Friends Like Us

by Siân O'Gorman

  And then she remembered what it was. At the meeting, Charlie’s sister had mentioned the field-trip… it must have been here to Mount Usher.

  You would have never thought they were pensioners the lot of them. They were gadding about, practically skipping as they moved along. And then Eilis was struck by a feeling, a thought, that things were going to be okay. That life didn’t have to be about illness and death. It could be full of happiness and excitement. Life, she realized, watching this group of retirees could actually get better. She had never imagined that before. I want to be like them, she thought.

  Charlie strode alongside them all, appearing totally contented, as though all he wanted in the world was right here. That was it, Eilis thought as she watched him talking animatedly to Pauline (Rosemary ear-wigging), it seemed that there was nothing else he actually needed in life. Happy in his skin, happy to be alive. He was no longer searching.

  They came nearer and she thought about hiding. But she had been spotted.

  Eilis waved a hand, weakly.

  ‘Ah, look who it is, if it isn’t young Eilis!’ It was George, bless him.

  ‘Fancy seeing you here. Small world,’ said Rosemary.

  ‘It’s hardly a coincidence… Dublin is a small city. Practically a large town. It’s not exactly Los Angeles or Beijing,’ said Pauline.

  ‘Just getting away from it all,’ explained Eilis, trying not to look at Charlie and feeling her cheeks grow hot under his gaze. She wished she hadn’t run away from him, before. She should have explained about Rob. God, she should have dumped Rob herself and then she wouldn’t have made such a fool of herself. ‘Relaxing, drinking tea, thinking…’

  ‘Sounds like my perfect day,’ said George, kindly.

  ‘We’ve had no relaxing, have we?’ said Rosemary. ‘We’ve been gardening all day. First off, there was the most interesting talk by a charming young man… one of the head gardeners here. My hand is falling off me taking notes.’

  ‘And the questions you asked, Rosemary,’ said Pauline. ‘I must say, they were a little entry-level.’

  ‘And yours, Pauline,’ swept in Rosemary, ‘if I may pass on some well-meaning feedback, and please, do not take this the wrong way but rather in the spirit of someone who has known you for a very long time, I thought yours were a little bit irrelevant. He had to answer them, but surely it was only to be polite.’

  Pauline pulled a face at Rosemary. ‘Anyway dear,’ she said to Eilis, ‘will we see you at the next meeting? We need fresh blood in the class. It would be nice to bring the average age down by a few decades.’

  ‘I’m only five years older than you,’ said Rosemary. ‘She’s always going on about it. It’s the only thing she’s got.’

  ‘Yeah, maybe… I’ll try.’

  The group moved on but Charlie stayed. ‘I’ll catch you up,’ he called to them. ‘So,’ he said. ‘It’s good to see you.’

  ‘You too.’

  His face was slightly red from the sun, he looked gloriously relaxed.

  ‘Have you had a good day?’

  ‘Great day,’ he said with feeling. ‘Nice people, great weather. Beautiful place. It’s been fun. And it’s good to hang out with older people… you can learn a lot. And they make me feel very young. It’s good for my ego.’

  She nodded. ‘Listen, Charlie,’ she said. ‘The other day in your office…’

  ‘Don’t worry about it, Eilis,’ he said. ‘My fault entirely. I got the wrong end of the stick. I’m the one who should apologize but I thought it would be better if I kept my distance.’

  ‘It’s me,’ she said. ‘It was my fault.’

  He looked at the group who were disappearing round a copse of trees. ‘I’d better go…’

  ‘Okay.’

  She watched him walk away but then he turned around. ‘By the way, I meant those things I said,’ he added. ‘I just thought you should know.’

  He paused. ‘He’s a lucky man your boyfriend. I hope he looks after you.’

  35

  Steph

  ‘Ah, Mrs Fitzpatrick. Sit down, sit down.’ Mr Rose motioned grandly to the chair in front of him. She wondered where her parents were and why Mr Rose wanted to see her alone. The back of her throat was dry and she tried to swallow. Please let it be good news, she prayed. Just let Mam be well.

  ‘You said you wanted to see me, straight away.’

  ‘Yes, yes. I’ll get to the point. Your mother… Mrs Sheridan.’ He paused and looked at Steph. ‘She has had two rounds of chemotherapy and she seemed to be responding well. We were pleased with her progress. She’s a very determined woman. I’ve rarely met someone so positive, so strong-minded…’

  ‘Yes, she is, isn’t she?’ Steph almost laughed. Her mother was the kind of person who would get through anything, even cancer. Good old Nuala. She was going to get through this, sail on to the next adventure.

  ‘Mrs Fitzpatrick,’ he said, gravely. ‘Despite that early progress, it has halted. Chemotherapy is now not working. She has ceased to respond. In any way.’

  ‘Right…’ Steph was trying to think. ‘Okay,’ she said, still feeling optimistic. They would just have to continue the treatment or consider the other options. ‘Shall we…’ she said. ‘Shall we try something else?’

  He looked at her, straight in the eye. ‘We have,’ he said. ‘We have tried different treatments and I am satisfied that we have done all we can medically. But sometimes, it gets away from us and however much chasing we do, we can’t get hold of it. And in this case, I am afraid, that is the unfortunate situation we have found ourselves in.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Steph was trying to follow him but she wasn’t quite sure if she understood what he had just said. She was thinking of Nuala and of Joe, how Rachel would be.

  ‘The prognosis is not… it’s not good,’ he said, carefully. ‘Not good at all. Now I need you to prepare yourself.’ He really wanted her to understand, she knew that. She tried to focus on his words.

  ‘Prepare myself for what exactly?’ Please don’t let him say the words. Please, just not this.

  ‘Your mother is dying.’ He waited for the words to land. The impact was like an explosion in her brain.

  ‘Dying…’ she repeated his words. ‘She’s dying.’ It couldn’t be true. Where was the plan? Where was the fucking plan that would take them out of this?

  ‘I am sorry, Mrs Fitzpatrick. Very, very sorry.’ She looked at him and his eyes met hers. ‘We can continue to try – and, of course, we will continue to try – but I am a believer in the family preparing themselves.’

  ‘Are you sure? I mean, a second opinion…?’ Had they mixed up the results with some other poor soul who, at this moment, was walking around thinking she was healthy?

  ‘I have spoken with my fellow consultant, Mr Eames, about your mother’s results and, I am sorry to say, he is in full agreement. But by all means I can ask him to take another look.’

  ‘Will you do that? Would you ask him again?’ Her throat was dry and she had difficulty forming the words.

  ‘Of course.’ He gave her a small smile. ‘Mrs Fitzpatrick, I wish the news was different, I wish there were miracles we could perform. Cervical cancer,’ he said, ‘if it is not caught early enough, it can be hard to treat. Very hard to treat.’

  Oh God. She felt suddenly as though there was no floor to her world any longer, like if she took a step there would be nothing there, nothing to put her foot on, nothing to catch her if she fell. She felt panicked. What am I going to do? How do I do this? She needed to talk to her mother, she’d know what they were going to do. She would sort it out. But it was her mother who needed the help. If Steph felt like this, what was she going through?

  ‘My mother knows, does she?’

  He nodded.

  ‘What about my Dad, have you told him?’

  He nodded.

  ‘She’s dying…’ she repeated. ‘Dying?’ She hadn’t actually considered that this might be a possibility. She just hadn’t wan
ted her mother to be ill. She hadn’t thought about her dying. She knew it was serious but she honestly thought they would get through it, that eventually, they would be a family again and life would be the same. ‘How long? How long do we have?’ She thought that if they had a few years, then maybe by that time, there would be a new treatment. Or if they only had a few months, there still could be a solution. Things were moving so fast now in cancer research. Maybe a new drug, a new trial?

  ‘Weeks, I would say. Not much more than that.’

  ‘What?’ For a moment she thought she was going to faint, her vision went and all she could see what black and white flashes in her eyes, she felt light-headed and sick to her stomach. She held on to the arms of the chair and took a moment, desperately to organize her thoughts. She didn’t know in which order she should think. Eventually, she stood up and steadied herself on Mr Rose’s desk.

  ‘I am so sorry,’ he said, shaking her hand in both of his. ‘I wish I could do something.’

  ‘I wish you could too.’

  When Steph had taken a moment to compose herself outside of Mr Rose’s office, she went to find her mother. In her room, Nuala was sitting up in bed, with Joe sitting on a chair right beside her. He was reading out clues from the Irish Times’ crossword. It was like their world hadn’t changed. Different room, yes, and both looking considerably thinner and paler, but they could have been at home.

  Her mother looked up and she and Steph locked eyes, neither saying a word. I love you, thought Steph. I love you and I don’t know what I am going to do without you.

  Her father stood up. ‘Steph,’ he said. ‘Just the woman to help us – our brains aren’t as sharp as they used to be, you see. We are stuck on ten-down. Six-seven letters. Beginning with B, ending with D. A yearning, a loss of love, end of an affair.’

  ‘I don’t know…’ she couldn’t think straight. ‘I’d have to have a look.’ She took the paper and pretended to be looking at the clue. After a moment, she gave the paper back to her father and went to her mother and took her hand.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ She spoke gently and brought her hand to her lips. Her mother turned their hands around and kissed Steph’s. They both had tears in their eyes.

  Nuala nodded in Joe’s direction. He was bent over the paper, also pretending to be concentrating.

  ‘You know?’ said her mother, clearing her throat. ‘I’m not bad at all. I had some toast, lovely it was, and tea. The girl who brings it round is so kind. Polish,’ she explained. ‘She’s been keeping the raspberry jam just for me.’

  ‘That’s always been your favourite,’ said Joe. ‘Remember that year when we grew so many you made twenty-four jars. Twenty-four!’

  ‘We were still eating it at Easter.’ They both smiled at the memory. ‘Remember, Stephanie?’

  ‘Is that the year we all became diabetic?’ she said, quietly, trying to play along for their sake, trying to do what she always did, encouraged family jollity.

  ‘Yes, and hyperactive,’ said her father. They all tried to laugh. ‘You know what we should do?’ he said. ‘Let’s buy some raspberries and make jam. There’s nothing like home-made. I don’t think it is technically cheating if you buy the fruit.’

  ‘Yes, Joe,’ said her mother. ‘What a good idea. Raspberry jam.’

  ‘As soon as you’re home, you can rest and recover and instruct me how to make it. I’ll be your dogsbody.’

  ‘Not my dogsbody. My right hand,’ insisted Nuala.

  ‘I don’t mind. I like being your dogsbody. Always have.’ He smiled at her, but it was a sad smile, one which told a story which stretched all the way back to that dropped ice cream in Kerry, that hot bank holiday weekend. It was a smile of love and longing, of regret and recognition. He loved her, she loved him.

  Nuala met his smile with a look of total understanding. ‘You’re my right hand, my partner, and my best friend. Never my dogsbody,’ insisted Nuala, holding out her other hand. He put down the paper and came over, taking her hand and kissing it, holding her one small hand in his two old, safe loving hands.

  ‘Okay so,’ he said. ‘Whatever it is. I like being it. We need to get you out of hospital and back home.’

  ‘Of course, Joe.’

  ‘And that’s not going to be long. Not with doctors like Mr Rose.’

  ‘No, Joe.’

  Who was pretending here? wondered Steph. Was Joe pretending for Nuala and was Nuala pretending for Joe? Did he really believe she would come home again and everything would be alright or was this what they needed to do, in order to deal with this? Was this the way they were going to get through it, by behaving as though this was just a bump in the road and before long they would be dog walking and portrait painting all over again?

  ‘And the book clubbers won’t stop asking after you,’ continued Joe, sitting back down in the chair by the window. ‘I met Peggy O’Sullivan in the village yesterday evening. I forgot to tell you. She was asking when you would be getting home. I said should be tomorrow or the day after and she gave me the title of next month’s. It’s a John Connolly, I think. I wrote it down. It’s in here somewhere.’ He patted the top pocket of his jacket.

  His words were filling this cold and depressing hospital room, with its pink painted walls, its machines and drips, the plastic jug of water on the bedside locker. But his words of love and affection and a lifetime of memories hung in the air above their heads, infusing them all with his spirit.

  ‘Your mother is looking much better, isn’t she, Steph?’ Joe was on a roll. ‘Soon get you out of here, won’t we Nuala? Although the nurses are so kind. Especially Jana. She even brings an extra cup of tea for me.’

  Steph hadn’t spoken yet. She just couldn’t get her words straight, or her thoughts in order, or wasn’t quite sure this false optimism was the right course of action. ‘That’s nice, Dad,’ she managed. She was still holding her mother’s hand. It felt cold and papery. It wasn’t the hand of the woman who used to carry her around, who would push her on swings, the hand that would stir the Christmas pudding and lug a giant turkey to the table, the hand that would gently press a plaster onto Steph’s grazed knee, the one that brushed and plaited Steph’s hair every morning before school. The hand that picked the sweet peas for Steph’s wedding bouquet. The hand that dropped the ice cream on that day in Dingle, all those years ago, the day Nuala and Joe met.

  Steph suddenly thought of their dog. ‘Who’s looking after Dingle?’ she said.

  ‘He’s with Dearbh from across the road,’ said Joe. ‘Her children love little Dingle. Now, he’s one who’ll be glad to get you home.’

  Nuala smiled and nodded. ‘I’m a little fed up of hospitals,’ she admitted, with a little laugh, that to Steph felt forced and not like her mother’s usual easy, warm chuckles. ‘And have a proper pot of tea from my special cup.’

  ‘And bring Dingle for a walk on the hill.’

  Nuala nodded. ‘I would love that,’ she said. ‘With all my heart.’ She looked at her husband. ‘Joe, would you mind going to the shop downstairs and getting some of those mint things. I’m running low.’

  ‘Of course, love. Anything else? Stephanie?’

  ‘No, I’m fine, dad.’

  They waited until he had left the room.

  ‘Mum…’ Steph let out a wail. The room blurred as her eyes filled with tears. ‘Mr Rose said… Mr Rose told me…’

  Her mother nodded.

  ‘Is it true? Do you believe him?’ Steph hoped her mother would say it was all rubbish and the man was a fool and she was feeling so much better and it was all wrong or a dream, or a nightmare, and that all would be well and they should just go home again. But she didn’t.

  ‘I’m sorry, Stephanie,’ she said. ‘I’ve known for a week now and I needed some time to take it all in, get used to it. And then I asked Mr Rose to tell you. He offered, actually, says it’s the best way to deliver the news. From a third party, apparently, not as shocking.’

  ‘I don’t think there’s
really a way of making it less shocking,’ said Steph.

  ‘I know,’ said Nuala. ‘I’m sorry.’

  But hearing it from Nuala made it real, somehow. She hadn’t totally believed it before, not completely, but the fact that her mother told her, the one person who had never lied, had never played games, someone who had only ever had her best interests at heart was saying it, meant that it was real. She let out a cry of pain, a yowl of anguish. Steph stood up and went to the window, so Nuala wouldn’t see her face and the tears streaming down her face.

  ‘Now, loveen,’ said Nuala, trying to sit up. ‘Now my sweet, lovely child. There’s something important…’

  There was no hiding. Steph turned around and went back to sit beside her mother. ‘Yes, Mam?’ she said softly, looking into her mother’s beautiful face.

  ‘Will you promise me something? And Rachel too?’

  Steph nodded, wiping her eyes. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Get yourself checked. Please. I didn’t and maybe… maybe I wouldn’t be here now if I had. Promise me.’

  Steph began to sob. ‘I can’t bear the thought of losing you,’ she said. ‘You not… you not being here.’

  ‘Promise me though. You haven’t promised.’

  ‘I promise,’ cried Steph. ‘Oh Mam.’

  ‘I can’t bear not to be with you too,’ said Nuala, wiping her own eyes. ‘I will miss you so much. And Rachel. The two of you. My angels.’

  ‘So don’t go!’ She realized that she was like a child, desperate for her mother. Steph tried to wipe away the tears with her sleeve and they smiled at each other, the saddest smile they had ever shared.

  ‘Here. My last tissue.’ Nuala gently patted it around Steph’s eyes. ‘My darling girl,’ she said softly.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mum.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For being such a mess.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Nuala looked utterly bewildered.

  ‘For being such a failure. Crap marriage, no career, useless parent.’ Immediately she felt awful burdening and worrying her mother, something she had never done, and now of all times. She wished she could unsay what she’d said but she was also desperate to tell her mother how she was really feeling, how much she wished things had been different.