The Mother's Promise

by Sally Hepworth

  55

  Sonja’s gaze had been fixed on the glass door of the diner for ten minutes when Agnes finally walked in. It had been years since she had seen her sister. Apart from a few more gray hairs, she looked the same. Sonja stood to greet her, but Agnes’s gaze continued right past her.

  “Agnes!”

  “Sonja?” Agnes’s jaw dropped. “I would never have recognized you.”

  Sonja had chosen a diner in the neighborhood where they’d grown up, thinking it would be a) convenient for Agnes, and b) a comfort to Sonja. The former might have been true but the latter was not. In fact, Sonja doubted she’d ever felt more out of place.

  Agnes crossed the floor slowly and slid into the booth opposite her. There was no hug. No kiss. Not even a handshake. And although Sonja hadn’t expected any of these things, she felt a little disappointed.

  “What happened to your face?” Agnes asked, timidly, after a few silent moments.

  It took Sonja a moment to realize what she meant. “Oh. Botox.”

  “Ah,” Agnes said, pulling at her face as if she could smooth out the wrinkles with her fingers. “I could use some of that stuff.”

  “You look fine,” Sonja said. “Great.”

  Agnes did look fine, but “great” was pushing it. She’d aged as one would expect—with the gray hair and deep lines. But she looked well. Healthy and happy in jeans and a white sweatshirt, with her hair pulled back in a scrunchie. It made Sonja feel ridiculous in her pantsuit and pumps. She’d spent an hour blowing out her hair that morning. Funny the things she did without even questioning it these days. It was as though she had turned into a robot—everything was on autopilot.

  When the waitress came, Agnes ordered a diet Pepsi. Sonja had planned to order chamomile tea, but at the last minute she said, “Do you know what? Make it two diet Pepsis.”

  It felt rebellious, somehow. Sonja hadn’t drunk diet Pepsi in years. People in her world didn’t.

  When the waitress left, Agnes looked at her. “You’re not dying, are you?”

  “No.” Sonja surveyed her sister’s face for any clue to whether this would be good or bad news. But Agnes wasn’t giving anything away. “I just thought it might be nice to see my sister.”

  “Oh,” Agnes said. But she seemed so surprised Sonja had to ask herself: Why was she here?

  Ever since the night George had choked her, she’d been thinking about her conversation with Dagmar at the hospital. Was she a victim of abuse? The irony of a social worker being abused was not lost on her. She was trained in recognizing domestic violence—how could she not see it in her own relationship? Worse, how could she not automatically know what to do about it?

  She thought of all the clients she’d counseled over the years who had turned around and gone right back into the abusive relationship. She’d never understood it. Hadn’t she given the client the number of a women’s shelter? Hadn’t she explained the support programs that were available to her? And yet the client would always say the same thing. “But I love him.”

  Suddenly Sonja understood. These women weren’t imbeciles who didn’t care about their safety or the safety of their children. They might have had feelings of fear for their abuser, but they also had feelings of love. Rarely was an abuser a monster. He could also be loving, charming, maybe even a good father. Staying with him might hurt … but then again, so would leaving.

  Agnes was still waiting for Sonja to explain. Her frustration began to surface. “What is it, Sonja? It’s not like you to just call up out of the blue. Shane thought you might have had a nervous breakdown or something!”

  “I … I…,” Sonja stammered. She’d come here to reach out to Agnes, to ask for advice. But the woman opposite her seemed like a stranger. Of course she was! Sonja hadn’t been in touch with her properly in years. It was stupid reaching out to her now. She was stupid to think she had anyone else to rely on, apart from herself. “It’s just … I’m only working part-time these days and I thought it would be nice if we could catch up every so often. No big deal.” She tried for a smile. “So, how are the kids?”

  Agnes looked skeptical, but eventually she said, “Macy’s got herself a new boyfriend.”

  “Really?” Sonja said. Macy was a great girl—bright and loud with a laugh that caught. “I hope he’s good enough for her.”

  “He seems like a good guy. He’s in I.T. I might even become a nana one of these days!” Agnes gave her first smile since she arrived and Sonja felt herself smile too.

  “I’d love to see that.”

  The waitress came with their drinks and they sipped them, exchanging unimportant details about their jobs, Agnes’s kids, the latest celebrity gossip. Nothing groundbreaking, but for today that was enough.

  “Well,” Agnes said, when her diet Pepsi was finished. “I’ve got to get home. It was nice to catch up.”

  “Yes,” Sonja stood. “Very nice.”

  Despite the rocky start, Sonja felt sad watching Agnes slide out from the booth. “So,” she said. “I’m off work Thursday, if you’re free?”

  Sonja blinked.

  “You said you’d like to visit every now and again,” Agnes said. “So … I’m off Thursday if you—”

  Sonja threw her arms around Agnes and hugged her tight, nearly causing her to fall sideways. “I’ll be here,” she said into Agnes’s ear.

  * * *

  That night, once George was snoring, Sonja crept into the bathroom. Naked, she stood in front of the mirror to survey her injuries. The bruises around her upper arms and wrists were already starting to form, from George’s grip on her less than an hour before. That would do for now. She picked up her phone and snapped some pictures, then attached them to an e-mail. In the subject bar she wrote the date. She sent the pictures to herself. For her files.

  Just in case.

  56

  Zoe’s mom wasn’t doing so well. Ever since her last chemo treatment, she’d gone downhill pretty fast. She hadn’t eaten properly in weeks. She just lay in bed insisting that she was fine, just tired. Zoe didn’t know what to believe. She was constantly cold, so she said, but Zoe slept with her every night and all she felt was sweat and heat.

  Her uncle Paul took her to appointments and reported back to Zoe. She didn’t really understand what he told her, and she could tell Paul didn’t either. He’d just recite whatever the doctor or nurse had said. No chemo today, blood test revealed low white-cell count. Antibiotics today for infection. Zoe didn’t know if this was normal for cancer patients, but she knew it wasn’t normal for her mother.

  Still, her mom kept up her verging-on-crazy positivity.

  “I’m fine,” she said constantly. “A few days of rest and I’ll be back at chemo. This time next year everything will be back to normal.”

  She’d become weirdly obsessed with making plans, way in the future.

  “You know where we should go next Christmas? Mexico! Or Hawaii? Or what about Australia! You can bring Harry!”

  “Let’s just get through this, Mom,” Zoe would reply.

  It wasn’t that Zoe didn’t like her being positive. She did. It was that it was so at odds with the way that she looked. Outwardly, she seemed to be getting worse. She’d lost weight and she always seemed sick. But maybe, if her mom said she was fine, she was. Wouldn’t she know her own body better than anyone else?

  Today, her mom was dozing on the couch when Zoe touched her hand to her forehead. An hour earlier, she’d been telling Zoe how, when chemo was over, she planned to grow her hair long and get highlights.

  “Mom!” she said. “You’re burning up.”

  Her mom moaned softly but didn’t respond.

  “Mom?” she tried again, shaking her.

  Her eyes opened briefly then closed again. Zoe immediately thought to call Kate. Kate would know what all this meant, and she’d be able to explain it in a way that would make sense to Zoe. But Zoe hadn’t spoken to Kate in weeks. It was the weirdest thing, but Zoe missed her. How was that even possi
ble? A few overnight visits, a few conversations in the sunroom … it wasn’t exactly a lifelong friendship. And yet now, when she was really worried, it was Kate that she wanted to talk to.

  She dialed Kate’s number. Kate picked up after a couple of rings. “Kate speaking.”

  Zoe’s throat became thick and full of words that wouldn’t come out. The relief that she felt, just hearing Kate’s voice, was staggering.

  “It’s me.”

  “Zoe?”

  “Mom’s sick,” she said. “She’s burning up.”

  Kate paused just a second. “She’s hot to the touch?”

  “Yes.”

  “How long has she felt hot?”

  “I … I don’t know!”

  “Okay, just listen to me. Do you have a thermometer there?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Good. Can you take your mom’s temperature for me? I’ll wait.”

  Zoe put down the phone and ran to the bathroom. The thermometer was in the cabinet. She raced back to the sofa and popped it into her mom’s mouth, resting against her cheek. She waited thirty seconds, then plucked it out again.

  “It’s … one oh four,” she said into the phone. “Oh God. That’s high, isn’t it?”

  Kate was silent for a moment. Long enough to make Zoe worried. “Zoe, is your uncle there? Or anyone else?”

  “No,” Zoe said. “It’s just me.”

  Kate paused another beat. “Hang tight,” she said finally. “I’m coming over.”

  57

  Dr. Brookes was wearing remarkably casual clothes, Alice thought idly as he appeared at her hospital bed. A polo shirt, a pair of trousers. If she hadn’t been feeling so crappy, she’d have commented on it. She’d warmed to Dr. Brookes, these past months. Maybe he became more personable the better he knew his patients? Or maybe she’d become more personable.

  Zoe had tried to reach Paul but he hadn’t answered his phone for days. He was probably off on a bender.

  Sonja was here, as usual. And at some point, despite their rocky start, Alice realized she’d started to appreciate her presence. In fact, over the past few weeks, Sonja had become one of the few people Alice could depend on.

  Kate had become another one. She had driven Alice to the hospital. Alice was thinking of calling her Saint Kate. Always coming to the rescue when they needed it—taking care of Zoe, taking care of her. It made Alice feel a little sheepish, after the way she’d shouted at her the last time they spoke. Today, Kate had also managed to bypass triage and put Alice straight into a bed, and half an hour later, Dr. Brookes was here, seemingly on his day off. For an unassuming woman, she sure could make things happen.

  Alice watched Kate now through the glass. She stood in the corridor opposite Zoe. When Dr. Brookes came in, Alice thought she’d have to beg Zoe to leave. But all it took was a nod from Kate and she was gone. Now, the two of them chatted with an ease that Alice had never seen Zoe have before. Not even with Emily. Not with anyone except, well, Alice.

  “How are you feeling?” Dr. Brookes said.

  Alice made a face.

  “Not great, huh? That was an impressive fever you came in here with. The antibiotics should start working soon. And I’ll get the nurse to give you something to make you more comfortable.”

  “Make it a double,” Alice said.

  Dr. Brookes smiled but it didn’t touch his eyes. There’d been a dip in his enthusiasm these last few weeks. Slight frowns when he looked at her chart. Words of encouragement were more strained; reassurances were vaguer.

  “So?” Alice said. “Another infection?”

  “Yes,” Dr. Brookes said. “It’s to be expected because of the way the chemo attacks your white cells.”

  Alice got the sense there was more. “But?”

  “But it has me concerned.”

  “Why?”

  Alice glanced at the window. Kate was giving Zoe a hug. Or was it the other way around? As if noticing her discomfort, Sonja moved in close beside Alice.

  “We have your test results back,” he continued. “As I explained, we knew your white-cell count was low, that’s why you’ve had recurrent infections. Unfortunately these tests showed your levels are below five hundred cells per cubic millimeter, which makes you a grade-four neutropenic. The most severe kind.”

  Alice looked back at Dr. Brookes. “And that means?”

  “That means you’ll need to stay in the hospital until your neutrophil levels come up. We need to get you well and can’t risk another infection while your white-cell count is so low. And no more chemo, for the time being.”

  “No more chemo?” Now he had her full attention. “But I need chemo. How am I supposed to beat the cancer?”

  “Unfortunately your neutropenia makes it very difficult for us to treat your cancer at present,” Dr. Brookes said.

  Alice waited, but he didn’t continue. “So what do we do?” she prompted.

  “I’d suggest we take a break and when your blood improves we can revisit the chemotherapy, maybe with a different formula. Right now I’d be loath to do anything to deplete your neutrophils further. We’d be risking neutropenic sepsis, which can kill you a lot faster than cancer.”

  Alice felt the room swell around her. “But I … I need to be one of the twenty percent.”

  Sonja reached for Alice’s hand and gave it a squeeze of solidarity. It was surprisingly comforting. Alice glanced at their intertwined hands—a universal sign of support—and in that second, felt grateful. Then she noticed Sonja’s shirtsleeve had ridden up a few inches, revealing a purplish-black bruise. Immediately, Sonja tugged the sleeve down again.

  Dr. Brookes laid a hand on Alice’s shoulder. “Let’s just take it one thing at a time, Alice. First, a few days in the hospital.”

  Alice nodded repeatedly, calming herself. She could do that, she told herself. She could take things a day at a time. Like Dr. Brookes said, when her blood improved they would revisit chemo with a different formula. A better formula, this time. The right formula.

  “Do you need Sonja to make arrangements for your daughter?”

  “Zoe has somewhere to go,” Alice said, and she glanced back at the window, trying to ignore the fact that Kate and Zoe stood arm in arm, looking very much like mother and daughter.

  58

  “Mom?”

  A week after her admission to the hospital, Alice was back home. At the sound of Zoe’s voice, she sat upright in bed. It was crazy how her daughter—her voice, her smell, even her footfalls—could create such a yearning in her. She recalled the feeling from when Zoe was a little girl—standing outside her classroom at the end of the day, waiting to feel her sweet, soft body in her arms, to smell her sweet little head. Sometimes motherhood was a hunger, Alice thought. An addiction. Most people were gradually weaned from it as their child got older. Alice had got to indulge in it longer than most.

  Zoe appeared in the doorway. “You’re home!”

  She crossed the bedroom floor in three giant steps. She looked as though she was going to launch herself at Alice, but she seemed to stop herself, and she gave her a gentle hug instead. Alice closed her eyes and tried to drink her in, the way she had when she was little. Zoe stayed there in her arms until Alice let go. After an eternity, she did.

  “When did you get back?” Zoe asked, sitting up.

  “An hour ago. Sonja drove me. How was Kate’s?”

  It was a silly question, since Alice knew how it had gone at Kate’s. Zoe had visited her at the hospital every day and given her the lowdown. (“It’s a bit weird,” Zoe had said one day. “Especially when Jake and Scarlett are there. They all eat dinner together in the dining room and talk about their days!”) But Alice could see that Zoe didn’t hate it there. She smiled when she talked about them. As hard as it had been, imagining Zoe with another family, it had also been a relief, knowing that she was safe and happy. It allowed Alice to concentrate on getting well.

  “It was okay,” she said. “But I’m happy to be home.
”

  “Have they rescheduled your next chemo session?” Zoe asked. She’d asked about this each time she’d visited—she’d obviously been Googling, and she’d come to the same conclusion that Alice had—if the chemo stopped, it wasn’t good news.

  “I have a meeting with the doctors next week to discuss next steps,” Alice said carefully. And she smiled brightly. Dr. Brookes had told her she should remain optimistic and that’s exactly what Alice planned to do.

  * * *

  Alice was having coffee with Sonja. And if that wasn’t strange enough, the whole thing had been Alice’s idea. This morning, when Sonja called around unannounced to check on her, Alice found herself suggesting it. There was only so much sitting around the house someone could do, and Alice didn’t exactly have a huge selection of people offering to take her out and about.

  “How are you feeling?” Sonja asked her.

  “I feel good,” Alice replied, sipping her coffee. It tasted bitter so she reached for a packet of sugar. “Much better since taking a break from the chemo.”

  Sonja’s expression was hard to read. “Well I’m glad you’re feeling good.”

  The truth was, Alice didn’t feel all that great. She hadn’t had any more infections, but she was constantly tired. A lot of days, she could barely get herself out of bed. Today was the first time she’d felt remotely like leaving the house. But no one liked a downer.

  “I’ll admit,” Alice said, “I can’t wait until it’s all over.”

  Sonja looked surprised. “You … can’t?”

  “I just want things to go back to normal. Except,” she said, when Sonja opened her mouth. “They won’t go back to normal. They’ll be better. I’m going to go outside more with my daughter. Go on vacation. Dance!” Alice ripped open the sugar sachet, spilling granules everywhere.

  Sonja didn’t say anything for a long time. “Did Dr. Brookes tell you things would go back to normal?” she asked, eventually.

  “Well, he told me to be optimistic.”

  “Alice, while it’s wonderful to be optimistic, it’s also prudent to plan for all possibilities.” Alice started shaking her head but Sonja held up a hand, silencing her.