by Eva Woods
Polly sat in silence for a while. “I’ve been putting off this bit, to be honest.”
“What bit?”
“The one where I turn to God, or Allah, or the mystical universe, or whatever you want to call it. The one where I look for a loophole.”
Was Polly sinking back into denial, looking for miracles? “A loophole?”
“That’s what religion is, isn’t it? It’s just a way to put off accepting that you’re going to die, and that’s it. To not face the fact that when we die we just...disappear.”
“Is that what you think?” They were speaking quietly.
Polly’s gaze was fixed on the altar, her face colored blue by the shifting light. “It’s what I always thought before. I didn’t want to change my mind just because I had cancer. I guess...all this happy-days stuff, the reason for it, was I wanted my life to mean something now, not just after I die.”
“Your life does mean something. You have to know that it does, Poll. You’ve reached so many people already.”
“Does it?” She rubbed a hand over her head, grimacing as it came away with a fistful of gold strands. “God. I’m falling apart. Is this it, Annie? Will I ever get out of here again?”
“Of course,” Annie said, trying to sound confident. “This is just a...setback.”
“Sometimes I wish it was over. That’s terrible, isn’t it? I mean, here’s Mum and Dad and even Dr. McGrumpy doing their best to keep me alive, and some days I wish I could say stop. Stop all the needles and tubes and pumping poison into me. Let me go somewhere nice, where it’s sunny and hot waiters can bring me mai tais in the pool and I could just slip away. I don’t think I want to die in Lewisham, Annie. No offense. I mean, I know it’s a really vibrant borough and has some of the lowest council tax in London, but it’s not exactly Bali, is it?”
“Not exactly,” she agreed. “Although is Bali going to have Crossrail? I think not.”
“Damn, Annie, I’m going to miss Crossrail. Isn’t that typical? All of the disruption and I won’t even get to ride the bloody thing. Ooops, sorry for swearing.” She directed the “sorry” toward the altar. There was no reply. She gave a juddering sigh, and put her hands on her thin thighs, resolute. “Right. Here’s what we’re going to do. I’m not dying yet—I was promised a hundred days and I haven’t had it. So I’m going to get well, or at least less dying-y, and come out and we’ll do something lovely. I’m not sitting around here waiting to die.”
“Sounds like a plan. But for now you better rest, or you won’t be able to order us about, and then what would you do?”
“I’ll order you about with my dying breath, Annie Hebden née Clarke. Now wheel me back to bed.”
As they went out they were clocked by Dr. Max, who was checking a patient’s chart at the nurses’ station. “There you are! For the love of God, Polly, we almost had search parties out for you!”
“I was praying,” Polly said piously. “Praying for you, Dr. Max, that you’ll have the strength to do your duties with patience and forgiveness.” She crossed herself ostentatiously.
He shook his head. “Bloody woman. I’m surprised at you, Annie.”
“Sorry, Doctor,” she said, chastened. “I’ll get her back to bed.”
As they wheeled off she heard Polly whisper, “‘Oh, sorry, Doctor, I’m such a baaad girl. Why don’t you tell me what you’ve got under your kilt?’”
“The sooner they put you on a ventilator, the better,” Annie muttered, slamming the door behind them.
DAY 43
Ride a roller coaster
Annie stopped in the corridor, the bunch of yellow roses rustling in her hand. She could hear voices from farther down, just outside Polly’s room. Valerie and Roger again, hissing at each other.
“Your daughter is dying, Roger, and you can’t even leave your phone at home for one day?”
“It’s work, Valerie! Someone still has to earn the money around here. What if Polly needs specialist care? I don’t want my little girl in pain or discomfort, and Lord knows you haven’t earned a penny in years.”
“Isn’t that just like you. Using work as an excuse to do nothing at home for nearly forty years now. But this isn’t the time, okay? She needs you home! Not in the office or the pub or swigging whiskey in your study and—”
“Christ, Valerie, why must you always make it about you? I’m not the one upsetting Polly, yelling like a fishwife.”
Annie felt a light hand on her shoulder. She turned to George. “Sorry for intruding,” she said quietly.
“They’ve been like this for days. It’s awful at home. Snipe snipe snipe.”
“I should go. I brought these—can you take them to Polly?”
George shook his head. “Leave them with the nurses. She’s pretending she’s out of it, but she’s not too bad. Just can’t take Mum and Dad anymore.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“Well, you and I have instructions.”
“What? I have to go to work in a minute.”
“Call in sick.”
“But I can’t, I—”
“Please, Annie. I need to do this. I can’t sit around here feeling useless, watching her die, listening to Mum and Dad fight. And Polly was insistent. I know it’s stupid, this hundred-days thing, but it seems to be kind of giving her hope. Or if not hope, then something, anyway. A reason to not give in. To wake up in the morning.”
Annie had thought the same. She looked at her watch—8:00 a.m. “What’s the instructions?”
George held out a piece of paper. Annie looked at it. “Are you serious?”
“Yup. And she wants us to film it. Since she can’t go herself, she says. So, can you call in sick?”
Annie hated doing that—her fake sick voice was deeply unconvincing. “I’m the world’s worst actress.”
“Isn’t it lucky you have a celebrated actor right here, then?” George held out his hand. “Give me the phone. Who am I asking for?”
Annie passed over her mobile, scrolling through to the number. “Sharon. Ask for Sharon. Say I’ve had a nervous collapse or something.”
She had to stuff her sleeves in her mouth to keep from laughing during the phone call. “The thing is, Sharon—can I call you Sharon?...Thank you. You have such a kind voice, Sharon. The thing is, poor Ms. Hebden’s just been working so hard with her mother and her sick friend, we’ve had to keep her in for observation. We think she needs a tonic for her poor nerves.” He was alternating between a noble Noël Coward voice and a stoical Cockney one. “You know what I’m talking about, Sharon. I can tell that you do...Me? Oh, my name’s Kent Brockwood. Chief staff nurse here at the hospital. We do admire Ms. Hebden ever so much. She’s so noble. Upper lip stiffer than a big steel girder...Thank you. God bless you, Sharon.” He hung up, handing the phone back with a flourish.
She mimed a miniround of applause. “Give that man a Tony Award.”
“I try.”
“Where were you even from, Kent Brockwood?”
“Bow by way of Letterkenny, I think. She’ll leave you alone for a few days now, I reckon. And you can stagger in full of noble suffering, and if you’re really lucky you’ll be sent home.” Being sent home from work was the ultimate win. You’d made the effort to go in, but you were really too sick to be there, so you could leave with impunity.
“‘You have such a kind voice, Sharon.’” Annie giggled. “It was brilliant. So, now we go to Thorpe Park?”
“Now we go to Thorpe Park. She said we should pick up Costas on the way.”
Annie looked toward Roger and Valerie, who were still arguing, voices lowered. “Should we—”
“Nah. Let’s just go. Lucky Polly. At least she gets to fake being in a coma.”
* * * * **
Outside, George raised
an arm to hail a taxi. Annie held back. “Isn’t it kind of far? Train, maybe?”
“Polly’s given me a load of cash. She wants us to have a good day out. And if we pick him up in a black cab—think how his little face will just light up.”
She studied George as they sank into the comfortable interior, shutting the door on rainy, gloomy Lewisham. “You like him, don’t you?”
“Zorba the Greek? He’s adorable. Too nice for this city.”
“Do you like him like him?”
“He’s a kid. And he spends his days foaming milk.”
“Come on,” Annie chided. “He’s doing his best. He works really hard.”
George looked guilty. “I know. He’s just—he’s so happy, you know? It makes me feel guilty. He’s alone over here, away from his family, getting nowhere with his career. But he’s cheerful. He’s sunny. Even when he’s having a shit time at work.”
“How did you know about that?”
“Oh. We—we’re in the same gym, it turns out.”
“You joined a gym? I thought that was just a lie you told your mum to get out of the house.”
“Yes, yes, I thought it was time to start fulfilling gay stereotypes. We’re going to a Barbra Streisand concert next. Anyway, like I say, he’s too young for me.”
“He’s twenty-two. You’re twenty-nine. And haven’t you only been out for, like, two minutes?”
He shrugged it off. “I was in a small uncomfortable closet for some time. As you’ve seen, my mother is very much not okay about her precious boy associating with nasty gays in leathers and drag. That’s how she pictures it, anyway. What’s your point?”
“So, Costas might be older than you in gay years. Is that a thing? Like dog years?”
“Oh, it’s a thing. I’m practically ancient at my age.”
“You don’t look a day over twenty-eight.” She nudged him. “What would Polly say? ‘Seize the day! Jump off a cliff! Pee in the wind!’ And so on.”
He sighed. “Maybe. I hear you, okay? But for now, with Polly, and since I’m trying to stay away from Caleb, it’s just nice to have a friend, you know?”
She smiled at him. Pictured rolling up to get Costas, how happy he’d be at the prospect of a day out. “I do know. Yes.”
* * *
“Ready?”
“Oh, God. I’m going to be sick.”
“I should not have eaten the floss of candy.” Costas was pale. The roller coaster—an utterly terrifying one that dipped and twisted—was slowly winching them up, and up, and up. Annie felt her stomach churn with the burger, fries and milk shake she’d also wolfed down. She wasn’t eighteen. This would have consequences. Down below, the people on the ground were so small. So far down.
“Here we go!” They were picking up speed. Her knuckles turned white. She felt Costas gripping her hand and, on his other side, George’s. In his free hand George held up his phone, secured to his wrist by a strap. “Right!” he shouted, over the growing noise of the machinery. “Big smiles and don’t swear—ahhhhh! Fuck! Fuck! Holy Christ! We’re going to die!”
DAY 44
Reaffirm your goals
“F***! F***! Holy Christ! We’re going to die!”
George peered at the screen of Polly’s iPad. “You can hardly hear me over those beeps Suze put in.”
“She had to,” said Polly. “This baby’s going viral. Ten thousand views already of the YouTube video. The fundraising site’s getting mad traffic because of it.”
“Really?” George perked up. “I better add a link to my casting page.”
“Yeah, you can be that brother of brave cancer survivor Polly Leonard—what was his name again, the one who swore on the roller coaster?”
He stuck his tongue out. “It was bloody scary, wasn’t it, Annie?”
“I threw up in a bin afterward,” she said. “Can you see me on the video? I don’t think work will believe that the cure for my sudden nerve condition was going on the scariest roller coaster in Europe.”
“It’ll be fine,” said Polly. She was looking much better, her cheeks flushed from laughing at the video, sitting up in bed. “No one in your office can even work the internet, can they?”
“Only Farm World on Facebook,” said Annie. “I better go, though. I can’t be late again.”
* * *
Annie couldn’t stop smiling to herself, thinking of the roller coaster video. It was so stupid. So funny.
“You look happy,” said a dour Scottish voice. Dr. Max was standing at the vending machine again, staring into it as if great wisdom was to be found between the Twixes and Bountys.
Annie felt ashamed. She shouldn’t be smiling when Polly was dying. “Are you trying to decide what chocolate bar to get?”
“Hmm? Oh. Yeah. Patient just died on my table.”
“Oh, my God! I’m so sorry.”
“Ten years old. Couldn’t do a damn thing for him, the tumor was so big.” She could see his face reflected in the glass of the machine, exhausted and disappointed.
“At least you tried,” Annie said timidly.
“Tried. Tried and failed.” He shook himself and began stabbing buttons until a Mars bar tumbled out. “Better get back. See you, Annie.”
* * *
Going out, she saw Jonny, the homeless guy, sitting at the bus stop. He caught her eye and she felt too ashamed to look away. “Hi.”
“Hello. Rough time?”
“My friend’s pretty sick.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said politely. His fingers in raggedy gloves were dirty and sore.
“Um, is there anything I can get you?” Annie said it in an embarrassed rush. “Anything you need?”
He looked around at his meager collection of belongings, the cardboard box he was sitting on to keep the damp out. “Jacuzzi’d be nice.” He laughed at her face. “Seriously, you don’t have to give me stuff. I’m just passing the time of day, like anyone else. It’s fine.”
“Okay. Thanks.” The bus came then, and Annie got on it, but she looked out of the window as they pulled off, Jonny’s forlorn figure sitting by himself on the ground.
DAY 45
Be silly
“Ready? Set—go!”
“Are you sure this is safe?” Annie called.
Polly and her opponent ignored her, racing past in wheelchairs, hands frantically spinning. They sped the length of the corridor, screeching to a halt beside a rack of sheets. A passing nurse dropped a pile of bedpans, swearing like a trooper.
Dr. Max stuck his head out of his cupboard-office, irate, hair sticking up. “I might have known it was you, Polly. But, Ahmed, I thought better of you?”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Ahmed said meekly. He was seventeen and totally bald, wearing Action Man pajamas. He had a brain aneurysm which was threatening to burst at any moment.
“Don’t listen to him, Ahmed. You’re the terror of the neurology ward. Faster than a speeding bullet.” Polly raised her hand to high-five him.
Ahmed smiled, aiming for her palm and missing it—loss of depth perception was one of his side effects. Dr. Max met Annie’s eyes down the corridor, and she shrugged. It was all Polly’s idea—the Great Neurology Ward Pentathlon. Next event: bedpan curling using a mop as a stick. Dr. Max rolled his eyes, offering a small blink-and-you’d-miss-it smile, then ducked back into his office-cupboard.
DAY 46
Raise money for charity
“Would you like a cupcake?” asked the French maid. He was six foot four with hairy knees.
Annie squinted. “Is that you, Yusuf?” Yusuf, or Dr. Khan as he was better known, was the head of cardio at the hospital.
“Yes, it’s me. It’s fancy-dress day. Everyone’s raising money—bake sales, dressing up.
..”
“I see.” She dropped a fiver in his basket and took two cakes, which were iced in pink ripples. Much like the one Polly had given her that first day. “Is this by chance anything to do with Polly?” The money from the fundraising event was still rolling in, and she’d become determined to raise enough for a new MRI machine.
“Do you even have to ask?”
“Good point. So what else is going on?” she mumbled through icing. It tasted like strawberries, the sugar hitting her bloodstream.
“We’re auctioning off some of the radiologists, and the nurses from the NICU are doing a conga. Oh, and some of the hairier staff are getting waxed in the cafeteria.”
“They are? Um, which staff?”
“The hairiest ones, I guess. I’m supposed to be doing it, too, but I felt the hair just added to this costume.”
Annie arrived just in time to see Dr. Max with his shirt off, lying across one of the tables, which had been covered in blue hospital paper. His back, like the rest of him, was indeed rather hairy.
He saw her. “Oh, for God’s sake. What are you doing here? Don’t you have a home to go to?”
“You can talk. I thought you hated stupid fundraising things?”
“I do. I hate them with every fiber of my being. Almost as much as I’m going to hate this waxing.”
“Oh, it hardly hurts at all.”
“Really?” He cocked his head, hopeful.
“No, it hurts like hell.” She stepped aside as one of the surgical nurses—used to de-fuzzing patients for operations—applied a long strip of gauze to his waxed back, then pulled. His howls could probably be heard all the way on the third floor, where Polly was no doubt masterminding the whole thing.
Annie checked her watch. “Much as I’d love to stay and watch this, I need to get my visits in, then go to work.”
“There’ll be pictures,” he said gloomily. “Bloody Polly.”
