I nod.
“Good.” She straightens up as much as her back will allow and shuffles off.
She doesn’t look back.
I look at the sky again. The wind has shifted, coming in from the east, rolling the clouds across the hills like cresting waves. There is one rebellious one, though, larger than the rest. It blooms upward, gloriously white against the sky, billowing out like a meringue.
If you have something you want to do, make sure you do it.
Her words echo in my head as I watch that cloud. I’ve never been a big believer in signs. To me, you can find a reason to do anything if you look hard enough. But on a day when I have been given the worst possible news, I throw reasoning to the wind and I seize it. The cloud like a meringue. Or a dress. It’s a sign.
Do what you want to do.
I want to get married.
Chapter Two
Surprise!”
I feign shock as the lights come on and an assortment of family and friends materializes from behind door frames and up from behind couches.
“What’s this? What’s going on?” I ask, hand on heart theatrically, arranging my features into a quizzical frown.
My mother steps forward and rolls her eyes.
“You can drop the act,” she says. “We know you knew.”
“Sorry? I…What? Oh, fine. What gave me away?”
“Your father confessed that he forgot it was a surprise and phoned to ask you what time you’d be arriving.” She turns to frown at my father, who looks sheepish.
“Sorry,” he says. “But in my defense I should never have been privy to the secret. You know I’m terrible at keeping them.”
“It’s OK, Dad.” I tiptoe to kiss the small patch of cheek that is visible through his huge gray beard. “I’m not very good with surprises, anyway,” I whisper. “So I’m glad you warned me.”
“Phew.” He smiles.
I almost break down at the sight of him, my dad. My lovely, dependable, lovable dad. Wearing his faded, well-worn jeans with the hole in one knee that bugs the hell out of my mother (“They’re comfortable!” he protests when she tells him to get rid of them. “Why would I want to go through the hassle of breaking in a new pair?”). I want to wrap my arms around his generous belly and hold on for dear life. But I can’t. He’d know immediately that something is wrong, and I’ve made the decision not to tell them, not tonight, anyway. I don’t see why I should ruin this day for anyone else.
“I see you still haven’t found your razor,” I say drily, ruffling his whiskers.
“No, and I’m not planning to. These keep my face warm.”
“But you’d look so much younger without them.”
“Why do I need to look young? It’s not like I’m out trying to find a new woman. Your mother is quite enough.”
He looks fondly across the room to where my mother is reveling in the role of hostess, passing around a platter of crackers with Camembert cheese and other toppings she’s no doubt spent a fortune on. My parents are as in love with each other now as they were on their wedding day twenty-nine years ago. Growing up, my friends thought they were cute. I thought they were embarrassing beyond belief, especially when they made out in public. Now, I am glad they have each other to lean on. They are going to need that support after I am gone.
“Oh, yes, happy birthday,” my father says. “Your mother has your present waiting in the kitchen.”
“It’s not a stripper, is it?”
He chokes on the mouthful of beer he’s just taken. “No,” he finally manages to splutter out. “No, I think you’re safe.”
My mother has a rather unorthodox approach to gift-giving. For my sixteenth, while my friends were receiving beautiful bespoke pieces of jewelry with their initials engraved on the back, my mother gave me a gift certificate for a tattoo and a packet of condoms.
“Go forth and enjoy,” she said proudly when I unwrapped them. I’ll admit the condoms eventually came in useful, but the gift certificate expired unused.
I spend the next hour working my way around the room, thanking and making small talk with the people who have turned up to help celebrate my twenty-eighth birthday. The lounge is beautifully and tastefully decorated, hung with colorful lanterns and candles in jars. A food table is set up by the kitchen and is heaving under the weight of Mum’s wisdom acquired from many years’ trialing recipes. She has surpassed herself with the guest list, and there are people I haven’t seen in years, including, oddly, my seventh-form geography teacher.
“I ran into him in the supermarket,” Mum explains. “He seemed lonely and asked how you were doing.”
I can feel their love for me: my parents, friends, people who have known me my entire life. It is palpable all around, in every lovingly thought-out detail. Normally a comfort, tonight it feels suffocating. It is too much pressure. I have let them all down.
“Drink?”
My best friend, Kate, is standing beside me holding two glasses of bubbly wine. I nod to her gratefully and take one of the glasses, draining it quickly. Passing it back, I take the other. Her eyes widen.
“It’s not that bad, is it?” she says.
“What’s not?”
For a moment I am worried she knows I am hiding something.
She gestures around the room with the empty glass. “This party.”
“Oh. No, the party’s great.”
“So why have you gone all white? Are you feeling OK?’ She has her concerned-doctor face on. Kate is a GP at the local community clinic and finds it hard to shut off when she leaves the office. Especially when it comes to her own family and friends.
“Yeah, I’m fine. Just a bit overwhelmed.”
“I thought you knew about the party?”
“I did.”
“You confuse me sometimes, Ava.”
“Easily done,” I tease, to show I am my usual self.
“Hey.” She swats at my arm.
“Another drink for the birthday girl?” I ask hopefully, holding up the empty glass.
“Only because it’s your birthday.” I watch as she weaves through partygoers to where the drinks are arranged on the bench. She turns, holding up a bottle of Malibu and pulling a face.
“Oh my God, do you remember that night we drank all your parents’ Malibu?” she asks when she is back at my side again.
I wince, remembering the night she is talking about.
“I’ve never been so sick,” she goes on, poking out her tongue in a mock vomit and shuddering. “I still owe your parents for not telling mine.”
“What are we talking about?”
Amanda, the third corner of our friendship triangle, interrupts. She is holding a paper plate and shoveling butter chicken into her mouth, her expression rapturous.
I squeal at the sight of her and throw my arms around her neck, nearly knocking her plate out of her hands.
“Whoa,” she says. “Careful.”
“When did you get here?”
She shrugs. “Last night.”
“For how long?”
She spoons more food into her mouth and makes an extended “Mm” noise. “Not sure. We’re in between tours. Supposed to be heading into the studio soon but I don’t have a concrete date.”
I feel ridiculously happy to see her. For as long as we’ve been friends I’ve known she would one day be a star. She’s been singing since she first learned to talk, if you believe her mother, and it’s as natural to her as breathing. She has the most beautiful timbre to her voice, slightly husky but still angelic. She’s not an international star yet, but she’s on the cusp.
“Well, it’s nice you remembered those of us who knew you before you were famous,” Kate jokes.
“Hardly famous,” Amanda snorts. “A pub tour of New Zealand is about as glamorous as it sounds.”
“Well, I’m just happy you could make it,” I say, feeling emotional at the sight of her.
She stops eating long enough to give me an affectionate look. “As
if I’d miss your birthday party.”
“You missed my twenty-first.” I pretend to sulk.
“Oh my God, I was out of the country.”
“Yeah, yeah, excuses.”
“Get over it already. Anyway, so? What were you guys talking about when I came over?”
“That night we drank all the Malibu,” Kate answers her. “Seriously, Amanda, you need to take some breaths between mouthfuls. You’ll give yourself indigestion.”
“Can’t. Too delicious. I remember that night,” Amanda says with her mouth full. “I haven’t been able to stand the smell of that stuff since.”
I shudder. “Me neither.”
I watch them talking and feel a wave of love and affection for them. These women feature in most of the memories I have, spanning over half my lifetime. They’ve been there beside me through so much. Boyfriends, heartache, jobs, holidays, and, of course, my cancer. The first time I was sick they were amazing. Sat with me through treatments. Bought me flowers and little gifts when I was at my lowest, to take my mind off things. They helped me bathe when I physically wasn’t up to it, and rubbed my shoulders while I threw up in a toilet from the side effects. How could I tell them I was about to inflict that on them again? Only worse this time, because this time there was no hope.
Chapter Three
Someone clangs on the side of a glass with a fork.
“Excuse me? Can I have your attention, please?” Mum calls out. “Hi,” she says when she has all eyes on her. “I think most of you know who I am, but for those who don’t I’m Gabby, Ava’s mum.” She puts a hand on her chest and pauses, as if waiting for a collective greeting like the drawn-out one kids give teachers every morning—“Good mooooorrrrninnnnnng, Mrs. Greeeeeeen”—and seems disappointed when she is met with a wall of silence and shuffling feet instead.
“Anyway, we—that is, Ava’s dad, Ben, and I—would like to thank you all for coming to help us celebrate our beautiful daughter’s birthday.”
I feel all eyes swivel in my direction and give a nervous wave.
“I think you all know what I mean when I say this day is more special, to us, than just a normal birthday. Ava, why don’t you come and stand beside me.”
“No, it’s OK,” I say, but Kate pushes me forward.
“Go on, humor her,” she says.
I couldn’t feel more like a fraud as I make my way to stand beside my mother. These people are here for me, to celebrate the anniversary of the day I was given life. On the very same day I’ve just been told my life is all but over. Which is a hell of a sick kind of irony, now that I think about it.
“Do we have to do this?” I ask quietly through gritted teeth, smiling like my face has frozen.
“Yes, we do,” she says. “Now smile properly. You look like someone ran over your hamster.”
“I don’t have a hamster.”
“Figure of speech.”
“I don’t think it is, actu—”
She ignores me and turns back to face the room. I look out at a room full of smiling faces and swallow hard. I can’t lose it, not now, not in front of everyone.
“Twenty-eight years ago,” Mum says dramatically, “at three twenty-five in the morning, I was on a hospital bed staring up at the bright light, flat on my back with my legs wide—”
“Mum!”
“What?”
“Too much information. Far, far, too much information.”
“I wasn’t going to give them all the details,” she says defensively. “Just the general gist.”
“I think they’ve got it.”
“OK. Well, look.” She picks up one of my hands and looks at me proudly. “Basically, what I’m trying to say is that your father and I are so proud of you. There was a time we feared we couldn’t have children, and then to be blessed with one as wonderful as you, so kind and caring and funny and sweet and talented, and, really, I could go on and on here but I’m trying to keep it relatively short so people can get back to eating and drinking.” She pauses to look meaningfully at our friends and family. “I don’t want any leftovers.”
They laugh, because the amount of food on the table is ridiculous and of course there will be leftovers. This is a long-standing joke; my mother is an infamous over-caterer.
She turns her attention back to me. “We love you, and we know things haven’t been the easiest for you, but we’re so proud of the way you fought the battle your way. With such courage and determination and an amazingly cheerful spirit. And the way you’ve gone on to live your life these last few years, sampling everything that life has to offer, well, obviously we think you’re amazing.”
That’s when the tears start. Completely against my will, they come. Her words sound awfully similar to a eulogy. I wipe the tears away quickly, hoping they will be put down to memories and sentimentality.
“Oh, Ava.” Mum sniffs, her own eyes glossy with tears. “I wasn’t trying to make you cry.”
“I know.”
“Ben!” she shouts, causing me to jump.
My dad pops his head around the kitchen door frame.
“Now?” he asks.
Mum holds up a finger. “One second. Ava, we know that you’ve been saving hard these last couple of years for your big Overseas Experience. And as much as it will probably kill me to wave you off for a year or so, your father and I have come up with something to make your journey a bit more”—she tilts her head, trying to think of the right word—“comfortable.” She gestures to my father.
“Now?” he asks.
She rolls her eyes. “Yes, now.”
My father emerges from the kitchen carrying a large, dark-blue backpack. The kind that costs hundreds of dollars and has a compartment for anything you could possibly think to take with you. I clap my hands over my mouth. I’ve been eyeing this pack up for ages. How did she know?
“Kate might have mentioned something,” Mum says, reading my mind.
“You’re welcome,” Kate’s voice calls out. “Even though I’m still pissed off that you’re going.”
“That’s not all,” Dad says, barely concealing his excitement. “There’s something inside. Open it. Go on. Open it.”
“It’s not something that might get me in trouble with border police, is it?” I hedge, to buy myself time.
“No it’s nothing illegal.” Mum sighs. “More’s the pity.”
The sight of the pack, such an innocuous thing in itself, is my undoing. It represents everything I’ve allowed myself to dream of and hope for since I’d heard those magical words just a couple of short years ago.
You’re in remission.
Immediately afterwards, I’d had the overwhelming feeling that I’d been given a second chance for a reason, that I was supposed to do more with my time than sit in an office counting down the hours and living paycheck to paycheck. The most obvious thing I could think of was to travel, explore the world. It gave me something to aim for. So I’d decided to save up and explore the world, with no time limit or concrete plans, just me and my pack, wherever the path took me. But now that dream was swirling down the plughole of the drain that was my life.
With trembling fingers I fiddle with the clips securing the pack until my mother, never overly patient, pushes me aside.
“I’ll do it,” she says. “We’ll be here all night waiting for you.”
She opens the pack and tilts it so I can see inside. At first I think it’s empty, but then I catch a flash of white and realize there is an envelope at the bottom. Inside the envelope, when I open it, is a card.
“Read it out loud,” Mum prompts.
I shake my head. “I don’t think I can.”
“Fine, I will.”
She takes it from me and clears her throat, adopting the same voice she uses in her amateur dramatics theater productions, the voice she’s been told is “powerful” and “commanding.”
Dear Ava, Happy birthday! Thank you for being such a wonderful daughter and making us prouder than we ever thought possi
ble. As our gift to you, here is a flight ticket to Rio de Janeiro, Brazil! Open return, of course, so that you can come home whenever you’re ready (and if travel is not for you and your homecoming is soon no one will judge you for it). As hard as it will be for us to bid you a (temporary!) goodbye, we wish nothing but for you to have a life of great adventure. While you’re out there, doing what you need to do and making magical memories to last a lifetime, just remember we are here, loving you, and we’ll be first up at that airport gate the moment you get back. Love always, Mum and Dad.
She finishes reading and looks at me expectantly, her eyes once again slick with tears. I hear murmurs from the assembled people, blown away by my parents’ generosity, no doubt.
“I don’t know what to say,” I say, feeling very much on the verge of an emotional breakdown. “Thank you. It’s amazing and very unexpected.”
“Yes well, luckily your father managed to keep one secret for a change. And you’re welcome.” She steps forward to embrace me and beckons my father in on the embrace. For a moment I allow myself to relax and just enjoy the feel of their arms around me, so comfortably reassuring, and I breathe in the familiar smell that is the backbone of my childhood, my memories, my life. The panic swells again. How am I supposed to tell them?
“I need the loo,” I say, ducking out of their arms.
“Are you OK?” Mum calls after me.
But I can’t answer.
Instead of turning right at the end of the hallway into the toilet, I open the familiar door on the left and tumble into my childhood bedroom. Closing the door behind me and leaning against it, I squeeze my eyes shut and breathe in and out until I feel my pulse slow down and the panic retreat. I reach out in the familiar darkness and flick the bedside lamp on. Instantly the room is cast in a warm, welcoming glow. It’s only here, in the silence away from the chatter of the party, that I realize it has started to rain outside, the sound loud on the iron roof.
Photos of You (ARC) Page 2
