Mum stood to greet him as she always did, like she was meeting the Queen. He shook our hands. Sat and pulled his chair closer to the small square table. Opened the manila folder.
‘I’m afraid, Angela, the markers have risen significantly despite the last course of chemo, and the thing is, we’re running out of options. The next step would be to see if there are any trials running.’
Neither of us spoke.
I wanted to hold her hand. It was millimetres away from mine. But I didn’t.
We left that room for the very last time. Joined the herd as we walked towards the large glass exit. My throat clenched, chest caved. But I couldn’t break. Make her feel worse. Before leaving, we gelled our hands. No germs. Must avoid the germs.
Outside, I lit a fag. She extracted it from my fingers and had a drag.
‘You can’t smoke, Mum.’
She laughed. ‘Constance, don’t be daft. But hey, on the positive side, the diet’s going well, eh?’
I smiled. Which extended to a laugh that wanted to be a cry. I turned and tapped my foot to stop it from happening.
She stamped out the ciggie and beckoned me towards her chest. Put her sharpened maternal arms around me. Comforted me. It should have been me comforting her. She felt light, as if half of her had already gone.
Tearing myself away from her bones, I said, ‘The trial sounds promising, though.’
She was so weak I acted as her crutch during the walk from the bus stop. Once home, I told her to go in the lounge and I’d make us some pasta. While the kettle boiled, I went in to ask if she wanted tubes or shells. She was sat in his chair. She’d never sat in his chair.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Just sitting,’ she said.
We ate our dinner accompanied by Coronation Street as always. And as always I commented on Gail Platt’s irritatingly soft voice and fluttering lashes. But she didn’t laugh as she usually would, or say, ‘She’s the most annoying thing on telly. Wish that Richard Hillman had bumped her off.’ Instead she said, ‘There won’t be a trial.’
I placed my fork inside the bowl that rested between my legs. ‘What do you mean?’
‘He didn’t say there would be a trial. He said he’d find out if there was one running, but he wasn’t aware of one.’
‘He didn’t say that.’
‘He did, Constance.’
I stared at Gail, hooked a tube onto the fork and slowly placed it into my mouth. Chewed and chewed and chewed. Unable to swallow.
‘I don’t want to drag it on,’ she said.
I continued with the same mouthful until it evaporated into liquid, into air.
‘For you, I mean. With Dad, it was—’
‘You’re not Granddad,’ I shouted. The bowl dropped to the floor. Pasta jolted over the sides onto the carpet. I spat the watery mouthful into it. ‘Why are you always so fucking selfish?’ I said, before running up to my room.
In bed, I chain-smoked. Window open, towel under the door, so it didn’t harm her. Drank half a bottle of old confiscated Martini I kept in my wardrobe. An hour later I heard her slowly climb the stairs. She knocked, whispering my name through the wood. I should have answered. Apologized. But I didn’t. I just listened to her throw up in the toilet before going to bed.
Hours later I still couldn’t sleep. It was nearly two in the morning. My bedroom spun and I focused on the sound of rain falling onto the guttering above my window. It intensified. Became torrential. The blop, blop, blop of the water a torturous punishment. Then without warning, the sky exploded into a storm.
I left my bed and hovered next to hers. Half asleep, she pulled back the covers to expose the empty side of the mattress. I slipped in next to her. Began to pray. The thunder growled, then barked. With eyes still shut, she lifted her arm. I moved under it, nestled in her pit, my hand hugging her swollen belly.
‘The storm’s here because of me. I’m sorry,’ I cried.
She stroked away the hair stuck to my face. ‘God’s not angry at you, baby. You’re angry at God.’
When I woke the next morning, the air smelt fresh and earthy. Everything had reset. I could hear Blondie playing downstairs, so with my boozed brain pulsating against my skull, I threw on my jeans, T-shirt, pumps and headed down.
At the bottom, I watched her beating eggs in a bowl. ‘Come on, I’m making us breakfast,’ she said.
‘But you never make breakfast.’
‘Well, today I am. Today I’m going to be a good mum, do the right thing.’ She smiled and beat to the beat. As she turned towards the cooker, she paused, dropped her head to catch her breath. Perking up again to sing along to ‘Heart of Glass’. ‘This song reminds me of us, Constance.’
We sat and ate our scrambled eggs on toast at the kitchen table to the background of Parallel Lines and talked about the beautiful day that lay ahead.
‘We could go for a walk in the park if you feel strong enough later? The fresh air will do you good.’
She smiled, placed her hand on top of mine. ‘How the fuck did I make you?’ she said.
I cleared away the dishes and thanked her for breakfast.
‘That’s OK,’ she said. ‘Sorry for not doing it more often.’
‘My turn tomorrow,’ I said. And as desperate as everything had been the day before, it was now hopeful, lighter. She had her fight back. More than ever.
I scraped my crusts into the bin (never wanted curly hair), and with them the fears that had clung to my every cell since we’d left the hospital. She was wrong about the trial. Never listened.
She came behind me, cocooned me. Rested her chin on my shoulder. ‘Nothing could be more than us,’ she said.
We stayed there, rocking, for what seemed like an eternity. What I wish was an eternity. Until she broke away from me and said, ‘Can you fetch my bag from the lounge?’
I carried in the peeling PVC handbag and placed it in front of her. She didn’t thank me. Just unzipped it, retrieved her purse and pulled out a twenty, then a ten.
‘I want you to treat yourself to a haircut this morning.’
‘But I don’t need a haircut.’
‘Are you kidding me? Look at the bloody state of you.’
‘What about the holiday fund?’
She jerked her hand for me to take the money. I caught her eyes. Deep in their sockets they spoke. Like they did about the Dolly Parton wig woman. But this time I didn’t know what they were saying. I didn’t. I didn’t.
‘No, please, Mum, I don’t want to. We can’t afford it. Let’s have a walk. The park will be quiet now.’
She took my hand and pressed the notes into my palm. ‘You need to, sweetheart.’
For some reason I began to cry. But I wasn’t sure why. I now realize she didn’t ask me why either. She didn’t need to.
My hand scrunched the money like a claw. I turned away from her eyes and grabbed my keys from the side.
‘OK,’ I said.
No goodbyes were exchanged. We never liked goodbyes.
Outside, everything was fine once more. I nodded and said hello to Cheryl from number four, off to work in her nurse’s uniform. Stopped to read the lost-cat poster on the lamp post. I told myself that my upset was nothing more than a hangover, a Martin overload, accompanied by lack of sleep. And my hair really was a fucking mess.
I’d only ever been to A Cut Above when waiting for Mum to have her roots done. And she only went there because Natasha, the owner, was the daughter of Liz, her drinking partner in the White Lion. As I approached, it dawned on me for the first time that it had once been a terraced house. It still resembled one, with its greying net curtains. The only thing differentiating it from the homes it was sandwiched between was the large black-and-white print of a woman with a perm and the signage over the window. It was then it also dawned on me that Liz hadn’t visited Mum once since her diagnosis.
It was fine at first.
I sat, wet-haired, shrouded in a thin plastic robe with a green bleach-stained towel draped around
my neck. A pretty girl, younger than me, with a heavily painted face and those marker-pen brows I’ll never understand, presented me with a stewed tea and a dog-eared copy of Heat magazine before Natasha came over to ask me what I wanted.
I told her just a trim. But before I knew it, she’d talked me into layers, and as the hair fell away, all I could think of was Mum saying, ‘Oh, she’s made a right bugger of that. You know your hair’s too fine for layers.’
‘How’s your mam doing?’ asked Natasha, lifting strands between her fingers.
‘She’s OK,’ I said. ‘She’s being put forward for a trial.’
But as I watched her replying in the mirror, only her mouth moved. I heard no words.
Because I felt it.
Understood what her eyes were telling me. I must have known all along. I saw Mum beating the eggs. Today I’m going to be a good mum, do the right thing. Half her allowance pressed into my hand. No goodbyes. We didn’t like goodbyes. And on the countertop I saw the small, sharp knife.
The blood drained from my face.
I stood. My legs buckled. I ripped off the robe; the towel remained in place. My hair, cold, wet, slapped against my ears. I could hear Natasha’s words again: ‘What are you doing?’
The towel dropped onto the tarmac. I heard beeps. Felt the heat of a car bonnet inches from my body. Ignored the abuse from the driver. Had to carry on.
It took forever to reach my road. Even running, the journey stretched beyond recognition. Like one of those dreams in which you need to make a call and can’t dial, or are late to be on stage in a play. But it was no dream.
Breathlessly, I turned into Cholmondeley Road. Past the houses. Fourteen, twelve, ten, eight . . .
Jamie was in next door’s driveway tinkering with his car. ‘I’ve got that hair-trimmer for your mum,’ he said.
I tore open our gate. Reached the door.
Then I calmed.
Looking through the window, all was fine. The lamp glowed in the lounge. The TV flickered. My concerns transferred to the hairdresser. I was mortified. Already deciding Mum would have to call Natasha on my behalf, say I’d had a funny turn.
I unlocked the door. ‘Mum,’ I shouted.
No response. Only the This Morning theme tune coming from the lounge. I followed it. She wasn’t there. I muted the volume and returned to the hall.
‘Mum?’
Nothing.
Except the drip, drip, drip of the tap upstairs.
I followed the rhythm.
Opened the bathroom door.
To that snapshot. Cauterized on my brain forever.
I focused on her toe. Bobbing serenely in the water. But the photograph had been captured in its entirety. The glass of Martin. The ashtray. Burnt-out cigarette perched on the toilet lid. Her diary watermarked on the floor. The contrast of the red water against her blue skin.
I shut the door. Threw up on the landing. And I haven’t stopped throwing up since.
When I called the ambulance, the operator told me to check if she was still breathing.
‘I can’t,’ I said.
She told me I needed to. So they’d know if she was still alive.
The door squeaked as I pushed it open. But I couldn’t look again. I couldn’t. I screamed down the phone she was dead.
‘I’m sorry, Constance. The ambulance will be there any minute now . . . You’re being so brave.’
She thought I’d checked the pulse, but I hadn’t. She may have had one. She could have still been alive.
I let her die twice.
So that was it. I’d told him. As I’m telling you now. All that time rotting me from the inside. Would anything have been different if you’d known? Would you have hated me more, loved me more?
When I’d stopped talking, I was perched on the cold windowsill on the other side of Franco’s office. My thumbs still dancing partners. My cheeks chaffed from salted tears.
He’d remained in his chair throughout. Unnoticed by me, he’d removed his scarf and coat, as they were now draped on the back of his seat. He held no notes.
‘Come and sit down, Constance,’ he said. ‘Come on.’
I followed his instruction and took the chair opposite him once more.
‘How are you feeling now?’ he said.
‘I . . . I don’t know.’
‘I’d like to thank you for telling me this. It was very courageous of you. How many other people have you told? Or know?’
‘That she killed herself, or that it was my fault?’
He blinked slowly with a half-smile. ‘That she killed herself.’
‘No one . . . I don’t know . . . I think some people on the estate knew. Not from me . . . from rumours. No one here, though. I wanted to leave it there. I mean, they all probably knew, but I didn’t even make it through the funeral . . . didn’t speak to anyone. They didn’t give a shit about her. No one did but me. How are you supposed to do that? Watch your own mother glide through a fucking curtain to be burned? Because of me. No . . . I . . . I left before the end. And I only stayed in Manchester a few days to get the ashes back. In the meantime I sold a few bits, counted up the holiday fund, scraped as much money together as I could. Pawned some of her jewellery . . . my grandma’s jewellery, which I now regret. Then when I finally got the jar, filled with her. A jar. Like one of the big plastic catering mayonnaise jars they had when I worked in pubs. My mum was in that. Once I had her with me, I packed a couple of suitcases and left. Got on a coach to London.’
He pulled his chair right up. I didn’t mind this time. He took my hand, his fingers grazing the cut on my forearm. I tried not to wince. His cheeks pinked. I’m not sure he was supposed to touch me like that. But his hands were warm, comforting.
‘Remember you told me about your father? That you felt it was your fault because you let go?’
I nodded.
‘Well, that wasn’t your fault, was it?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘He made his own decision that day. We don’t know his reasons, but sometimes people do things out of love for others, though their actions appear to show the opposite.’
I dropped my head. Tears fell onto my coat.
‘Constance . . . I want you to look at me, Constance.’
I did as I was told, but it was awkward, strange.
His hand squeezed harder. ‘It was the same with your mother. She was a grown woman who made her decision. And it seems that decision was based on not wanting to suffer a painful, drawn-out death. Nor for you to witness it, like she did with her father.’
‘So she thought me walking in with her floating in a bloodbath was better?’
‘I don’t think she thought rationally about any of it. She just wanted it to end. For both your sakes. But none of it was your fault.’
I shook my head, dismissing his words, yet simultaneously gaining relief from them. I stood and collected my scarf, which had slipped to the floor.
‘Dr Franco, you don’t seem to understand . . . I didn’t stop her. I could have stopped her.’
He shook his head. ‘How?’
Unconsciously, I wrapped the scarf around my hand. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Tell me. How you could have stopped her?’
‘Well, I . . . I wouldn’t have gone to get my stupid hair cut . . . left her—’
‘Ever? You were only gone a short while.’
‘I never checked her pulse.’
‘Because she was already dead, Constance. You knew that. She was dead.’
‘I would have encouraged her to remain positive about the trial—’
‘There was no trial. He said he’d see if there was anything, but, Constance, they are rare—’
‘For fuck’s sake, he didn’t say that.’ I shouted so loud the words ricocheted off the walls and slapped me across the face.
He slumped back in his chair, lowered his head.
‘I’m sorry, Dr Franco . . . I shouldn’t have troubled you. I get paid next week. I’ll pay y
ou for your time—’
‘Constance, I don’t want your—’
‘I’ve got to go, Dr Franco . . . Thank you.’ I unravelled the scarf from my hand, placed it calmly, neatly, around my neck and picked up my bag. ‘Will this go any further? I mean . . . am I safe?’
‘Safe?’ He repeated the slow blink, half-smile, then nodded.
I sensed him watching as I walked towards the door. When I was about to shut it behind me, he said, ‘I hope you start to feel better from now on, Constance. Please think about what I’ve said.’
I pretended I hadn’t heard and pulled the door to.
Outside, I lit a cigarette. The first since I’d been ill. My adult pacifier. At the bottom of the steps, I rested my back against my usual wall. Dizzy with nicotine, I closed my eyes. Remaining tears squeezed out to mix with the freezing air, biting my cheeks. I reopened them, looked up to the clear black sky.
‘Is he right?’ I whispered. ‘For fuck’s sake, tell me somehow. Is he right?’
I waited. There was nothing. No answer. No sign. Nothing.
I gave it until I reached the filter, then wiped my face with my scarf, pulled the collar up over my ears and set off down the road.
As I did, it began to snow.
Which brings us to my birthday.
The day.
It started so well. Waking for the first time unladen, without guilt pressing against my chest, my skull.
I’d slept in my room the previous night. Told Dale I had a banging headache, enabling me to both dress my arm and compute all that had happened with Dr Franco.
Surprisingly, Dale had left before I’d woken. His only communication a card with a picture of Princess Leia on the front, slipped under my door. Happy birthday to my own princess. Dinner at 6.30 sharp, it said inside.
Once at the surgery, I was accosted by a grinning Alison holding out a pearly-pink gift bag with a glittery unicorn on the front. ‘Happy birthday, Constance.’
‘Oh . . . oh, thank you. How . . . how did you know?’
‘It’s on our system, silly . . . You look nice.’
She clapped her hands together with excitement and followed me behind the reception desk while I removed my coat then the lime-green tissue paper that concealed the present. White furry cat-face earmuffs. Whiskers and all.
If I Can't Have You Page 26
