by Marian Keyes
Katherine couldn’t go to Mass, even though she knew it was expected of her. She was just too upset.
‘But surely if you’re upset,’ JaneAnn fretted, ‘Mass is the best place for you.’
Milo didn’t go either, which caused JaneAnn to look sorrowful. But when they all arrived back two hours later, JaneAnn was in top form and even more enamoured of Liv because she knew Father Gilligan personally. ‘You missed a great Mass,’ JaneAnn sang. ‘The sermon was particularly beautiful. About the Prodigal Son. It doesn’t matter how long you’ve been away from the Lord, he’ll always welcome you back, no questions asked.’ She looked with heavy emphasis at Milo.
Then Tara arrived and it was time to visit Fintan.
As soon as Tara walked through the hospital doors, she was running on empty. She was wrecked, wrung dry from all the emotion, fed up of her clothes and hair reeking of the ferrousy hospital smell, worn out from sitting on the hard visitors’ chairs and it was a real struggle to do without cigarettes for hours on end. She hadn’t managed to knit any of Thomas’s jumper or go to the gym all week, her work was suffering and she couldn’t stop eating. She yearned for a night at home, alone, watching soaps and speaking to no one. She flicked a glance at Katherine and saw that she’d just hit an identical wall.
‘It’s queer,’ JaneAnn articulated everyone’s feelings. ‘It’s like it’s only five minutes since we were last here. Last night’s sleep might as well not have happened.’
‘Groundhog day.’ Tara laughed wearily.
‘This is only our…’ Liv counted on her fingers ‘… fifth day doing this.’
‘I know,’ Milo finished for her. ‘It feels like the millionth.’
‘But maybe he’ll be coming home tomorrow,’ JaneAnn suggested hopefully.
‘Maybe,’ the others agreed, and for once they weren’t trying to fool themselves. If Fintan got the all-clear on his tests, he could have his lymph glands treated as an outpatient.
And, as luck would have it, he was better that day than he’d been in a while. Though the lump on his neck was still in evidence, he wasn’t so listless or yellow-looking, and he was managing to eat and keep food down. The mood eddied and rose. Everything was going to be all right.
‘When’s Thomas coming to visit me?’ he mischievously asked Tara.
‘I don’t know.’ She blushed. ‘He’s very busy, you know, with his work and his football…’
‘Tell him I’d like to see him.’ Fintan grinned. ‘I think it would help me get better.’
‘I’ll try.’
‘Ask him to do it for you,’ Fintan urged. ‘The woman he loves.’
‘OK,’ Tara promised, embarrassed and confused. Of course she’d asked Thomas to come with her to the hospital, or even to meet the O’Gradys, but he’d stubbornly refused to. ‘I’ll not be a hypocrite,’ he’d said, and that was that.
And what was Fintan up to? He hated Thomas.
Tara’s thoughts were interrupted by a loud, ‘Hi there!’ and she looked up to see Fintan’s friends Frederick, Claude and Geraint swoop excitedly into the room, weighed down with goodies. Everyone budged up to make room. But a short while later Harry and Didier arrived. And then Butch and Javier.
Fintan constantly had so many visitors that they often overflowed into the corridor outside, where conversations were lively, spirits were high and networking was in operation. Already someone called Davy, a friend of Javier’s, had slept with Harry’s friend Jimbob, whom he’d met at the door of Fintan’s ward.
‘Ward seventeen,’ Fintan was amused, ‘where love stories begin.’ He joked that some of his friends were coming to the hospital and not even bothering to visit him, so attractive was the party atmosphere in the corridor. In fact, he went so far as to suggest that some of the people coming didn’t actually know him.
Eventually, to make a bit of room, Liv, Tara and Katherine repaired to the day room where Liv opened up a line of inquiry that she’d been keen to pursue for some time. ‘Timothy is married, isn’t he?’ she asked, oh-so-casually.
‘Yes.’
‘And Ambrose is married? And Jerome?’
‘Yes.’
‘So why isn’t Milo? Is he gay too?’
‘No,’ Tara said. ‘But he was disappointed by a girl once.’
‘Disappointed?’ Liv exclaimed. ‘What on earth do you mean? Is that another of your strange Irish euphemisms?’
‘It means dumped,’ Katherine explained. ‘He was engaged to be married to Eleanor Devine, they had what we’d call an “understanding”, and she did a runner.’
‘Why?’
‘She didn’t want to be a farmer’s wife. She went to San Francisco and became a conceptual artist.’
‘What did she look like?’ Liv sounded slightly choked. ‘Ugly? Fat?’
‘Good-looking, I suppose,’ Katherine said.
‘How good-looking?’ Liv pounced. ‘On a scale of one to ten?’
‘Five.’
‘Four, three even.’ Tara nudged Katherine. ‘Tell us, Liv, why are you so interested anyway?’
‘He’s six foot two,’ Liv said, dreamily, ‘built like a fridge-freezer, has long, black, shiny hair…’
Katherine stiffened at the mention of shiny hair.
‘… navy-blue eyes and a beautiful smile.’ Liv came out of her reverie. ‘No reason, really…’ and they all laughed.
‘You’re not serious, though?’ Tara asked.
‘Of course I am.’
‘But,’ Tara said, uncomfortably, ‘but you’re Swedish, you’re stylish, you’re an interior designer, he’s… Well, he’s Milo O’Grady.’
‘He wears dungarees,’ Katherine threw in her twopence-worth.
‘He’s never heard of Tricia Guild.’
‘And you’ve never heard of liver fluke. How could it work?’
‘He’s a man of the land.’ Liv had a glint in her eyes. ‘Creating new life, with his hands, reaping and sowing. What could be more worthy than that?’
‘A brain surgeon,’ Katherine suggested.
‘A social worker,’ Tara said.
‘An accountant.’
‘A shoe designer.’
‘He works with his hands. His big, strong, sexy hands. Can’t you see how beautiful he is?’
‘No,’ Tara said bluntly.
‘Liv, you’re upset,’ Katherine soothed. ‘None of us are ourselves at the moment. And surely you haven’t forgotten about your beloved Lars?’
‘That prick,’ Liv replied, vaguely. Then she caught sight of her behaviour, and it was her turn to moan in shame, ‘How could I? How could I think about a man at a time like this? I hate myself.’
‘Don’t,’ Tara comforted her. ‘Please don’t. It’s a very weird time and if it’s any consolation I’ve been worried about myself and Thomas and I’ve been mortified. It seems so unworthy!’
Katherine felt a burden roll away from her. ‘Thank God you said that, Tara. This week I’ve found myself concerned about things besides Fintan too, and I thought there must be something wrong with me for being so selfish. I’ve hated myself.’
‘Did you really? I’ve hated myself,’ Tara exclaimed.
‘I’m so glad you said that. I’ve hated myself also,’ Liv threw in.
They smiled in sheepish relief at each other, their shameful secrets out in the open, the liberation making them feel weightless.
‘Either we’re a trio of evil bitches,’ Tara announced, ‘or else we’re really normal.’
‘Poor Fintan, though,’ Katherine said. ‘How must he feel? How would you feel if you thought you had only a short time to live? I keep trying to put myself in his head.’
‘Me too,’ said Tara.
‘Me too,’ said Liv.
‘Just imagine that you only have six months left to live,’ Tara challenged. ‘That you’d be dead before next May.’
‘Go on,’ she urged, as both Katherine and Liv looked at her, slightly shocked.
Feeling foolish, Katherine closed
her eyes. What would it be like? she forced herself to wonder. This would be her last Christmas. There wouldn’t ever be another summer for her. One hundred and eighty days, instead of the thousands and thousands she’d always assumed were rolling out ahead of her, forming a chain of years, pulling her into old age.
To her surprise, something altered. A single day, unthrilling by virtue of its sheer availability, valueless because there were so many others, loomed at her in close-up and blossomed so that every nuance seemed sweet and precious. As priceless as a diamond, from waking up with morning expectation, to winding down in evening light. She had a frantic need to fill it, to use it wisely, to do all the desirable things, the truly important things.
Never mind being responsible, she wouldn’t be around to reap the rewards. More importantly, never mind being careful, she wouldn’t be around to deal with the consequences. She felt almost panicky as she thought of all the things she wanted to do in her six months – it’d have to be the miracle of the loaves and fishes if she was to fit everything in.
Her rules and barricades appeared stifling to her. Crazy, even. She wanted to immerse herself fully in life. Experience everything. Have fun. Lots and lots of fun. Have sex. With Joe Roth. Christ Almighty! Terrified, she snapped her eyes open. Tara and Liv were looking at her.
‘Scary, isn’t it?’ Tara breathed out with a shudder. ‘I’ll tell you one thing. If I had six months left to live I wouldn’t worry about trying to get Thomas to marry me so that I wouldn’t be lonely in my old age. Because I wouldn’t have an old age to be lonely in!’
‘What would you do?’ Katherine asked eagerly, keen to stop thinking about herself.
‘I’d dump Lars and make my move on Milo,’ Liv said.
‘But you’re going to do that anyway,’ Tara said. ‘You don’t need to be dying. Now, me, I’d have a fling.’
‘With who?’
‘I don’t know. Someone I think is gorgeous, someone who thinks I’m gorgeous! One of those mad, breathless, sexy affairs, where you never get out of bed, where you wake in the middle of the night because you fancy each other so much.’ She shivered in pleasure.
‘You mean it’s not like that all the time with you and Thomas?’ Katherine asked, drily.
‘You know that once you’re past the three-month mark you hardly ever have sex,’ Tara said. ‘And don’t look at me like that. I love Thomas, this is just pretend.’
‘You’ve as good as told us that you don’t even fancy him.’
‘I did not! I only said that if things were… Look, it’s not real, it’s only imaginary!’
‘You’re right,’ Katherine reminded them. ‘We don’t have only six months to live, we’re not going to die, this discussion is stupid and maudlin.’
‘Glad to hear it,’ Tara cried. ‘I was just thinking, what if I left him, went off and had my mad fling with someone else, and then I didn’t die? I’d feel like such an eejit!’
41
Just after ten o’clock on Monday morning, while the usual suspects were grouped around Fintan’s bed, Dr Singh strode in. From his faint agitation, it looked as though he had information to impart. The air sparked with tension and everyone’s already over-active nerves went on full alert. Please, God, let it be good news.
‘I have the result of the bone-marrow biopsy,’ he said, looking at Fintan.
Tell us, tell us.
‘Would you prefer to hear it alone?’
‘No,’ Fintan said, trembling with calm. ‘You might as well tell the lot of us. It’ll save me having to repeat it.’
Dr Singh took a breath to speak, then paused. He didn’t find this easy. ‘I’m afraid it’s bad news.’
No one spoke. Eight chalk-white faces beseeched him, willing him to be wrong.
‘The disease is active in the bone-marrow,’ he continued, nervously. I’m only the messenger.
‘How active?’ Katherine croaked.
‘I’m afraid it’s quite advanced.’
Katherine looked at Fintan. His eyes were huge and dark, like those of a terrified child.
‘I also have the result of the CT scan,’ Dr Singh added, apologetically.
Eight agonized faces turned upon him.
‘That also shows activity of the disease in the pancreas. And,’ Dr Singh was mortified, ‘I also have the results of the chest X-rays.’
His face said it all.
‘It’s in his chest too?’ Milo asked.
The doctor nodded. ‘However, there’s no sign of activity in any of the main organs, like the liver, kidneys or lungs,’ he added. ‘That would have been very serious indeed.’
Fintan spoke for the first time. ‘Will I die?’ he asked hoarsely.
‘We’ll start treatment immediately.’ Dr Singh ignored the question. ‘Now that we know what we’re dealing with, we know what to treat you with.’
‘About time,’ Tara said, bitterly, shocking everyone. That wasn’t how you spoke to doctors. ‘He was getting worse and worse each day that passed,’ she charged. ‘And you did nothing. Just left him lying here while your bloody lab was too busy to tell him how sick he was. What if those days make all the difference between life and… and…’ She began to cry, gasping, yelping sobs, which shook her whole body. She turned to Fintan. ‘You must have had symptoms for ages,’ she heaved, tears sluicing down her cheeks. ‘Months.’
‘I did.’
‘Well, why didn’t you go to the doctor about them?’ She was breathless, panting with anger and grief. ‘Why didn’t Sandro make you?’
‘Because we thought we knew what was wrong with me. Night sweats, so bad we sometimes had to change the sheets. Me losing weight steadily. My stomach constantly upset. You see, Sandro had been through it once before.’
A horrible picture of Sandro and Fintan in a conspiracy of silence. Fintan getting sicker and sicker, and nothing being done to help him because they thought nothing could be done.
‘You big pair of eejits.’ Tara shuddered. ‘You pair of thick gobshites.’
JaneAnn took Tara’s arm in a painful grip and quick-marched her away from the bed. ‘Stop that nonsense, Tara Butler,’ she threatened. ‘He’s not dead yet.’
Fintan’s treatment started that morning. He was to remain in hospital and have five days of concentrated chemotherapy. Everyone was told to leave.
‘But I’m his mother.’ JaneAnn’s feisty resistance vanished. ‘I shouldn’t have to go.’
‘Come on, Mam,’ Milo urged, trying to shift her. ‘You can see him tonight.’
They scattered apart – JaneAnn, Milo, Timothy, Liv, Tara, Katherine, and Sandro. They, who’d been inseparable during the waiting period, were blown away from each other by the explosive news.
The mood was one of strange embarrassment, a resentment of themselves and of each other. What good had all their buoyed-up, hopeful vigilance done? Why had they bothered shoring up themselves and Fintan, steadfastly willing the best? They were – and clearly always had been – utterly useless.
There was no point in sitting by his bed any more, human amulets, warding off disaster. His fate now lay with powerful drugs. Chemicals so toxic that the nurses administering them had to wear protective clothing. Medication with such savage side-effects that at times Fintan would rather die than endure the cure.
They each, separately, set about the enormous task of processing, bit by bit, such a huge bottleneck of emotion. JaneAnn took up almost permanent residence at St Dominic’s, where she negotiated with God, offering to take Fintan’s place if someone had to die. Timothy returned to Katherine’s flat, where he watched daytime television, smoked heavily and left his boots lying about, obscuring the floor. Milo walked for miles, visiting Harvey Nichols, the Museum of Mankind, the V&A and various landmarks and tourist attractions. The others went to work. It had seemed imperative to neglect their jobs while they stood guard over Fintan. But the worst had happened. And instead of making their jobs even less important, it suddenly seemed vital to regain control.
<
br /> It was a bright, blue, cold October morning, and as Katherine left the hospital and drove up the Fulham Road in a taxi, she passed a woman her own age, walking along, swinging a plastic shopping bag through which she could see a carton of orange juice and a pint of milk.
Katherine watched, fascinated, turning back to look at her. The woman wasn’t particularly carefree-looking, she looked as if she wasn’t thinking about much at all. Katherine yearned to be her. There had been times when she’d strolled, swinging a bag of groceries. She must have done it hundreds of times and never appreciated the bliss of it, the utter joy of a life free from the stench of nightmare.
When she walked into her office, she was astonished by everyone scurrying around. Busy, busy, busy. They looked like aliens, chasing their tails. She’d been catapulted to the edge of life, where everything seemed warped, skewed and peculiar. What does any of it matter?
People nodded hello at her as she moved across the floor in a dream. When she got to her desk, she had to pause to check that it really was hers. All her thoughts and reactions were wrapped in Styrofoam, making them muffled and fuzzy.
Before she’d even sat down, her eyes sought Joe Roth. She knew she should stop herself but she hadn’t her usual strength of will to fight it.
He was on the phone, leaning back in the chair, playing a pen through his long, elegant fingers. The phone lay close to his face, up against the cheekbones that were like the long convex razor shells that littered the beach at Knockavoy.
She wanted him. That became the one crystal-clear thought in a blurred, unreachable world. Shining like a lighthouse through fog. She wanted Joe Roth passionately, violently. Inappropriately. Once again she wondered, in disbelief, How could I ?
The reason for all the frantic activity, it turned out, was that news had just come in that the account for Multi-nut Muesli had gone to a rival advertising firm. It was Joe Roth’s first failure at Breen Helmsford.
‘You win some, you lose some.’ Joe shrugged, with dignity, trying to keep the morale of his team up.
‘Not in this business, son,’ Fred Franklin said, brutally. ‘You win some, you win some. You lose some, you lose your job.’
