by Eva Woods
There was a knock on the door. “Keep him waiting,” Polly muttered. “One, two, three...oh, sod it, I don’t have time to play...hard to get.” She pulled the door open. “Dr. Quarani.”
“Sami, please.” He was dressed in a navy suit and pale blue shirt, and smelled of something lovely and musky. “Polly. You look very beautiful.”
“Oh, this old...thing. So, Sami. Where are you taking me?”
“We’re going to...a little place I know.”
“Is it the canteen?” Polly whispered.
“Of course not. It’s a lovely restaurant that just happens to be in the same place as the canteen. Shall we?” He held out his arm and Polly swept forward, her dress swirling about her ankles, leaning on him heavily. She’d refused to use the wheelchair tonight. It was only ten steps to the lifts so maybe she’d make it.
“Walk slowly,” Annie said, scooting past them. “I happen to know for a fact your waitress isn’t there yet.”
* * *
“So tonight we have a special Greek menu for you. To start with, stuffed vine leaves, followed by moussaka. May I take your wine order?” Annie had to avoid Polly’s eyes, or she knew she would laugh. She had a tea towel draped over her arm, and had shoved a waistcoat, borrowed from George, over her white shirt. The lights were dimmed and candles flickered on the canteen tables, which had been covered in red cloth. She’d set up an iPod dock playing Michael Bublé. It almost looked nice. If you squinted and ignored the strong smell of bleach, which even a bunch of pink lilies hadn’t been able to shift.
“We have wine?”
“Champagne.” Annie indicated the ice bucket Costas had nicked from his friend’s restaurant.
“Am I allowed?”
“Apparently, yes. One glass.”
Dr. Quarani shook his head. “Not for me, thank you. I don’t drink.”
“Not a problem. We have grape juice for Sir.”
He raised his glass once she’d poured it from the carton. “Congratulations, Polly. How old are you?” Polly shot Annie a look: What? Dr. Quarani saw. “Oh, I’m sorry, that’s a rude question, isn’t it. What is it you say—cheers.”
Annie poured Polly’s wine and retreated. “I’ll leave you to chat.”
In the kitchen, things were steamy, and not in a good way. Costas was wrestling with something on a chopping board, his face red. He swore in Greek. “It does not look like this when my mama makes.”
George was also sweaty, his white T-shirt drenched. “Goddamn vine leaves won’t stay stuffed. Did your mother get back to you, Costas?”
His phone beeped and Costas grabbed it, getting meat all over the screen. “She say why am I doing woman’s work. Classic Mama.”
“Not very helpful, though. Bollocks.” George sucked his finger, which he’d nicked with the knife.
“Problems?” said a Scottish voice. Dr. Max was leaning in the doorway, hands in the pockets of his white(ish) coat.
“Vine leaves will not stay stuffed,” Costas said miserably. “I cannot follow what my mama says.”
Dr. Max rolled up his sleeves. “Someone care to tell me what’s going on here?”
“Um, we cleared it all with the hospital,” Annie said guiltily. “She wanted one last night out, you see. One last date.”
“And you made Sami the fall guy? Sami who never puts a foot out of line professionally? He’s on a date with a dying patient?”
George wiped some rice off his cheek. “Um. I maybe didn’t use the word date.”
“What did you tell him?” Annie glared.
“Maybe I said something about just having dinner with her...and maybe I implied other people would be joining them. Look, I told him it was Polly’s birthday party, okay?”
“You what?” Annie felt stupid under the ironic gaze of Dr. Max.
Dr. Max sighed. “Right. And none of you considered that Sami could be struck off for dating a patient? And that if he’s struck off he’ll be sent back to a war zone?”
“How were we supposed to know that?” George flounced away. “Honestly. Cooking, asking out straight men... I didn’t sign up for any of this!”
Costas looked confused, wiping meat off his hands. “We are not cooking the dinner?”
“Don’t worry,” Dr. Max said dependably. “I can do these.” Deftly, he began trussing up the vine leaves.
“How did you know how to do that?” Annie watched, half annoyed, half relieved.
He shrugged. “That’s all surgery is, really. Taking out things that don’t belong, making sure other things stay in.” He threaded a skewer through the leaf, as neatly as he sewed up wounds. “There. How’s the rest coming on?”
“Moussaka is in oven,” Costas said anxiously. “George is making baklava.”
“Not that I’ll get any thanks for it,” George said from the other end of the kitchen.
Dr. Max washed his hands, turning off the taps with his elbows. “Right, then. Annie, come out here with me.”
“Why?” She untied her apron, now splattered with rice.
“If this is Polly’s last chance to have an evening out, it’s up to you and me to save it. Well, me mostly, but you can make up the numbers.”
Make up the numbers indeed. Fuming, she trailed out behind him.
* * * * **
“...it was quite a tricky procedure, because the patient’s bowel had perforated and fecal matter was leaking...” Outside, Dr. Quarani was sipping grape juice and telling Polly about a particularly gruesome surgery. Polly’s champagne was untouched, and she gave Annie a furious look. What the hell?
Annie avoided her eyes. Dr. Max swept over. “Sami, Polly! Isn’t this nice? What’s this god-awful rubbish you have on?” He switched off the iPod. “We can do better than that, I think.” In the corner, under a red cloth, was a piano. “The Friends of the Hospital put this here, thought it would boost morale or something. Ah, here we are.” He pulled off the cover and sat down on the stool. “Any requests?”
“You can play the piano?” Annie said, breaking character in her surprise. Was there anything the bloody man couldn’t do?
“’Course,” he said. “It’s all in the fingers. How about some Frank—not your tumor, Polly—to get us started?” And he began to sing “I Get a Kick Out of You,” the notes rippling in the empty room, his voice ringing out deep and throaty. At the line about getting no kick from champagne, he nodded to Dr. Quarani, who actually smiled. Annie was glad he didn’t do that more often—no one in the hospital would get any work done.
Costas and George crept out of the kitchen to listen, and Dr. Max played, and Polly picked up her drink at last, and Dr. Quarani lifted his glass in a toast. Oh, God, don’t wish her a happy birthday. “Here’s to you, Polly,” he said. And that was all.
* * *
“Want me to help you with the dress?” The date/not-date didn’t last for long, as Polly was too tired to stay sitting up, but at least she ate a vine leaf and two spoonfuls of moussaka and half a baklava.
“There are literally a million layers of pastry in that,” George had said. It seemed silly for them all to hide on the sidelines, so it had ended up with the six of them around the table, in the candlelight and with Bublé back on, under protest from Dr. Max, and they’d eaten the food and talked and laughed, and it had actually been fun.
Polly shook her head. She was lying on her bed, still in the red dress, staring at the ceiling. “I think I’ll keep it on. It’s too...beautiful to take off.”
“Was it okay, your date?”
“He didn’t actually know it was a date, did he? I wondered why he’d...agreed to it.”
Annie busied herself smoothing the pillows. “You need to talk to George about that.”
“It’s okay. I got what I wanted—a handsome man...picking me up, a pretty..
.dress and an evening with the best people I know. Maybe all first dates should be...group dates.” She paused. “He told me what’s happening over there. His family.”
“Oh.”
“Will you keep an eye on him? You and Dr. Max? I think he’s lonely. Imagine being stuck in Lewisham, of all places, and not even able to drink. Poor man.”
“I will,” she said. Polly hadn’t added after I’m gone, but Annie knew what she meant. “Do you want me to stay with you?”
“Oh, no. Get some...sleep.”
“If you’re sure.” Annie moved to the door, dimming the light. “Ding if you need a nurse to take your makeup off or something. That’s what they’re paid for, after all, to wait on your every whim.”
“’Kay. Annie?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for this. It was the...best not-date I’ve ever...had.”
“Night.”
“Night...Annie Hebden-Clarke.” As she left, Annie looked back at Polly—lying above the covers in her scarlet dress, still and white as a statue, the remains of her golden hair gleaming in the dull light.
DAY 84
Say goodbye
Ringing. The phone was ringing. Annie groped under her pillow, eventually finding it and stabbing at buttons. The ghostly blue light filled her room. “Uh?” What time was it? Still dark out.
“Annie?”
“Uh?” It was George. Why was George calling in the middle of the... Annie sat bolt upright. “George?” Her voice sounded remote, as if coming from outer space. “Is...?”
He didn’t answer. She heard a small watery choke. He didn’t need to say anything else. Annie was out of bed, throwing on jeans, looking around for her keys. “I’m coming. I’m coming right now.”
* * *
She could never remember much about the journey. The burn of orange lights as she sped through Catford, the silence of her Uber driver, who seemed to pick up on her anxiety and drive fast, braking hard at every light. She got out, thanking him and running inside, into the green glow of the nighttime hospital, the beeps and harsh lights and shuffling people, tired-eyed doctors and nurses keeping watch. Rather than wait for the lift she panted up the stairs, huffing and puffing. At the end of Polly’s corridor, she could see a gathering of people. Her eyes took it in but her mind couldn’t grasp at it. Valerie, crying into George’s shoulder, while he patted her back, his face ruined with tears. Roger standing to the side, shoulders vibrating like a shaken-up bottle of champagne. Annie skidded to a halt at the door of the room, looking in the glass panel. For a moment she didn’t understand—they’d moved her? Why was everyone just standing there if they’d moved her and...
“Annie.” Dr. Max was there, in the same clothes, the same smear of tomato on his sleeve of his shirt. He clearly hadn’t been home.
“Where is she?”
“Annie. I’m sorry—she just slipped away...”
“No.”
“It must have been not long after you left. She was still wearing the dress, and she looked peaceful, she really did.”
“No.”
“You gave her a good last night. But she’s gone, she’s gone, Annie. I’m sorry. Polly died, about an hour ago. She went in her sleep, and she wouldn’t have felt it. I promise you. It’s the best we could have hoped for, under the circumstances.”
“No!” How could she be gone? It was only two hours since Annie had left her, happy and alive, talking, laughing, drinking champagne. How could she be here one moment and gone the next?
Dr. Max had his arm around her waist, moving her away gently but firmly. “Come on now. There’s nothing you can do. We need to get everyone out of here.”
“But...it’s her pretend funeral in a few days!” Annie said stupidly.
“I know. I think—I think maybe she always intended it this way, Annie. I think she wanted us all to be ready. She knew she wouldn’t make it that far. Come on now. Please.”
Annie stared back, in disbelief, at the room Polly had occupied for weeks now. The sheet of the bed was pulled neat, the machines dark and dimmed. It looked as if she had never even been there at all.
DAY 85
Lie in bed and cry
Polly was dead.
DAY 86
Take the packet of pills out
of your bathroom cupboard,
stare at them, but then put
them back again
Polly was dead. She was dead. Dead. How could she be dead? It was so unfair. So bloody, bloody, fucking unfair.
DAY 87
Sit mindlessly on your living
room floor, staring at the
turned-off TV screen
Polly was dead. She was dead she was dead she was dead she was dead she was dead.
“Annie?” Costas’s light hand on her shoulder. “I take Buster for walkies now.” The little dog was snuffling around Annie’s feet, but her heart felt too heavy to pick him up. “You want I bring a pizza?”
She found her voice, deep inside her. “No. Thank you.”
“You must eat, Annie.”
Why must she? Polly was dead. Polly was dead and there was no point to anything. Polly was dead. No matter how many times Annie said it to herself, it still wouldn’t sink in. This time, she didn’t know how she would ever put herself back together.
DAY 88
Speak in public
Was it possible one woman could have known so many people, in just thirty-five years of life? The church was rammed; they’d managed to move it out of the hospital, but all the other details of the funeral were the same. Except that Polly would not be there. Not alive, anyway. Annie walked down the aisle, feeling like a shy bride at a wedding. She’d spent too long getting ready, thinking Polly would at least want her to wash her hair, and put on makeup, and find tights that didn’t have ladders in. Plus, she wasn’t used to walking in the new silver slingbacks she’d bought a few weeks before. She hadn’t known it at the time, but she’d clearly been getting them for Polly’s funeral. And now here it was.
She found a seat near the front, behind the family, and squeezed in, murmuring apologies. George was in front in his spangly MC suit, eyes red and raw. On either side of him were his parents, Valerie in a big red hat with a veil, and Roger, stony-faced, in a green tweed suit that needed dry cleaning. And right in front of the altar, in that biodegradable hemp coffin—that was Polly. Her body, her mind, everything she’d ever been. In a box. Forever.
She sat down, looking about her. There was Suze with her hipster boyfriend, chiding him to put his phone away. She looked thin and miserable, in contrast to her cheerful coral-pink dress. There was Milly in green, trying to control her toddlers, one in a blue dress and one in a little suit, while her husband shushed them ineffectually. And there were other people, too—Costas, dressed in a very nice suit indeed, charcoal gray worn with a pink tie. Dion, looking frail, leaning on a stick, in a pale blue suit that must have once fitted but now drowned him. And behind, taking up nearly half the church, were the hospital staff. Cleaners. Receptionists. Radiographers. Zarah had come, of course, and Miriam, too, even though she hadn’t known Polly. Annie gave them a little smile. There was Dr. Quarani, as well. And beside him—her heart tripped over in her chest—Dr. Max.
He’d put on a suit for the occasion, but it still looked crumpled, his hair sticking up like Wolverine’s. His face was creased, too, with tiredness. He caught her eye; she looked away.
There was a motion at the front, and a vicar came out, flanked by a man with long gray hair and a rainbow-colored chasuble around his neck. This must be Polly’s friend the humanitarian minister. Annie met George’s eyes. He raised his to the sky and gave a small smile and shrug. It was Polly. What could they do but go with the flow?
“Dearly beloved, you are welc
ome here today,” said the vicar, a friend of Valerie’s from book group. “I’d like to also extend a welcome to Reverend, uh, Ziggy, who will be celebrating this with me, in accordance with the humanitarian spirit Polly wanted us to bring today. As requested, you’re all a riot of color, and I know she would have loved that.”
Reverend Ziggy stepped to the lectern. “Peace, dudes. Let Polly’s spirit shine like a rainbow, yeah! Can I get a hell, yes?”
The congregation made a vague mumbling sound. The vicar went on, manfully. “We will now have some short eulogies from Polly’s friends and relations. First, she has asked that we hear from her friend Annie Hebden.”
That was her. Annie clutched her index cards, already creased from her sweating fingers. She walked up, feeling everyone’s eyes burn on her. Oh, God, Polly. You owe me. You bloody owe me big-time.
Walking there seemed to take ten years. She was terrified she’d slip over in her heels. The lectern was too high, so the vicar had to adjust the microphone for her, and as he did she saw he’d cut himself shaving under one ear.
“Er, hello.” The church was deadly silent, people in reds and greens and oranges staring up at her.
“Um. It’s actually Annie Clarke now, or it will be—something most of you won’t get, but I think Polly would like.” Polly, who was in that box just in front, and wouldn’t ever know. “I, uh, I met Polly fairly recently actually, compared to most of you. But we spent a lot of time together, and I think she asked me to speak today because she knew I learned the most from the way she approached her death. It was, quite simply, remarkable. She took most people’s worst nightmare—a diagnosis of terminal cancer—and turned it into a chance to be joyful, and productive, and change her own life, but even more than that, other people’s. And one of those people was me.”
More silence. She plowed on. “When I met Polly, I was miserable. I hated my life and everything about it, and I felt like the loneliest, most put-upon person in the world. Well, naturally Polly couldn’t have that, so she played her cancer card, as she called it. I didn’t want to know at first—honestly, I thought she was mad—but she drew me in, and, well, here I am. So I want to share what I learned from the last eighty-odd days.”