Jack’s eyes widened and bulged.
‘Where do you want to go?’ Rabbit asked.
‘Let’s go to Clare.’
‘Back to that little cottage by the sea, the one we went to when you were eight?’ Rabbit said.
‘We could go when I finish school in June,’ Juliet said.
‘You spent all day every day in the sea. I had eye strain from watching the water.’ Rabbit chuckled. ‘What was the name of that boy you played with?’
‘Bob.’
‘Poor Bob followed Juliet wherever she went,’ Rabbit explained to Jack. ‘He loved her.’
‘Ma!’ Juliet said, feigning embarrassment, then breaking into a smile. ‘He spent that whole summer standing in the water with his teeth chattering and asking can we go in yet.’
‘He was sweet,’ Rabbit said.
‘He’s a really good golfer now,’ Juliet said.
‘How do you know?’
‘Facebook.’
‘Oh. That’s nice.’
‘So? Can we go back?’ Juliet asked.
‘We’ll see.’ Rabbit took her daughter’s hand, squeezed it, then put it to her lips and kissed it.
Jack stood and made an excuse about needing water. His body and mind were colluding: tears were brewing and threatening to spill. He wasn’t sure if he was strong enough to will them away. He knew if he cried in front of his daughter his wife would find out and kick him. He couldn’t stay. He had to go. He needed to do something. Oh, Rabbit, if only . . . ‘Anybody want anything?’ he asked.
Juliet looked into her mother’s eyes and brushed her eyebrows with a finger.
‘It will be no time before school ends,’ Juliet said, ‘and then we’ll be free to do what we want.’
Rabbit nodded. Jack saw that she was fighting the urge to sleep.
‘It’s OK, Ma,’ Juliet said. ‘Go back to sleep – it’s getting late anyway.’
Rabbit’s eyes rolled back and she was gone before Juliet said, ‘I love you.’
Jack practically ran out of the room. He felt awful about making an excuse to leave his granddaughter alone with her mother. She didn’t seem to mind, though. Of everyone bar Molly, she was the most comfortable around Rabbit. He walked down the hospice corridor and, instead of finding Davey, Molly and Grace, he turned right into the prayer room. Molly was still so angry with him and he with her, and the kids were going through enough without their parents picking at one another. He knew it was unreasonable to blame Molly for Rabbit’s condition, but he couldn’t help himself. He relied on her to sort things out – he always had. They’d had a silent pact since the day they married. He’d provide for them and she’d protect them. She was a shit-kicker, his missus, and it was one of the things he loved and honoured most about her. He could be a gentleman because his wife was no lady and it had worked for them for more than forty years; but now, when he needed her to take them over the top, she was laying down her arms. Why, Molly, why? Jack was angry with her for conceding defeat, with himself for being weak and, worse, with Rabbit for threatening to leave them.
Jack had boxed as a young man but he hadn’t hit anyone in forty-one years and never outside a ring. He wanted to box something or someone. He wanted to kick, punch and pummel, and he wanted to be kicked, punched and pummelled. He yearned for black eyes and swollen lips, cracked ribs and burst knuckles. That kind of pain he could tolerate, but not the gnawing heartache that manifested as a constant, dull, crushing pain, which threatened to take his breath away but never quite did. This must be what it feels like to drown.
He looked around the room, at the blue, yellow and red stained glass, at the painting of Jesus on the cross, at the table, covered with a white linen cloth, that served as the altar and at the heavy iron cross that stood on it. The room was painted cream and the lights were set to dim. He was sitting on one of twenty wooden chairs. He’d been to many prayer rooms in his day, mostly with Johnny. It was impossible to sit there without being transported back in time.
The room he remembered best was bigger and filled with statues. Johnny liked to call them by name and he’d talk to them as though they were old friends; sometimes when he was angry he treated them more like enemies. Johnny once told the statue of Padre Pio to go fuck himself, and Jack still blushed at the boy’s suggestion for the Virgin Mary. Now he couldn’t enter a prayer room or pass a church without thinking of Johnny. God is good, Jack, he’d said time and time again. The poor deluded bastard, Jack often thought, but he kept his reservations to himself. He had often listened to that boy talk about God and the next life, but he wasn’t sure if he’d believed in God even back then, and he was definitely sure he didn’t believe in God now. Rabbit was right. The kid was always suspicious of the religion she was born into. When she was five, she’d told her teacher that she didn’t like the God in the Old Testament because He was really mean, and the New Testament was horrible because it made her cry. Why would a father send his son to earth to be killed in such a disgusting way? How does that save anyone? she’d ask, stumping her teacher. When she was a teenager she’d bought a red clay Buddha in a charity shop, and when her mother asked her why she wanted it, she told her she preferred to look at a fat god laughing rather than a skinny one dying. Rabbit never needed to believe in any god to marvel at the world, to feel joy, hope, love and contentment. Rabbit lived in the moment. She didn’t know what came next, nor did she care. It was likely that death meant a full stop and that didn’t scare her. In fact, when she thought about it, the notion of eternity was far more worrying.
‘I get bored if I have to spend longer than an hour at the hairdresser’s,’ she’d said to him once. ‘No way could I do eternity – even the word gives me chills, Da.’
For Rabbit, a full stop was her reward. Jack wondered if she still felt the same. He wondered if she would find God in these her darkest hours. Would she pray for a Heaven? She had lied to her daughter: Rabbit was a lot of things but she was never a liar. Much like her mammy, she’d shoot from the hip, tell it like it was, no matter how much trouble it got her into. It was probably what made her a good journalist, but she also had a habit of alienating those who preferred a pleasant lie to an uncomfortable truth. He was scared she couldn’t accept what was happening, or maybe she just didn’t know. If she was still in the acute hospital surely there would be some hope, but here, in a hospice, well, people only came to these places to die. Molly should have fought the consultant. People listen to Molly. They do what she tells them to do. It’s all so wrong. And Rabbit, my little Rabbit, hasn’t she suffered enough in this lifetime? Although the logical, rational Jack didn’t believe in God, his indoctrination over the course of his life, and most especially during his early years, meant that he often found himself talking to the God he didn’t believe existed. How could you? Why would you do this to her? I don’t want to believe in a God like you. I’d rather she’s right and there is no afterlife than an eternity spent honouring a psychopath like you.
‘There! I said it,’ he shouted to the painting on the wall. ‘If you do exist I hate you.’
‘I doubt you’re alone there,’ a woman said. She was sitting two rows behind him.
Jack turned and blushed. ‘I’m so sorry. I thought I was alone.’
‘You were lost in thought so I didn’t want to bother you.’ She got up and walked over to him, sat down beside him and put out her hand. ‘I’m Rita Brown, the medical social worker assigned to Rabbit and her family. I saw you coming from her room.’
‘Jack Hayes, Rabbit’s father.’
‘Would you like to talk, Jack?’ she asked.
‘There’s nothing to say.’
‘That’s not true.’
He looked at the woman and shook his head. ‘I’m lost.’
‘And Molly?’
‘She’s given up on our girl . . .’
‘But you haven’t?’
‘. . . and Molly never gives up on anything.’ His eyes stung.
‘Have you talked?’
‘She threatened to stab me this morning. Does that count?’
‘Your daughter is looking for you,’ Molly’s voice said.
Rita and Jack turned to her. Her face of thunder suggested she’d heard at least part of their conversation.
‘Please come in and sit down for a moment,’ Rita said.
‘No.’
‘Molly, please, I’m sorry,’ Jack said.
‘No, you’re not. You think I’ve brought her here to die.’
‘Haven’t you?’ He got to his feet.
She walked up to him. ‘Of course not, you old fool. I’m buying us some time.’
‘For what?’ He was battling tears.
‘For science, for medicine, for a miracle, but in the meantime she’s in pain, Jack, and they can manage it much better here.’
‘Our Rabbit is dying, Molls,’ Jack said. His jaw trembled and his eyes leaked.
‘I won’t let her,’ Molly said, and her tears flowed freely. They walked into each other’s arms and held on tight.
‘I’m so sorry, love,’ he said.
‘I know you are, ya big bollocks.’
When they parted, Rita was gone. ‘She’s like a panther, that one,’ Molly said, grabbing her husband’s hand. ‘Now, let’s put a brave face on and tonight we’ll go back online.’
He nodded and sighed. It’s going to be OK.
Chapter Four
Molly
THE TABLE WAS covered with all of Rabbit’s copied files, charts, X-rays and scans. Molly made tea while Jack scoured the internet for some good news. An hour and two chicken salads later, he found a new site, which offered trials that seemed to include stage-four patients.
‘Let’s do it,’ Molly said. She spread all of Rabbit’s details in front of her and grabbed a notebook and pen.
Jack clicked on the button that read ‘Match to Trials’ in line with the statement ‘I have metastatic (stage IV) disease. I have cancer that has spread from my breast to other parts of my body.’
Jack rubbed his hands together. ‘And we’re in, Molls, we’re in. Do we have the pathology report and treatment history?’
‘What do you take me for?’
He grinned at her.
‘OK, OK, I’ve read the conditions, click, I’m resident in Europe, click, pressing start . . . Here we go. OK, “About me”.’
Molly looked over his shoulder at the questions. Before he’d even finished reading ‘date of birth’, she was rattling off the answers.
‘Twelfth of September 1972, female, “no” for genetic testing and “no” for currently on a clinical trial.’
Jack keyed in the answers. ‘OK. “My current health”.’
‘Key in the last option,’ Molly said.
He read it. ‘Ah, no, Molls, the second last one. “I require a large amount of assistance and frequent medical care.”’
‘Jack, we’ve got to be realistic.’
‘She’s not completely disabled and she’s only confined to a bed because we put her in that place.’
‘She can’t do anything for herself, and if she wasn’t confined to a hospice bed, it would be another bed.’
‘Completely disabled? We’ve seen completely disabled and it’s not our girl.’
‘Click “completely disabled”.’
‘No.’
‘Jack.’
‘They won’t take her, Molly.’
‘They won’t take her if we lie to them, love. Now press the fucking button.’
With a heavy heart Jack clicked on the worst-case scenario.
‘Good. Now click “none of the above” for “other diseases”.’
‘There’s a load of them there – we should read through them.’
‘No need. Aside from stage-four cancer, Rabbit Hayes is as healthy as a racehorse,’ Molly said. Once again, Jack did as he was told. The next tab was more clinical. Molly scanned through it quickly and delivered answers to questions Jack found difficult to pronounce. ‘Positive, negative, positive, bone, lung, liver and “no” to lymphoedema. Next.’
Jack nodded. ‘All right, calm down. My fingers aren’t as quick as your brain.’
The next tab was on the topic of Rabbit’s treatments and, again, Molly didn’t even have to look at the notes before she rattled off the answers to every question. The lists were endless and laborious but she knew every tedious detail.
‘Are you sure she was on AC followed by Taxol? The next one down is AC followed by—’
Molly flicked open the file, which she had tabbed with coloured stickers months previously. ‘See there.’ She pointed.
‘Fair enough.’
‘Next tab,’ she prompted.
They moved on to racial type and schooling, although Jack had a hard time wondering why that mattered. Then they reviewed the health summary and agreed it was correct. They looked at the button marked ‘Finished/Find Trials’ for the longest minute. Molly prayed silently. ‘Just click it, Jack, before the bleedin’ thing times out and we have to start again.’
He nodded slowly, gulped loudly, stretched his neck and clicked. It took less than two seconds to tell them that Rabbit was eligible for twenty-six trials.
‘Twenty-six bloomin’ trials, Molls.’ Jack jumped to his feet.
‘Twenty-six trials, Jack.’ She stood up and hugged him.
‘Twenty-six trials,’ he repeated, and waltzed her around the kitchen.
‘You see? All’s not lost,’ she said. ‘It’s going to be expensive but we’ll sell the house.’
‘We’ll sell the lot. Hell, I’d even sell myself if I thought it would make the difference.’
‘Twenty-six trials,’ she whispered in his ear.
‘It’s going to be OK.’ He kissed her cheek.
‘Right, back to business.’ She pulled away. ‘You put on the kettle and I’ll start studying the difference between hormone, targeted and bisphosphonate therapies. When we go to Dunne tomorrow I want to be armed.’
‘Good girl. I’ll throw in a few chocolate Wagon Wheels so you can keep up your strength,’ Jack said, but she was gone, lost in research. He settled himself in an armchair and watched the tea go cold, the biscuits remain on the plate and his wife studying biology.
Davey
Davey was staring out of Rabbit’s window, watching night fall and talking to Francie.
‘I’ll tell her,’ he said, clicking off his phone. He turned to his sister, who was awake and propped up in bed. ‘Francie can’t make it. Some emergency needs attending to. He’ll come tomorrow.’ He sat beside her, picked up the TV remote and began whizzing through the channels, like a man possessed.
‘It’s nice of him to think about coming,’ Rabbit said.
‘Why wouldn’t he?’ Davey said, and settled on a channel.
‘Do you think I’ll ever leave here?’ she asked.
He muted the sound. ‘Absolutely.’ He meant it. If anyone could, it was Rabbit.
‘Have you ever heard of anyone leaving a place like this?’
‘I haven’t asked.’ No.
‘I feel better now than I did this morning.’
‘Good.’
‘I’ve heard of one case,’ she said.
‘You have?’
‘There was a sixteen-year-old girl in Munich who was dying of end-stage leukaemia and one day, out of the blue, she got out of her bed and insisted on going for a walk. They couldn’t believe it. She hadn’t walked in weeks. But she did walk, Davey, she walked right out of the hospice and never went back. She’s a teacher now in Hamburg. She has a blog.’
‘How?’
‘Just happened. No new drugs, no prayers, no voodoo or alternative therapies. She said it was mind over matter. She decided she was going to live so she lived.’
‘Do you believe that’s possible?’ Davey asked.
‘I’d like to. I want to. I wish.’ A stray tear escaped her right eye and rolled towards her ear.
Davey pulled a tissue from the box on her locker and dabbed it a
way. ‘Me too.’ So do it. Get better and live, live, live, Rabbit. ‘But no pressure.’ He grinned and she smiled at him, took his hand and gently squeezed it.
‘I missed you,’ she said.
Marjorie bustled through the door, laden with shopping. She raised her arms high, allowing the bags to swing. Rabbit gave her a big, warm, welcoming smile. ‘You’re back, Marj.’
‘And of course you missed me because life is very dull without me.’ She dropped the bags and put her arms round her friend. ‘I leave you for two bleedin’ weeks and you end up here.’ She was making a valiant effort to be upbeat and Davey silently appreciated it.
‘I see you were shopping,’ Rabbit said.
‘Rome is underestimated as a shopping destination.’ She picked up some bags and placed them carefully on the bed, well away from Rabbit’s legs.
‘You could find something to buy in an Afghan desert,’ Rabbit said.
Marjorie grinned. ‘Probably me own life, knowing those mental cases.’
‘What would that be worth? About a fiver?’ Rabbit said.
‘LOL, baldy.’
Rabbit giggled.
Marjorie turned to Davey, who was happy watching Rabbit and her best friend banter. ‘Am I going to get a hug or wha’?’ she asked.
He stood up and obliged her. ‘It’s good to see you, Marjorie.’
They pulled apart and she brushed his jacket down. ‘Still spending most of your time on a bus?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Looks like it.’ She delved into the bags she had put on the bed. ‘So, I found this little place that does the most incredible nightwear.’ She took out a beautiful black silk nightdress and matching dressing-gown. ‘Feel it,’ she said.
Rabbit did so. ‘It’s gorgeous.’
‘It’s yours.’
‘No,’ Rabbit said. ‘That’s something you wear on a dirty weekend. It doesn’t belong in a place like this.’
‘Well, neither do you, but here you are. It’s yours.’
‘Thank you.’
‘And look,’ she said, her hands disappearing into another bag, ‘for Juliet.’ It was a pretty sundress with cool gold gladiator sandals.
‘She’ll love them,’ Rabbit said.
The Last Days of Rabbit Hayes Page 7
