid catching the light in a
weird-looking reddish kaleidoscope.
“Excuse me, sir. Can I help you?” a nurse asked.
He turned to her even though his steps didn’t slow in Megha’s direction. “I’m with her.”
“She didn’t tell us anyone—”
“Fuck it all! Not again!” Megha rasped from her chair.
He paid the nurse no further heed as he rushed to her side. “What’s wrong?”
Megha turned wide eyes onto him, and the glimmer of tears in them, as well as the tracks on her cheeks, bade nothing good.
“Magnus … what are you doing here?” she gasped.
The same nurse brushed past him and picked up her arm. “I’m sorry, love. Let me try again, eh?”
Megha bit her lip, and it seemed to him she was holding back something she burned to let out, but wouldn’t in his presence. When the nurse stopped the drip and removed the cannula from her arm, she appeared to choke on a hiccup. As the other woman proceeded to place in a new I.V., Megha held her breath for so long, a tinge of blue appeared on her lips. Finally, the orange liquid was allowed to drip again … and then, right before his eyes, the spot on her arm just above the newly-inserted cannula seemed to swell up and balloon.
“No, no, no,” Megha rasped.
The nurse took her arm and rubbed it a few times. “Don’t understand how your veins are kinking up so bad today, love. It’s not that cold in here. Maybe I should bump up the heating?”
Megha looked on the brink of tears. Should he remove himself from here? She wouldn’t meet his gaze. Still, everything inside him told him to stay put.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
The nurse exchanged a glance with Megha, who nodded softly after a few long seconds. “Her veins keep getting blocked today.”
He looked at her limp arm. Angry red blotches marred the back of her hand and the skin farther up her arm, the new I.V. very close to her elbow. The flesh also looked bloated; he worked out that the liquid wasn’t going in and instead pooling in her arm.
“Can’t you stop it?” he asked. “Hasn’t she had enough?”
The nurse shook her head. “This is just the third bottle in a series of five.”
Blimey. She wasn’t out of the woods. “Switch arms, then?”
“Risk of lymphedema there as she doesn’t have all of her armpit lymph nodes.”
Because they’d been removed during her surgery, to check if the cancer hadn’t spread. She’d told him as much.
And then, suddenly, Megha burst out into tears. Her hand went to the I.V. cannula, and she tried to rip it off her vein.
He rushed forward along with the nurse, his hand reaching hers first to stop her from hurting herself.
Big, angry sobs poured of her by now. “I’ve had it! I don’t want to do this! I just want it to end! I can’t do this …”
The nurse exchanged a stricken look with him. It dawned on him he was the only one who could help. Megha was breaking down; he’d have to ensure she didn’t fall entirely to pieces.
So he squatted by her chair and grabbed her hands in his. They were cold, so he tried to wipe the pads of his thumbs on her skin to warm them up. Then, he remembered the many puncture marks on the one hand, and he stilled the motion, willing the residual heat from his palms to flow into her.
“Look at me,” he said gently.
She shook her head.
“Megha …”
“Don’t want to,” she replied, sounding like a petulant child as she turned her face the other way and burrowed into her shoulder.
He gave a soft sigh, not of impatience, but of helplessness. “Megha, you got this. You’re the strongest person I know—”
She whipped her head around so fast, he was afraid she’d get whiplash.
“What?” she spat. “Because of the bloody cancer? Because of that fucking parasite? Come on, Magnus. I don’t have a facking choice here! And don’t you dare tell me I’m brave! I’m—”
Okay, so this was a pity party. Lord knew she was allowed to have one, but now didn’t seem like the best time for this. He had to take charge here.
“Okay, fine,” he shot. “So you’re a damn coward, then.”
This stunned her, but only for a second.
“The bloody cheek of you!”
Her free hand shot out to hit his shoulder, and he let her land a blow. Getting her focus off the I.V. was paramount right now. If that meant he better be target practice for her, then so be it.
“And you’re just gonna let it win? Take you like it has taken everything else from you so far?” he continued.
“Oh, piss off!”
He shook his head. “Not gonna happen. You’re going to look this in the eye, Megha.”
“I don’t want to! I’m done!”
“Fine. Get the hell up, then. I’m taking you to your father’s place. Where he’ll have to watch you withering away because petulant Megha decided she’d had enough and threw in the towel. Doesn’t matter that he’ll lose his only child, right? You’re the only thing that matters here.”
The nurse kept watching the scene with stricken eyes. Yes, he was pushing it really far right now, but he needed to jolt Megha out of her doldrums and show her she had something worth fighting for.
Standing, he started turning away. “What you waiting for, then?”
“You—” she started, but the rest got clogged as she made a strangled sound.
He moved towards her again, lowering to her side, when she suddenly tipped forward and threw up all over the front of his jacket. The vomit smelled of acrid bile, with a reek of medicine, though he wasn’t sure to ascribe that to the room they were in. It smelled worse than sterile in here. In fact, it might almost smell like death, or a harbinger of it, anyway.
Tears now coursed down Megha’s cheeks, but the fight seemed to have left her.
“I can’t do this,” she muttered, but all the petulance and spirit of before had gone. She appeared broken now, and this made his heart clutch.
Magnus drew closer, then paused to look at the nurse. He gestured towards the recliner, and she seemed to understand what he was asking. When she nodded, he took that as his cue to shed his filthy jacket and then gently lift Megha before sliding in on the squeaky low-grade leather of the seat.
As he pulled her to him, she came without offering any resistance, and he settled her in the crook of one arm, holding her to him with extreme gentleness so as not to hurt her already bruised arm. With his free hand, he started to softly rub the area just above the I.V. cannula, hoping the heat from his palms would stop her veins from kinking due to the cold and her own low body temperature.
“You got this,” he murmured close to her ear.
“I don’t want to,” she sobbed.
“Shhh …”
She didn’t protest any further, instead letting go, burrowing into his side as she unravelled and her body grew limp against him.
When he looked up, the nurse was giving him a tremulous smile. He nodded in acknowledgement, glanced at Megha, then turned his eyes to the pouch of orange liquid.
A bubble of strange silence wrapped itself around them as the medication dripped down at a steady rate. The sack emptied, to be replaced by another, something with a rheumy yellow tint. Thank goodness Megha wasn’t looking at the meds right then; just watching them and smelling them had made him queasy, but he manned up and kept himself in check. Megha was counting on him to be the silent strength. He couldn’t let her down.
Then it was time for the last pocket, clear liquid that the nurse said would simply wash her veins, after which the session would be over. He watched that one go down drop by drop, until finally, it had emptied, too. The cannula was removed, a white dressing placed on Megha’s arm. Was it a trick of the light, or did the veins in that arm seem to be getting darker, almost black?
She’d remained unusually quiet through the whole process, and he’d even wondered if she might’ve fallen asleep at some point. Though he doubted that. That I.V. had looke
d painful. He remembered having been dehydrated once during a really hot summer in Cancun and he’d been given fluids intravenously at the hospital. That needle in his arm had hurt like a mother …
“Take her home now,” the nurse—he’d found out her name was Siobhan—told him once she’d finished the dressing.
He nodded, then eased himself off the seat, being careful to not jostle Megha. Siobhan produced a wheelchair out of thin air, and he picked the limp body up and placed her in the seat, then grabbed his dirty jacket.
“Let’s get you home,” he murmured close to her ear.
As he was standing, she reached up and clasped his hand on her shoulder.
Her lower lip actually trembled when she looked up at him.
“Magnus, I … I can’t go there.” She lowered her eyes and stared at her lap, her next words hard for him to make out. “I can’t let them see me like this …”
He figured out what she’d said and paused. He could take her to his place—Kensington wasn’t far from here. But then he recalled a very important meeting he had to attend the following morning concerning the setting up of the clinic. She’d be alone in his flat, and he’d heard—not from her—that the first day or two after a chemo cycle made her incredibly sick. She shouldn’t be left unattended.
As the realization dawned in him, he figured best not to pause to think of the consequences or the ramifications. Yes, he’d have some explaining to do, but he could put up with that if it meant she’d be well cared for.
As he pushed her wheelchair out, he reached for his phone and dialed George.
“Meet us in front. We’re going to the Mayfair house.”
***
It was all a blur to Megha. She remembered only enough to know she had woken up maybe twice from the sleep of the dead to throw up in a basin on a small table beside her bed. Could’ve been her delusions, but had said basin been fragile, antique porcelain? And had it been clean every time, smelling of gentle lavender?
There had also been that feeling of a cool cloth being pressed to her forehead and cheeks, dribbles of warm water flowing through her parched lips to quench the dryness in her mouth. Who had it been helping her out? She didn’t recall the person who’d been there by her side.