by Roddy Doyle
—I'm all over the place, she says. —I can't stay still for more than a few minutes.
—You're doing alright.
—It's killing me, she says. —I mean, it's better. No contest. I'd never go back. But I have to keep, just – running away.
He nods, once.
He's elegant. It's not the clothes. It's him. The strength there that isn't muscle. The independence. There was none of that there when he ran away. Where did he get it? What happened?
—First, he says. —No.
He shakes his head; he dismisses what he's said.
—It's not a list, he says.
—Go on, John Paul.
—I don't have answers.
—Just, please. Say what you were going to say.
—You keep running away. That's what you said.
—Yes.
—You're not.
—I am.
He shakes his head.
—You're doing alright. You're facing it.
—It doesn't feel like that.
—Maybe it doesn't, he says. —But think about it. If you were running away you wouldn't actually be running. You'd have stopped. You wouldn't be bothered. You wouldn't be here.
He's right.
—You're keeping yourself busy, he says. —You have to.
She nods.
—So do I, he says.
He's said nothing new but she had to hear it. He should hate her; he shouldn't be here. But he is. That's why she believes him. That's why, maybe, she believes herself.
—You should give the yoga a go, he says.
—Yeah, she says. —I was actually thinking about it.
She has to ask, but something else runs in front of the question.
—You don't have your asthma any more.
—No, he says.
—How come?
—Don't know. Grew out of it.
She looks at him. She pushes herself; she has to ask.
—Why are you here, John Paul?
—Why are you?
—I'm your mother.
—There you go.
—I haven't been a good mother.
—No, he says. —You haven't.
Fuck, that's cruel.
—But I don't have another one.
He's looking straight at her. His face hasn't changed. His voice is the same.
There's nothing in his eyes.
It's as good as she'll get.
—Was it all bad? she says.
—No.
He picks up his glass. He won't talk until he puts it back down. She watches him drink. He puts the glass on the table.
—I wanted the kids to know they have a granny, he says.
He looks at her.
—It was Star's idea.
She nods. She smiles.
—That's nice, she says. —That's really nice. What about her own mother?
—What about her?
—Was she out of touch with her as well?
—No.
—Oh. I thought, with her mother being a heroin addict and that.
—No.
—God, though. It can't have been easy for the poor girl, growing up like that.
She hears what she's said. She looks at him. But there's nothing there, no sneer or smile.
—Who am I to talk? she says.
—It's a free country.
She doesn't know if she'll come here again.
She keeps falling for it. The happy ending, the Hollywood bit. But this man will never say I love you. Not to Paula. She'll never be able to say it to him. It'll always hang there. She'll always be the beggar.
—D'you think Leanne will be alright?
Leanne is already a safe subject.
—Yeah, he says.
—She's in a good place. You think.
—Yeah.
—That's great; that's brilliant. Did I tell you about your Auntie Carmel?
—What about her?
—You remember your Auntie Carmel?
—I remember Carmel, yeah.
—She has cancer.
—That's bad.
—Terrible.
It's easy, as long as they talk about nothing. Leanne and Carmel are nothing.
She wants to go home. She'll leave him alone.
—What kind? he says.
—The breast, she says. —She'll have to have a mastectomy and the other one – chemotherapy.
—She might be okay, he says.
—Yeah. Please God.
It's easy.
—How is she?
—Yeah, she's grand; she's great.
She's in a good place.
—You know Carmel, she says.
But he doesn't.
—She's all set for the fight.
—That's half it, he says. —The attitude.
He nods at her glass.
—D'you want another one? he says.
—No. I don't think so. Unless. You?
—No, he says.
He puts a hand on his stomach.
—Too much milk, he says. —It kind of sits there.
She knows something about him. The man, her son. He doesn't like too much milk.
Maybe there'll be more.
The tattoo is still there, on his arm. The Liverpool thing. She paid for it years ago, for his fourteenth birthday. She thought it would work. She'd give him the tattoo and he'd forgive her and love her for ever.
She points at his arm.
—D'you still like them, John Paul?
He doesn't look down.
—They're on the way back.
—Is that right? she says.
She's not sure what he means.
—I'm thinking of going to Istanbul, he says.
—Why?
He smiles. She wants to grab his face.
—Champions League final, he says.
—Liverpool are in it? she says.
—Yeah.
—Ah, lovely. In Istanbul?
—Yeah.
—That's, which one? The capital of Turkey.
—No.
—No?
—Ankara's the capital.
How does he know that?
—But it's Turkey, she says.
—Yeah.
—Will it not cost a fortune?
He shrugs. He's loose. He's almost boasting.
—What if you go and they don't win? It'd be terrible, so far away.
—They'll win, says John Paul.
She smiles. She could go with him. She could buy him a jersey. She could buy one for herself, PAULA on the back. Liver-pool, Liver-pool!
She wants to lean across and touch his arm, where the tattoo is. She just wants to hold him. To hold him.
It wouldn't work. He's all angles; he's hard. She'd end up with a puncture, the air fizzing out of her.
She just wants to hold him.
—I've got to get back, he says.
—To Star?
She holds him.
—Work, he says.
—Of course. I'm an eejit.
She stands up. She'll pay at the counter. She touches her face. She's okay. She's fine. She's not too hot.
—This was nice, she says.
He's standing up. He's looking out the window. It's stopped raining. He hasn't heard her.
She gets Jack to show her. She sits at his computer and she types in Mastectomy. She looked it up in his dictionary first. She has it spelt on a bit of paper. She finds each letter and taps. She checks to see the word building up in the box on the screen.
She clicks Search.
She can't take it in. The adventure is quickly over. Surgical removal of a breast. Surgical removal of the entire breast. Mastectomy lingerie. Mastectomy alone compared to lumpectomy combined with radiation. There are too many horrible words. And just too many words.
She doesn't want to give up. She looks down the page; she scrolls. She gets her eyes close to it. She reads. She waits for it to open. But there's too much. She's afraid to
go further.
But she does.
She clicks open the first site. The types of mastectomy. Jesus, there's types. Axillary Node Dissection. Sentinel Lymph Node Biopsy. Not one word – she understands none of it. Invasive cancers. Separate incision. Lymphedema. Her eyes fall away from the words. She's stupid. She sits there.
She's checked herself for lumps. There weren't any; she found none. But how does she know? She can't even read properly. How can she trust her fingers, herself? She's never done a test. She's never had a smear. She's not even sure what a smear is, exactly.
She doesn't want to know.
It's just fuckin' stupid.
Cancer Facts 7.5. She's half out of the chair. She straightens up. She concentrates – she tries to. It's Carmel, not her. Preventive mastectomy (also called prophylactic or risk-reducing mastectomy) is the surgical removal of one or both breasts in an effort to prevent or reduce the risk of breast cancer. She reads it again. She understands; she thinks she does. You have a mastectomy to reduce the risk of cancer. But Carmel already has cancer. It's to stop it from spreading further. So why doesn't it fuckin' say that? Where can it spread to? Carmel's being killed by her own breasts.
She's drifting away, making it up. She's always at it.
She looks at the screen again, properly. She really has to get her eyes tested. She can feel the water behind them now. She has to lean right up to the screen. She can feel the heat on her face. Preventive mastectomy involves one of two basic procedures: total mastectomy and subcutaneous mastectomy. She's learning nothing, but meaning is breaking through. She's fighting with the words, with the fuckin' snobs who wrote them. In a total mastectomy, the doctor removes the entire breast and nipple.
Oh, sweet Jesus. Poor Carmel. It's the word there. Nipple. So harmless, and sexy. And funny and lovely. It's one of the clicky words. She clicks. A new page pops up. Dictionary of Cancer Terms. And there's Nipple. It's a cancer term. She can feel her own, protesting. In anatomy, the small raised area in the center of the breast through which milk can flow to the outside. What's cancerous about that? They can't even spell Centre.
She touches her nipples, through her sweatshirt. She looks behind her – poor Jack would die.
The doctor removes the entire breast and nipple. He does in his arse.
She's being stupid.
She's not.
She's not. This is all disgusting. The coldness of it. You can't just click these things and throw them at a screen. The doctor removes. Just like that. The doctor removes the entire prick and bollix.
She's at it again. Making it up. Fighting the facts. Because she can't understand what she's trying to read. Because she won't accept it. The doctor removes. It's happening in a couple of weeks. And the doctor's a woman. Carmel told her – she's lovely. In a subcutaneous mastectomy, the doctor removes the breast tissue but leaves the nipple intact. Tissue is another of the dictionary words. She doesn't click. Her breasts aren't tissue; they never fuckin' will be.
She's stupid. She's lying in bed. She'll try again tomorrow. She can do it in the morning, after she gets back from cleaning the Killester house. She won't give up.
She won't sleep.
Getting angry at words. It's just stupid. Hiding her ignorance. She's no help to Carmel. Just running away again.
She swings from side to side, even in the bed – she can feel herself. She'd get up now and go into Jack's room and turn on the computer and drag her eyes over and across those words again. She'd do it – and she'd feel sick and furious before she was even sitting down. She knows what's happening. She knows what she's up to. And that's not fair – she's not up to anything. John Paul was right. She isn't running away. She did, this afternoon. But she knew already, as she cursed the computer and tried to slam Jack's door; the carpet square in his room is new, like fuckin' grass, so she couldn't slam it properly. She knew she'd be coming back.
She's not going to sleep. She could get up. But she won't. She could read. But that would mean getting up and turning on the light. She doesn't have a light beside the bed – that's something else for her list. And she doesn't want to read. She'd be sick if she saw words packed onto a page. She can feel it, just thinking about it. In her stomach, in her throat. Nipple.
She thinks of Carmel being cut. It's hard to imagine, Carmel asleep, letting it happen. But it's going to happen.
—I might bring me own knife, Carmel said, when they were talking, the last time, three nights ago. —It's a very good one.
—Stop, said Denise.
—It is, said Carmel. —You should see what it does to chicken.
She's sure Carmel's asleep. Snoring away, keeping everyone else awake.
Why would she think that? She's joking. But why would she think it? Denise is the thick. Carmel's the joker. That's the way. Paula's the alco. It's been that way for years, was that way. Denise is gormless. Carmel's bitter. Paula's hopeless.
Carmel isn't asleep. Paula isn't hopeless. Denise is having the time of her life.
Paula sits up.
Her mobile is on the floor. She leans out and down, and gets it. She hears herself groan – she keeps forgetting; it's just a habit.
She selects Text Messages. She taps the keys. Hw r u? She fires it off to Carmel. She lies back. She puts the phone beside her. She turns the pillow. She lies back again. She puts her hands outside the duvet.
The mobile buzzes. She finds it under the duvet. She was right. Carmel's awake. Go 2 slp u fuckn eejt.
She laughs.
