In My Sister's Shoes

by Sinéad Moriarty

‘Why did no one tell me?’

  ‘Probably because you never asked.’

  He had a point there, but were children supposed to ask their parents how their sex lives were? Wasn’t that a little too modern? I’m all for communication but you can have too much information… and what I had just witnessed was way too much information.

  ‘Do you think it’s going to last?’

  ‘Who knows? We’re having fun so we’ll have to wait and see.’

  Bloody men! They’re all the same, no matter what age they are – noncommittal to the end.

  ‘Well, I hope you’re not leading that poor woman up the garden path,’ I said, suddenly finding myself defending Sheryl Jones, who had never been very nice to me.

  ‘She knows the score.’

  ‘Which is that you want the company, the sex, the fun but not the commitment?’

  ‘No need to be dramatic. She knows I’m not looking for a wife.’

  ‘Does she want to get married?’

  ‘Don’t all women?’

  ‘No – well, maybe eventually. I dunno, I give up on men,’ I said, and slugged back some wine.

  My phone beeped.

  I glanced down. I had a new text message. It was from Sam: Sry not in touch sooner – bloody work! Friday, Blues wine bar 8?

  17

  The Friday of my non-date with Sam was the day of Fiona’s second chemotherapy session. I was glad to have the drink to look forward to, because I was dreading the day for Fiona. I’d been looking at the Internet and it seemed pretty common for patients’ hair to fall out after the second or third treatment.

  The day before her chemo, I booked her an appointment with a local hairdresser and cut out a picture of Sharon Stone with short hair to bring along, so she wouldn’t end up with a pudding bowl. Fiona insisted I didn’t tell them why she was getting her hair cut – she didn’t want people feeling sorry for her. Besides, she was feeling much better and she didn’t want to focus on her illness.

  While her locks were being chopped off I told her about finding Dad and Mrs Jones in a compromising position.

  ‘Oh, God, Kate! What did you do?’

  ‘When I started breathing again, I ran out as fast as I could. How could you not have told me he was seeing someone?’

  ‘I suppose I presumed you knew. It’s been going on for a while now.’

  ‘But it’s Mrs Jones! She’s a cow! Don’t you remember her from school?’

  Fiona looked a bit vague. ‘No – what did she teach?’

  ‘Gymnastics. Come on, you must remember her. She was like a sergeant bloody major, ordering everyone about and flinging girls on and off the beam and trying to twist our bodies into unnatural shapes.’

  ‘I didn’t do gym – it clashed with special maths.’

  I had forgotten that Fiona and the other mathematical super-brains – all three of them – had done a special brainiac class. Compared to maths, gym was a walk in the park, as far as I was concerned. Give me a forward roll over a theorem any day.

  ‘Well, take it from me, she’s not a very sweet person and I don’t want Dad to end up with her.’

  ‘I didn’t have the impression they were getting married,’ said Fiona. ‘He’s obviously just after her body.’ She grinned.

  ‘Fiona, if you’d seen them! It was gross. I can’t get the image of Dad’s wrinkly bum out of my head. Old people shouldn’t have sex without bolting their doors. I’m traumatized!’

  ‘Good old Dad. At least he’s still up to it. Sex is becoming a distant memory for me,’ she murmured.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ said Fiona. ‘You know how it is, couples with young kids…’ She tailed off.

  ‘Well, you couldn’t be getting less action than I am,’ I said.

  ‘I wouldn’t bet on it.’ She turned back to her magazine.

  Clearly Mark was underperforming in the bedroom as well as in every other aspect of his marriage. I wondered if his uselessness was grounds for annulment, and wished Fiona could be swept off her feet by a tall dark handsome stranger with big strong arms who’d carry her to and from chemotherapy and tell her how wonderful and beautiful she was and ravish her every night…

  ‘Kate?’ Fiona’s voice interrupted my match-making.

  The hairdresser had finished drying her hair.

  ‘Oh, wow! You look fantastic,’ I lied. Her beautiful curly dark hair lay strewn around her on the floor and she was left with very tightly cut curls that stuck up in clumps all over her head, nothing like Sharon Stone’s cool crop in the picture I’d shown the stylist.

  Fiona looked at herself in the mirror and tried to pat down a stray curl. ‘I look like a poodle,’ she said, as her eyes filled.

  ‘You do not,’ I snapped. ‘You look gorgeous. Mark’s a very lucky guy.’

  She stood up and wiped away a tear. As she turned towards the door, I picked up a stray curl from the floor and popped it into my bag. I don’t know why– good luck, superstition, in the hope that when her hair grew back we could laugh about the shorn curls… I’m not sure, but it was strangely comforting, as if I had a piece of Fiona that no one could take away.

  When we collected the twins from school, they stared at their mum in silence. Fiona had always had long hair.

  ‘Where’s your hair?’ asked Jack, walking round to see if it was hidden behind her.

  ‘I cut it off today,’ said Fiona, putting on her cheeriest smile.

  ‘Why?’ asked Jack. ‘You look like a boy now,’ he added, lip quivering.

  Jesus, kids could be brutal sometimes.

  ‘No, she doesn’t,’ I said, frowning at him. ‘She looks beautiful.’

  ‘Boys,’ said Fiona, crouching so she could talk to them directly, eye to eye, ‘the medicine that the doctor is giving me to make me better might make my hair fall out, so if I look a bit strange, don’t worry, I’m still your mummy. I’ll just have funny hair for a while.’

  ‘But why does the medicine make your hair fall out?’ asked Jack, very worried.

  ‘Because it’s strong medicine that I need to take to fight the bad cells. But my hair will grow back, sweetheart,’ said Fiona, as her own lip began to tremble.

  ‘But I thought the doctor took out all the bad cells already,’ said Bobby.

  ‘Well, yes, he did, but the medicine is to make sure that no bad cells come back so that I don’t get sick again.’

  ‘Are they fighting each other?’ asked Bobby.

  ‘Well, yes, I suppose they are.’

  ‘Inside your tummy?’ asked Jack.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Cool,’ said Bobby.

  ‘Can you feel them punching each other?’ asked Jack.

  ‘No, sweetheart, it’s not violent.’

  ‘But how –’

  ‘OK, boys, that’s enough questions,’ I interrupted, before it turned into Mastermind. ‘Come on, into the car. Give your mum a break.’

  Mark was working late – again – so I helped Fiona bathe the twins and put them to bed. At prayer time, Bobby piped up, ‘God bless Mummy and Daddy and Teddy and Uncle Derek and Granddad and Auntie Kate, and please make Mummy’s hair come back so she looks like an angel again.’

  I could see Fiona from the corner of my eye, struggling not to cry.

  The next morning Mark took Fiona to hospital and I took the boys to school. Mark was going to stay with her while she had her blood tests and I’d join her when the drugs were being administered. I’d called Derek to tell him to pop in and give Fiona some moral support and I’d asked Casanova to tear himself away from horizontal gym lessons with my old teacher and drop by too.

  Dad arrived first, laden with flowers, chocolates and newspapers.

  ‘If it isn’t the Don Juan of Dublin,’ I said.

  ‘Hi, Dad,’ said Fiona. ‘I hear you’ve been working out lately.’

  Ignoring us, and determined to change the subject, Dad asked, ‘How many times has Meryl Streep been nominated for an Oscar?
’

  Fiona looked at him blankly– she’d have preferred a chess question.

  ‘Thirteen nominations in twenty-six years,’ I answered. ‘Don’t tryto change the subject.’

  Luckily for Dad, Derek chose that moment to stroll through the door, Roxanne in tow.

  ‘Ah, the lovely Roxanne,’ said Dad, thrilled to be off the hook.

  ‘Yo, sis, this is Roxanne. Roxanne, mysister Fiona,’ said Derek.

  ‘’Sup?’ said Roxanne plonking herself beside Fiona. Her extremely low-rise jeans exposed ninety per cent of her G-string to the room.

  Dad didn’t know where to look. Now he knew how I’d felt when I saw his arse.

  ‘Roxanne’s cousin had cancer so she totally knows all about it. Any questions, just ask her,’ said Derek.

  ‘Isn’t that marvellous?’ said Dad. ‘An expert in the field of tattooism, a Latin scholar and now a cancer specialist. I must say I’m impressed.’

  Roxanne twisted her nose-ring. ‘Some people just have what it takes.’

  ‘How’s business?’ asked Dad.

  ‘Insane. I barely have time to eat. Everyone wants a tattoo.’

  ‘I can see why. They really are very attractive,’ said Dad. ‘Lookit, Fiona, have you seen Roxanne’s lovely snake?’ he asked, as Fiona gazed in horror at Roxanne’s stomach.

  ‘You seem keen. Come down anytime. I’ll give you a discount cos of Derek being your son and all.’

  ‘What do you think I should get?’ said Dad, stirring it.

  Roxanne looked him up and down. ‘For oldies, it’s best to get something where the skin isn’t so wrinkly. Maybe a skull on your forearm.’

  ‘Or you could get “Sheryl for ever”.’ I giggled.

  ‘I might go for something subtle like Derek has,’ said Dad.

  ‘Roxanne said to avoid wrinkly areas, and after my recent exposure to your backside, we can safely say it isn’t a runner.’ I sniggered.

  ‘It’s up to you. I’ve tattooed every part of clients’ bodies so nothing would shock me.’

  ‘That I can believe,’ said Dad, rolling his eyes.

  ‘How is your cousin now?’ Fiona asked, changing the subject and getting back to the reason Roxanne had graced us with her presence.

  ‘Actually, she’s, like, totally fucked. It came back and they said she’ll be lucky to get six months.’

  We glared at Derek, who had gone white. ‘Roxanne! You told me your cousin was fine.’

  ‘Her boobs are fine, but she just found out that the cancer turned up in her liver or some shit, so it’s bon voyage for her.’

  I leant over and whispered in Derek’s ear, ‘Get your fuck-buddy out of here before I strangle her.’

  ‘What cheery news. I must say, Derek, it was a stroke of genius bringing Roxanne to cheer Fiona up,’ snapped Dad, as Derek dragged the girl out the door.

  He came straight back in, looking very sheepish. ‘Jeez, Fiona, I’m really sorry. She told me her cousin was fine – except when her hair fell out, but it grew back. I’m a knob, I should have checked the details. Are you freaked out now?’

  Fiona shook her head. ‘It’s OK. People die every day of cancer. It’s a reality I have to face.’

  ‘But lots of people get better,’ I added.

  ‘You’ll be fine, pet. Nothing’s going to take you away from us,’ said Dad, putting his arm round her protectively.

  ‘I feel terrible, Fiona,’ said Derek, miserably.

  ‘Forget about it. It’s not your fault your friend’s a moron,’ said Fiona, smiling.

  ‘I’ve written a song for you,’ said Derek. ‘I’m going to showcase it at the gig I’m doing in two weeks. You all have to come. It’s going to be awesome.’

  The door opened. ‘Yo, Derek, I’m late,’ called Roxanne.

  ‘Yo, Roxie,’ said Derek. He stood up and rapped: ‘It was fun while we lasted but now that you casted a shadow over my sista, I’m not gonna miss ya, so go to hell, you frickin cow, cos believe me when I tell you I ain’t interested now.’

  ‘Good on you,’ I said.

  ‘Well done, son,’ said Dad.

  ‘You’re well rid of her,’ said Fiona.

  ‘Get a move on,’ snapped Roxanne, as our hero shuffled out after her.

  18

  By the time we got back from the hospital, Fiona was feeling awful. I left her to go and pick the boys up from their friend Zach’s house, where they had spent the afternoon. Zach’s mother was mightily relieved to see me. Judging from the state of the house, the twins had spent the rainy afternoon trashing the place. I thanked her profusely and drove them home.

  Before we got out of the car, I turned to face them. ‘Now, boys, Mummy’s feeling sick today because she was in hospital getting more of that nasty medicine, so you have to be very quiet and gentle. OK?’

  Their little faces fell. Their mum was sick again and they were scared.

  ‘But she’ll be much better tomorrow and Daddy’ll be home soon to tuck you in and read you a story.’

  Mark had promised to be back by six. I needed a few hours to get ready for my date and he needed to spend some time with his sick wife and kids.

  We went in and the boys climbed the stairs to see their mum, who was in bed, trying not to throw up. I let them stay for a few minutes, then took them down to give them their dinner.

  At six o’clock the twins were fed, the kitchen had been cleaned, I had laid their pyjamas on their beds and had two warm towels ready for their bath. I slung on my coat and looked out the window for Mark’s car.

  At six thirty, nine chewed fingernails later and having snapped at the boys when they’d asked me why I was staring out the window, I called him, but his mobile was switched off. I left a terse message, took off my coat and gave the boys their bath.

  Seven o’clock: still no sign. Fiona was asleep in bed while I was turning into the Incredible Hulk. I had never known anger like it.

  I rang Mark’s phone again and spat out a message that left nothing to the imagination.

  Seven thirty: the boys were in bed and I tried to read them a story.

  ‘Why is your voice all funny?’ asked Bobby, referring to the strangling sound my throat made as I tried desperately to keep my boiling rage under control.

  ‘This story’s boring. Read something else,’ grumbled Jack.

  ‘I want a glass of milk,’ said Bobby, and began to get out of bed.

  ‘Get back into that bloody bed and do not move,’ I growled, pinning him down as he stared up at me. ‘You’ve had milk. Now you will go to sleep, and I’m warning you both, don’t mess with me tonight. I am in a very, very bad mood.’

  ‘But you haven’t finished the story,’ whined Jack. ‘I want my mummy.’

  ‘Well, she’s not available right now and your father is a total wanker so you’re stuck with me.’

  ‘What’s a wanker?’ asked Bobby.

  ‘What a lovely scene to come home to,’ said Mark, walking through the door. ‘Don’t mind me. Carryon.’

  I blushed. Granted I was furious with him, but I was ashamed at having slated him to his own children.

  ‘Daddy will be with you in a minute. I just have to talk to him downstairs,’ I said, and frogmarched him into the kitchen. I closed the door: I didn’t want Fiona or the kids to hear what I had to say.

  ‘How could you be so selfish? The one time in seven weeks I ask you to be home early because I’m going out and you can’t even be bothered to do that. I’m not some slave, Mark. I’m doing this for Fiona and the boys. I’ve given up everything to help out, but your life hasn’t skipped a beat. You just carryon as normal. Well, news flash Mark. I quit. You’re on your own. I won’t be here tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes, you will,’ said Mark, ‘because you’re not doing it for me, you’re doing it for Fiona. You owe her years of sacrifice and you know it. The only reason you came back is because you feel guilty about having disappeared to London, leaving her to look after Derek and your father. I’m not neglecting
my family. I’m working. Who do you think pays for Fiona’s treatment, the boys’ schooling and this house?’

  ‘Don’t use your job as an excuse. You’re late every day because of that stupid project. You don’t have to enter that competition. It won’t make any difference to Fiona’s life – but it’ll make a big difference to Mark Kennedy’s already inflated ego. You’re doing this for yourself and the reflected glory that winning will give you. I hope it’s worth it, Mark.’

  ‘You went to London and ignored your family for eight years so don’t lecture me about ambition and ego.’

  ‘I came back when it mattered. You’re running away now at the most crucial time in Fiona’s life.’

  ‘Where have I run off to? The office. I’m here every night, as always. Nothing has changed.’

  ‘You’re emotionally detached.’

  ‘Oh, please spare me your cheesy psychobabble. If you want to talk about behaviour, I really don’t think telling two five-year-olds that their father is a wanker is very helpful.’

  The kitchen clock chimed eight. I had to get out of there. I needed a stiff drink. I needed to see someone outside my family. I needed Sam. ‘Much as I’d love to stay and chat, I have to tryto salvage the only night out I’ve had in almost two months.’

  With that I stormed out the door and drove home like a maniac to get changed. I sent Sam a text explaining I was running late and to order me a double vodka. Then I got changed – fifteen times. Nothing fitted. I couldn’t understand it. I knew I’d put on a few pounds but I’d been wearing the same clothes all the time so I hadn’t noticed just how much weight had crept on. Clearly my metabolism was messed up after all those years of starving myself and now I was eating normally – with the odd packet of chocolate biscuits for dinner – I’d whacked on the weight.

  Eventually I squeezed myself into a black skirt and polo neck and tried to disguise my protruding stomach by tying a scarf round my waist. I threw on some makeup and tied up my hair – I had no time to wash it – then looked at myself in the mirror. Not good. Where the hell was the old Kate? I looked older than thirty-one, stressed and chubby. As I was contemplating cancelling the date, my phone buzzed: Where the hell r u? Am half pissed already.