In My Sister's Shoes

by Sinéad Moriarty

  Typical. Just my luck. Mrs bloody Boyd was alive and well and happily married to Mr Boyd. And I bet she had hair, was thin, wore nice clothes and fed nutritious homemade meals to her family.

  ‘But she was mean to me,’ said Nigel, who was going home with bruised shins and threats ringing in his ears.

  ‘Say you’re sorry to the boys,’ said his father.

  Nigel mumbled an apology to Jack and Bobby.

  ‘Now, lads, you tell Nigel you’re sorry for kicking him,’ I said, trying to match like with like.

  ‘Sorry, Nigel,’ they said.

  ‘Right. Glad that’s all sorted. ’Bye now,’ said Mr Boyd, and disappeared into his cool sports car, leaving me destitute.

  I felt a tug on my arm. ‘Did you really tell Nigel you were going to pull his hair out?’ asked Bobby.

  I bent down and the two boys huddled up to me. ‘Yes, I did, but don’t tell Mummy because if you do I’ll end up in the bold corner for a very long time.’

  ‘You’re cool,’ said Jack.

  ‘Reallycool,’ added Bobby.

  I smiled. Maybe older guys wouldn’t touch me with a barge-pole, but at least my two mini-men thought I rocked.

  That evening I called over to Tara. I’d warned her about my shorn head – I didn’t want her going into early labour when she saw me.

  ‘Oh, my God,’ she said, as her hand flew to her mouth.

  ‘I know it ain’t pretty,’ I said ruefully.

  ‘No, it’s… just… different, that’s all,’ she lied.

  ‘It’s OK. I know I look like hell but it was worth it to see Fiona’s face.’

  ‘I’d say she was really touched,’ said Tara, recovering from her shock. ‘It was a lovely thing to do.’

  ‘I just hope her eyebrows and eyelashes don’t fall out. I’m not sure I can go that far.’

  ‘I think you’ve shown enough kinship.’ Tara smiled. ‘Come on, tell me what happened with Sam. I want proper details,’ she said, as she put on the kettle.

  I shrugged. ‘Nothing to tell. As I said on the phone, I made a pass at him, he said he was seeing someone else and I fled.’

  Tara made a pot of tea.

  ‘Any biccies?’ I asked.

  ‘You never eat rubbish,’ she said, surprised.

  ‘Well, let’s face it, no one’s going to come near me in this state so I might as well stuff my face.’

  ‘Stop that, you’re still gorgeous,’ said Tara, handing me a plate of chocolate-chip cookies, which I began to wolf down.

  ‘I know you, Kate,’ she mused. ‘There’s no way you would have made a pass at Sam unless you were sure he was interested.’

  ‘I dunno. My head’s all over the place at the moment. The old me would never have made a show of herself like that. I did think Sam was keen, we were getting on so well, and I thought he was looking at me the wayhe used to… but I was completely wrong. I don’t actually know who I am any more. I feel like I’ve lost my identity. I don’t have a job or an apartment, I never go out and I just seem to be stumbling along at the moment. I can’t believe how much my life has changed,’ I said, staring into my cup.

  ‘It must be really hard, but what you’re doing for Fiona and the twins is amazing. You’ll never regret it and they’ll always be grateful. And, yes, you have changed but, if you don’t mind my saying so, it’s for the better.’

  ‘How’d you mean?’

  ‘You’re a bit softer,’ said Tara, treading carefully. ‘You’ve got more patience and compassion. You’re a warmer, more cuddly person.’

  ‘I’m cuddly, all right,’ I said, reaching for another biscuit.

  ‘Seriously, Kate, the little weight you’ve put on suits you. You were far too thin and obsessive about your figure.’

  I bristled. ‘I had to be thin for TV.’

  ‘I know, but being hungry all the time was making you tense. You’re more relaxed, less regimented about everything. You always seemed restless before, as if you wanted to be somewhere else all the time. Now you’re calmer and, in a way, happier.’

  ‘I’m not, though.’ I sighed. ‘I feel lost. I had a purpose with my job. I wasn’t changing anyone’s life, but doing the best show I could was important to me. Now all I do is look after the twins and clean. It’s fine, but it’s not going to get me anywhere. I’m thirty and I need to focus on my career. Sadly I don’t have a handsome millionaire to take care of me, and I don’t fancy living with Dad and Derek for ever. The longer I stay away from London and presenting, the harder it’s going to be to get back in. I’m scared. I don’t know how to do anything else. I’ve no other skills and I don’t think taking a long sabbatical to wipe the twins’ noses and arses is going to convince the head of ITV to hire me.’

  ‘Have you been in touch with your producer?’

  ‘Yes, but she said that there was nothing she could do for me until I had a definite date of return, and right now I don’t have one. Fiona’s got her fourth chemo session coming up, then another four to go and then the radiation, so it’ll be at least another four or five months.’

  ‘Well, I think you’re brilliant and I bet you end up with a better job – and the fling Sam’s having with that young one won’t last. She’s just his rebound person.’

  ‘I need to find someone new. Lunging at my ex-boyfriend after eight years is a bit sad.’

  ‘Did he look good?’

  ‘Amazing.’ I groaned. ‘Anyway, what about you? I see your bump’s coming along nicely. How’re you feeling?’

  ‘Fine, thanks,’ said Tara, placing a hand protectively on her swollen stomach. ‘It’s great actually. The baby’s started to kick, which makes it all so much more real.’

  I studied her flushed face. She looked so happy and settled: she was exactly where she wanted to be in life. She had achieved what she had dreamt of: a lovely husband and now a baby. I felt very empty as her joy and contentment was hed over me. The old me would have been far too busy jetting off to some foreign capital to interview a sexy film star to feel lonely, but the new me felt it acutely. What did I want from my life? What did I need to make me feel as fulfilled as myfriend? Would I ever find it? Or was I doomed to spend the rest of my life alone, going on holidays with other sad, lonely people? Travelling by coach from town to town to visit places of historical interest and staying in run-down hotels where the rooms smelt of boiled cabbage and everyone got tipsy on sherry and sang songs like ‘It’s A Long Way To Tipperary’, spitting out pieces of mashed turnip when they got to the ‘Tip’ in ‘Tipperary’.

  I had to take control of my life: throwing myself at past loves was not a good idea, and ignoring my appearance wouldn’t help either. I would cut out all junk food, except maybe the odd bar of chocolate, and walk to and from Fiona’s house… as long as it wasn’t raining. Sighing, I popped another biscuit into my mouth. After all, as Scarlett O’Hara said, tomorrow was another day.

  22

  After Fiona’s fourth chemotherapy session she got mouth sores. As if she didn’t have enough to deal with, eating became increasingly difficult and she began to lose weight.

  I was really worried about her and did mybest to build her up with tasty blended food so she could fight the cancer. But no matter how nice the ingredients, mushed food is just not appetizing. Unfortunately it tends to look like vomit. The only thing Fiona seemed to enjoywere the fruit smoothies I made in the morning. I put as many super fruits into them as I could. In my days of starvation in London when I was really hungry, I’d allow myself as a treat to buy a superfruit smoothie from the deli around the corner. I bought kiwis, strawberries and blueberries in bulk and tried to get Fiona to drink the home-made smoothies. Most of the time she’d manage one, and on the days when she didn’t feel up to it, the twins hoovered them down. Theyloved them.

  I also cross-referenced food and cancer on the Internet and discovered that breast-cancer survivors favoured certain herbs and supplements, so I read up on them to figure out which would be safe to put into Fiona’s
smoothies.

  Ginger was supposed to help with nausea, and echinacea, in small doses, to fight colds and flu. Ginkgo improved the memory(Fiona certainly didn’t need that: she had the memory of an elephant), the blood circulation, and might block a chemical that caused tumour growth. Ginseng was thought to fight disease, which was obviously a bonus. And then some weird thing called St John’s wort was listed as easing depression. Of all the names, wouldn’t you think they’d have come up with something a bit nicer-sounding to aid depression? I decided to stick with small amounts of ginger and ginseng for the moment – I was no herbalist and I didn’t want to give her an overdose and have her bouncing off the walls.

  She was definitely getting weaker with each dose of chemo and it was taking her longer to recover. The awful thing was that by the time she was feeling well again she’d have to go back for another blast. Although she tried to keep her spirits up for the boys, I could see it was really wearing her down.

  I read up on alternative therapies for cancer patients and found out that visualization was supposed to help. Some people even claimed they had cured themselves by relaxing deeply and imagining their white blood cells battling the cancer cells. You could visualize the white blood cells as anything – maybe Fiona could pretend they were the knights on the chessboard, and the bad cells could be the opposition’s pawns or something. It couldn’t do any harm.

  I booked us into a visualization class and only broke the news to Fiona when we were sitting outside the meeting place. I knew she’d never have agreed to it otherwise.

  Her head whipped around. ‘I thought you said we were going to the cinema.’

  ‘Well, in a way we are. It’s a cinema inside your head.’

  ‘I don’t want to sit around with a bunch of bald sick people talking about cancer,’ she snapped.

  ‘You won’t have to talk at all. It’s not therapy, it’s visualization so it’s silent. Besides, it’s supposed to be brilliant at helping patients cope, and destressing and all that.’

  ‘I’m not going in.’

  ‘Come on, Fiona, give it a try. If you hate it we’ll leave.’

  ‘I’m not a group person, you know that. I like to deal with things on my own, in my own way.’

  ‘Maybe it’s time you tried something else.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Jesus, Fiona, just get out of the bloody car and give it five minutes,’ I said, losing my temper. She looked shocked. I’d been tiptoeing around her for months but now I wanted her to help herself. ‘Stop trying to pretend you can do this on your own. Not talking about it won’t make it go away. You have cancer. Accept help.’ I got out of the car and marched towards the door.

  ‘Don’t tell me how to deal with my disease,’ she shouted after me. ‘You don’t know what it’s like to wake up every day thinking you might die, and be terrified of not seeing your kids grow up. It’s hell, Kate. It’s a living hell. Don’t assume you know what’s best for me because you haven’t got a clue. Shaving your head doesn’t make you a cancer patient. If I choose not to talk about it then you should respect that. This is the way I always deal with things – alone. I’ve never been a talker and I’ve got through a lot of problems without your help, so don’t you dare try to bully me into doing something I don’t want to do.’

  ‘Well, maybe it’s time you accepted help. Maybe all that dealing-with-stuff-on-your-own is bullshit, and maybe it’s the reason you seem stressed all the time. I’m not just talking about now, I’m talking about before as well. Let people help you, Fiona! Stop trying to protect everyone! Scream, shout, cry about the injustice of it. It’s not fair. You shouldn’t have cancer. It’s shit. Let out your anger. Stop being such a control freak.’

  ‘Fuck you!’ she screamed, clearly taking my advice. ‘Swanning back here with your Florence Nightingale cape on! You have no idea what my life is like. You didn’t have your childhood taken away when Mum died – I did. I’m the one who had to run the house while Dad buried his head in the sand. Your life didn’t change, but mine was turned upside-down.’

  ‘She was my mother too!’ I yelled. ‘You seem to forget that I suffered just like you did.’

  ‘You didn’t get up to soothe Derek in the middle of the night. You didn’t make the school lunches, wash the uniforms, cook dinner, give up your youth. While you were out having fun with your friends I was running a home with a broken heart.’

  ‘You didn’t have to do it all, Fiona. You could have asked Dad for help.’

  ‘He needed me to be strong.’

  ‘He thought you were all right because you never let him see how upset you were.’

  ‘I was a child, for God’s sake.’

  ‘He’s not a mind-reader – although I agree he should have helped you. It was wrong of him to leave so much up to you.’ What had he been thinking? Fiona was only a little girl and shouldn’t have had to take on so much responsibility. But I knew he regretted it because since she’d got older he was always trying to make it up to her. He told anyone who’d listen how wonderful she had been when Mum died. He had paid for a very lavish wedding, been nice to Mark, even though he thought he was a prat, and doted on the twins.

  She shrugged. ‘He didn’t mean to lean on me, it just happened that way.’

  ‘You were twelve. You should have been out having fun.’

  ‘Like you,’ she said.

  ‘Am I supposed to feel guilty for being a normal kid?’

  ‘Don’t you think I’d have liked that too?’

  ‘You were never normal. I mean, you were always super-bright and into maths and chess and things most kids find boring. You were different,’ I said, as Fiona’s face darkened. ‘In a brilliant, more mature, clever way,’ I added, in a lame attempt to soften her up.

  ‘Being bright doesn’t mean you don’t want to play Spin the Bottle and giggle with your friends about boys.’

  ‘I thought you found all that silly and childish.’

  ‘I was pretending, so I wouldn’t look like a total reject.’

  I looked at my sister. All this time I’d had no idea she’d wanted to be a silly teenager like everyone else. I’d always assumed she was too mature and clever for that carry-on. But she’d been lonely and miserable the whole time.

  ‘I really thought you preferred playing chess.’

  ‘I did like playing chess. I loved it. It was a link to Mum and it ended up giving me a social life. At least I met people at chess competitions. A lot of them were devoid of personality, but at least it got me out. That was why I liked Mark so much when I first met him. He was so much fun.’

  Mark… fun? I tried to remember back to the first few times I’d met him. He’d never struck me as fun, but I suppose that was because most of his stories and jokes went over my head. I did remember him and Fiona laughing a lot, as Derek and I watched them blankly.

  ‘I know Mark hasn’t been much fun in the last few years but that’s because his career has taken off and he has so little spare time now,’ said Fiona, reading my mind.

  ‘Doesn’t that bother you?’

  ‘I mind him not being around, but I’ve been so busy with my teaching and the twins that I haven’t really had much chance to think about it.’

  ‘It must be hard not getting any time together.’

  She sighed. ‘Yes, it is. I miss the nights we used to spend drinking wine, talking about prime-number sequences and formulas for computing pi and analysing the Reimann hypothesis. You know,’ she said ruefully, ‘the last time we had sex was after a passionate debate about Fermat’s Last Theorem, which carried on into the bedroom.’

  Fiona really needed to revise her view of normal. No one I knew got aroused by theorems. ‘Well, it’s good to hear that the passion’s still alive,’ I said.

  ‘It’s a while ago now,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Well, sure you’ll be fighting fit and ready for action after this treatment’s over. The two of you’ll be at it like rabbits,’ I said lamely.

  ‘I hope
so, Kate,’ she said, looking directlyat me. ‘I really hope so.’

  ‘Come on,’ I said. ‘I’ll take you home.’

  ‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘I’ll give it a go.’

  We found ourselves in a small room with four other cancer patients. Lily, the facilitator, asked us to introduce ourselves. Two of them were very despondent while the others were angry. It was pretty grim.

  Fiona was by far the calmest when she spoke. ‘I’m a married mother of twin boys. I’ve got breast cancer and I’m half-way through my chemotherapy. I’m finding it increasingly difficult to be upbeat as I’m feeling worse after each session. But my boys keep me going. They give me a reason to get up in the morning. My sister brought me here today. She’s been helping me and I don’t know what I’d do without her.’

  I squeezed my hands together and willed myself not to cry.

  ‘And what about you?’ Lily asked me.

  ‘Well, I’m here because I wanted Fiona to try something , that didn’t involve poisonous drugs and I thought that maybe she’d find it helpful.’

  ‘Are you looking to get anything for yourself by using visualization?’ Lily wondered.

  ‘A nice man would be good.’

  ‘We’ll see what we can do,’ said Lily.

  She asked us to close our eyes and led us through some exercises designed to hone our senses and help us discover which of the five we found most evocative. We were told to imagine the taste of a lemon, the sound of bells, the feeling of silk against our bodies, the sight of a field of sunflowers and the smell of a rose. It was quite nice, and I found it easier to get into than I’d thought I would. When I peeked at Fiona her eyes were closed and she was smiling.

  Lily asked one of the angry ladies to describe what she had visualized. ‘A guy with a hammer and a nail,’ she said. ‘The hammer represents my white blood cells and the nail is the cancer cells.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Lily. ‘Now, each of you has to come up with your own image, but good versus evil tends to be the most effective. We’ve had cowboys and Indians, cops and robbers, a dog chasing a rabbit, a calm sea suddenly infested with a shark… Whatever works for you, run with it.’